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Cupcake Kissin’ 39 – Alex Ankarr
Damn it. Caspar had had a feeling that there was something he was forgetting. Now it comes to him, the reason – well, one of the reasons – why getting stoned in the middle of the day with Mack is so very much not a great idea. He drove here, and now he can’t drive! God damn! If it wasn’t for Sam – and Sam’s very kind offer – then he’d be in a pretty pickle.
‘Would you?’ he asks, and the beseeching in his voice is probably a little over the top. But he’s so very grateful, so very grateful indeed. ‘I will love you forever, Sam! If you pick me up I will love you forever and I will very possibly marry you. I’m at Mack’s, can you pick me up at Mack’s?’ Yeah, that’s definitely a little bit of grovelling.
‘More threat than promise, there, man,’ Sam observes, but there’s some reluctant amusement in his voice. ‘I’ll be there in fifteen, okay? Whatever you’re doing, cease and desist immediately.’ And he breaks the connection.
Caspar relaxes, and the tension he’s been unaware of building up, in his back, his thigh muscles, his forearms, eases off as he puts the phone down. It surges right back, though, as Mack – who’s still draped over him, but who he’d expected to ease off, back off with the (okay, fairly amusing) call done, doesn’t. No, he doesn’t, not at all.
Instead he does more of an octopus impression, arms slithering further over Caspar’s shoulders, hands sliding over his chest, twisting him around. Pushing Caspar down on the bed. He kisses him. It’s the second time.
The mattress is soft, and the sheets are quite disturbed, all higgledy-piggledy and anyhow, and it’s messy and comfortable. Comfortable isn’t the word for the kiss, Mack’s mouth wet and hot, sliding and intruding with a slow relaxed glide – oh yes, they’re both very relaxed, Caspar too after the initial shock – over Caspar.
Caspar has some impression that this is a bad idea, but he can’t quite grasp at why. Not with Mack hard and heavy over him, sliding between his legs and panting every time he breaks away, draws breath. Not with his own hands in Mack’s hair, pushing through where it’s soft and outgrown, until they take on a sensible, sentient life of their own and jerk back, push hard at Mack’s shoulders, push him up and away.
He’s flushed, breathing heavily, and dumb or high enough to blink incredulously, before smiling down at Caspar. ‘What? What’s wrong?’ he begins, and Caspar won’t wait for more. He struggles up, pushes Mack completely off him.
All he says is, ‘Sam,’ but it’s enough to put a sharp, tight-mouthed look on Mack’s face. Well, as much as he can probably manage, given his condition. Caspar can read it well enough.
‘Oh, well,’ he says, face cold as he drags himself to the edge of the bed. ‘Sam, yes. Wouldn’t want to upset your boyfriend.’
This seems a perfectly reasonable assertion to Caspar – not that Sam is exactly his boyfriend, so far, but he doesn’t correct Mack. But he’s not quite sure just how sincere Mack is. Or how sarcastic. He proffers the natural response, because he can’t not, although it might not be the tactful one. ‘Or yours,’ he says, and he doesn’t look at Mack as he says it, as he clambers off the bed. He still feels a little woozy. But not so much that he doesn’t catch the little hiss of displeasure over from where Mack has pulled himself up into a standing position. Spoiled, some part of his brain still capable of thinking with some degree of clarity says. Aren’t all actors spoiled, if not to begin with, then eventually?
‘Yeah,’ Mack says with a harsh laugh. ‘Or mine.’ Then he seems to relent a little bit, as Caspar steadies himself against a wall, and makes for the doorway. ‘Hey, man. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Well, I shouldn’t have done any damn thing, including getting you to play hooky. I’m sorry I’ve made you late. For your date. No, here,’ he says, walking around the bed, and no more steady, really, than Caspar is. ‘Don’t go off mad. And don’t go down those stairs by yourself,’ he says, as Caspar makes to wave him off with a gesticulation of one hand behind him as he exits. ‘I’m going to see you out, I want to make sure you’re okay.’
And he does, so that five minutes later they’re both standing in the outside car-lot for visitors, shivering in a sudden cold breeze in thin shirts. Caspar has forgotten his jacket, but he’s not going back for it, no way. Another day, he thinks.
And even now Mack leans in too close, too intimate, as he’s leaning that little bit down to talk in his ear. ‘Hey man, I really am sorry, you’re going to have to make allowances for me, uh, being an asshole. Blame the weed.’ Caspar rotates his head slowly, gives him a sceptical look, and he laughs and throws his hands up. ‘Yeah, okay, blame me. But I will make it up to you, I will apologise in full and, uh, send you flowers and… Cake. I’m going to send you the hugest big-ass cake to show you just how sorry I am, and…’
‘Coals to Newcastle,’ Caspar murmurs. ‘What am I going to do with cake?’ It’s a hilarious idea. (Although predictably, he suddenly feels very strongly that cake, and lots of it, would be a terrific idea.) ‘You could send me a little cuddly bear instead,’ he suggests, which also seems hilarious.
Mack laughs, anyway, and the next few minutes are taken up with swapping suggestions back and forth, for what would constitute a suitable apology-gift from Mack to Caspar. He doesn’t really realise just how flirtatious it’s gotten. Or not until Sam’s Japanese utility vehicle, packed in the back with tech set equipment and camping gear, rolls up and parks right in front of them, and neither of them have even noticed it coming.
© Copyright Alex Ankarr 2014
No unauthorised reproductions allowed. All rights reserved to the author. No inspirations for characters drawn from real-life individuals, no resemblance to real individuals intended.