Undone by Leslie McAdam
Murph
I have a case of the vapors. Watch me hyperventilate before I even make it inside.
It’s official. I’m going to be living with the most handsome guy I’ve ever met.
And because of him, I’m gonna be one horny puppy for the foreseeable future.
I struggle with my bags and follow him up to the large porch of his stately old place. It’s painted white with gray accents and very well maintained. He explains which key to use on the outside door, but all I can think while Handsome McHandsomer talks is that he’s got striking green eyes and summer-golden skin and his hair is that sort of darkish blondish brownish reddish that can’t decide what color it is, so it’s all the colors at once.
Jason and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Hair.
And it’s long enough to curl behind his ears and at his nape. Like he needs a haircut and can’t be bothered to get one, but it’s now at the point where it’s fabulous. Sing that last word with me, darlings.
What does it feel like? Is it soft?
Sheesh, Murph. Of course it is.
I’m so distracted by the beauty that is his hair that I’ve got no idea what he said, so I guess I’ll have to figure out which key to use on my own through trial and error. Apparently there’s some trick to it. I’m not gonna learn it today, children.
Plus, I’m out of breath. I packed heavy. Clothes are my weakness—or one of them, along with sangria, fantasy novels, and burly Vermont men.
But I’m not panting because of my luggage. I’m in great shape.
I’m panting because of him.
He apparently assumes that I listened, so he picks up the duffel he set down and continues up an interior flight of stairs.
There’s one apartment on the bottom floor, rented to Moo U graduate students, and another on the second, leased to a pilot. We’re on the third and have this grand oak staircase to go up to get there.
This place is so cool! I’m giddy, now for more reasons than one.
Last week, after meeting his sister, I’d talked with Jason on the phone, but he’d sent her over to show me the place, because apparently he had to work and couldn’t get away to give me the tour. Apparently he was too busy to bother interviewing someone who was going to live in his own damn home.
I personally like to know who I’m sharing my toothbrush cup with, but I liked his sister and fell in love with this place—the building’s beautiful—so I went with the mystery.
And oh man, have I scored.
I do have a minor complaint already, though.
When his sister and I went through the place last week, she showed me the nice-sized bedroom with a surprisingly big closet, the vintage kitchen, and the gorgeous view of the woods. She was sweet. Becca, was it? Becky?
Anyway, she’s now lost all credibility, because she didn’t mention during the walk-through—I’m serious, not one single word—that her brother’s a total snack.
Who I will be living with.
Sharing a bathroom with. Sharing a shower with. Sleeping with. Correction. Not sleeping with. Sleeping next door to.
Stop it, Murph. Stop it.
But he’s grade A steak, and I want a bite.
We keep going upstairs, and I almost groan thinking of all my precious belongings that I’ve got to drag up here. I could downsize, but you never know when you’ll need vintage Pucci. So I’ll suffer a harder move today for all the joy my wardrobe will bring me tomorrow and in the days to come.
Tra-la.
In my head, I sound like I’m living in some historical novel with a dashing hero, looking forward to getting my “and they lived happily ever after.” That would be fun.
Too bad it’s not happening. Especially not with a heterosexual male. Because with the way Jason reacted to my flirting—stuttering rather than playing along and sassing me right back—he’s straight. Or on the ace spectrum, I suppose.
“How long have you lived here?” I ask Jason’s behind instead, following it up the second flight of stairs.
I’m quite happy to be having a conversation with his taut, juicy ass. It’s cradled in dark denim and exposed when his T-shirt rides up as he climbs the steps. I’d like to be on a first-name basis with that ass. Hey, a boy can dream.
“Two years,” he rumbles. I don’t think the growly tone is directed at me in particular. It’s just the way he talks.
Yummy.
I want to pepper him with questions just to hear that voice. Or tease him until he babbles.
Flustered Jason has immediately become my new favorite thing.
I follow manly man up the last flight of stairs to our (yes, in my head it’s ours—squee!) apartment. When he gets up to the top floor, he opens the door, and as I remember, it’s delightful. Sing that, too.
Not as delightful as Jason. But close.
Even though I’m breathless, you can’t shut me up. “I like old houses. Not too many of those in Vegas growing up. More likely to see a fake indoor Parisian street than a house that’s over thirty years old. I like that a lot of people have lived here before. The house has gotten accustomed to people and knows how to behave. Unlike me.” I wink.
He laughs and heads into the room that’s my new home. It’s empty, so now it’s up to me to turn it into something. “I like old houses, too. Grew up in one. Bought one. People say they’ve got character. But I don’t think of character as crooked floorboards and lots of molding. To me, character is the house taking on the personality of its owners. If they were nice or cool people, then it’s a nice or cool house. Reasonably happy people must have lived here before, so it’s a reasonably happy house.”
“I’ve never heard anyone else phrase it that way. Most people are just scared of ghosts.”
Jason shrugs. “Guess it’s been my experience.”
This is something I like about meeting new people—learning the way they look at the world. Jason gives me the impression that he listens more than he talks, and when he says something, it matters.
He carefully sets down my bags and lamp at the far end of the room and stands there, larger than life—really, he seems to take up more space than he occupies—with his hands crossed over his chest.
That’s a broad, meaty chest. I like.
“Thanks,” I wheeze. “I can take it from here.”
“Nah. I’m here to help. I’ll go get some more of your stuff.”
I watch his back disappear out of my bedroom and then, after catching my breath, chase him down the stairs.
This is going to be a lonnng year.
In the most delicious way possible.
* * *
A few hours later, all my things are in the room. We centered the rug on the floor, and it lies under a bed that we’re almost done assembling.
Currently, Jason’s sprawled on my floor mechanic-style as he screws the sideboards to the headboard. I’m holding the two pieces together for him like I’m at a perfume counter handing out samples.
While all I want to do is straddle him. I mean, he’s just lying there on his back, waiting to be ridden.
Down, boy, I scold myself, and adjust my jeans.
In addition to a library’s worth of books, Jason helped haul up the mattress and the dresser. Navigating the stairs with the box spring turned out to be tricky, but we managed not to punch a hole in it or the walls, so I count that as a win.
Plus, I got to see his biceps flex. Bonus.
“I’m normally not this much of a wuss,” I say, as I hold the pieces together while he uses the drill. “I, you know, lift weights and stuff.”
That’s a lie.
“You do?”
“No,” I admit instantly. “But I like to run. And if you take me out, I’ll dance with you.”
I expect him to tell me he doesn’t take men out, but instead he asks, “How were you going to move all this in without me?” With a big hand, he gestures to everything piled in my new room.
My first thought is that I never want to do anything without him ever again. But that might be coming on a tad strong, especially since he’s my landlord.
Like that’s the only reason not to flirt with him. I might as well flirt with a mirror—then at least I’d know I was talking to a gay boy.
I shrug. “I suppose I’m like Blanche DuBois in A Streetcar Named Desire. ‘I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers.’”
His voice drops an octave and gets even gruffer. I had no idea that was possible. “My pleasure. I’m happy to help.” He sits up and dusts his hands off. “All done. Now you’ve got a place to sleep.”
“Or do other things.”
Shit. I said that out loud. In a singsong voice.
Change the subject, Murph.
Jason only smiles and gazes at me like I’m some fascinating specimen. Like he doesn’t know what to do with me.
It’s an almost indulgent look, and it makes me really happy.
“Am I keeping you from something? Work?” A girlfriend? Yeah, I’m fishing and deflecting. Two of my many talents that involve my tongue.
But I don’t want the confirmation about women. Not yet. Let me have at least one day of fantasy.
“No.” He starts tugging the box spring onto the bed frame. I guess I should help instead of standing here watching his back muscles tango under his shirt. Together we maneuver the box spring into place and set the mattress on top. “Took the afternoon off to help my new roommate move in.”
“I’m gonna tell your sister you played hooky. She said you work too much.”
He closes his eyes and smiles like he’s going to throttle her the next time he sees her. “She’s always on me about that. I’m fine. But no, I’m not working for the rest of the day.”
“And you’ve spent your day off helping me move. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
I like the way he says that. So many people say, “No problem,” but that implies that whatever you thanked them for could be a problem.
Being Jason’s pleasure, though?
That’s tempting.
After we’ve set up my furniture and double-checked that everything is out of the van, Jason doesn’t stop being awesome. He helps return the U-Haul and then takes me to my old place to pick up my car. I swear he’s the perfect man.
Perfect except that he likes girls.
Most likely.
I mean, he could still be perfect if he likes girls. If he’s bi or pan, that would be … happy sigh.
Of course, this is the All About Murph perspective. In general terms, he’s perfect whether he’s straight, ace, or anything else.
All I mean is I don’t think he will like me that way. And I wish he would.
Goddess, sometimes I can spin in circles inside my head. Jason’s not the only one who gets flustered.
When we’re all done, he stands in my doorway and surveys the clutter I have to go through. “Need any more help?”
I’m bent over, ass up, as I dig out my sheets and pillows to make the bed. “Nah. Now I just need to figure out where everything goes.”
“Well, let me know if there’s anything else I can do.” He gestures to the room across from us. “Need the bathroom? I’m gonna take a shower.”
I grab a purple pillow and hold my breath to suppress a groan.
Having Jason’s nakedness right behind a door—even a heavy oak door with charming, reasonably happy Victorian character—is gonna be agony. I tell you, I’m a horny puppy over here.
“Nope,” I say primly. “I’m good.” I go to grab more pillows, but his voice stops me.
“Have you got anything to put away in the kitchen?” He glances over my things.
“No. I’m not that great of a cook, but I was going to go shopping later and pick something up. Or I could order pizza for us, to thank you.”
He nods, like he’s making a decision for me. “Don’t bother. I’ll make dinner.”
My eyes widen. “You cook?”
“Yeah, I really enjoy it.”
“Did you do this for your old roommate?”
He pauses. “Sometimes, yeah. Grew up cooking for my sister, when my mom left. Just kinda got used to being in charge of feeding everyone. Pasta okay? Are you allergic to anything?”
His mom left? I’ll have to ask him about that when we know each other better.
“I’m only allergic to mean people,” I say. “And you’re not one.”
He laughs. “Okay, I’m gonna get cleaned up and start dinner. Let me know if I can help with anything else.”
I watch his fine posterior as he pivots and heads into the bathroom, then sit back on my heels and try to figure out which box to open next to find my duvet.
I’m buzzing with excitement from the move, and I’m also worn out. I can’t wait to get started unpacking, and I really need a nap. I want to hurry up and hang out with my new roommate and also close my door and figure out the answer to the following equation: cute, straight Jason plus cute, gay me equals what, exactly?
Can’t figure it all out today, children.
My back’s sore from all the hoisting and lifting, and my hands ache from packing and moving all my worldly possessions.
Or maybe they hurt in some sort of psychosomatic anticipation of how much I’m going to be jacking off, dreaming about my hot housemate. I should invest in tissues and lotion now, because the market forecast calls for supply to go down and demand to skyrocket up.
That’s not all that’s gonna be up.
I sigh and open another box.
This is going to be torture.