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  The animated web series was responsible for bringing Josh and Benji together through their mutual fandom, and even Deion had gotten hooked on the cute show, which got surprisingly dark and gripping in the later seasons. He was definitely up for a relaxing evening chilling at home with some anime.

  Especially if Carlos was coming over.

  He still couldn’t believe he’d said it out loud. Even if he hadn’t exactly used the words I’m bi, that same felt like the biggest risk he’d ever taken. Felt like he’d tattooed the word in glowing neon-blue ink all over his body. Same. Same. Same. And to say it out loud to Carlos made his pulse race. The tall, dark-haired guy who made Deion think he ought to go find some of Andy Garcia’s old movies and see if he was as hot as Carlos back in the day. The guy who was also bi. Also not out. Also, it seemed, fully engaged in a kind of dance around the subject with Deion that felt like it was circling ever closer to an idea at the center that neither of them were ready to bring up yet.

  The whole thing felt like a fever dream, and Deion didn’t want to wake up.

  Josh and Benji claimed the first shower as soon as they got home, and Deion was happy to let them have it. He could use a quick nap while they hosed each other down.

  He’d meant to crash on his bed in the guest closet, but the couch was closer, and the remote was right there. Plus, he’d hear when Josh and Benji got out of the shower they were oh-so-casually taking together. Deion put that picture out of his brain. Instead, he turned on one of the sports channels and fell asleep with the announcers droning in his ear about the best plays of the week in some sport that blurred in his buzzed brain with memories of Carlos flashing him a grin from the other side of the soccer field.

  * * *

  Carlos’s phone buzzed in his pocket a split second after he realized the door to Benji and Josh’s apartment was open, and he walked right in to the surprisingly quiet top floor unit.

  Quiet except for some tinny screams, that is. Man, he hoped that was TV.

  He glanced at the text that had arrived. From Benji. Of course.

  Benji: Shit. Forgot to text. We got offered last-minute tickets to a Chamber of Commerce thing & you know we need to corner the commissioner. Deion’s at our place if you want to hang and keep him company until we get back. You’re probably almost there by now. Plenty of beer and food in the fridge!

  He walked through the dining room area to the living room beyond, spotting Deion sitting on the couch, slouched deep in the cushions with his eyes locked on the TV.

  “Hey there. Oh! Hey, sorry,” He scrambled to get out an apology as Deion yelped and damn near flipped off the couch. “I should have made more noise. I’m sorry. I thought you must have left the door open on purpose.”

  “Jesus Christ, man. Give me a heart attack, why don’t you?” Deion clutched his chest, laughing and grabbing the remote to pause whatever was on the screen. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Because you’re watching . . . what the hell are you watching?”

  Deion sank back even deeper in the couch and sighed with what sounded like happiness. “Chopper Chicks in Zombie Town.”

  “Chopper what? Is that even a real movie?”

  “It’s one of the best.” Deion shot him a thumbs-up.

  Carlos moved closer to the couch. “Best what?”

  “Zombie movie. I mean, it’s no Shock Waves, but—”

  “Shock Waves?” He’d never heard of it.

  “Underwater Nazi zombies.”

  “So, this is your thing then. Zombie movies?” It was cute. The big, strong athlete exposing a previously hidden geeky side.

  “Zombie anything. Movies, books, TV shows.” Deion glanced at him. “You’re not a fan?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Carlos racked his brain to remember something—anything—he’d seen with zombies. “I liked World War Z.”

  Deion’s curled lip said he was not impressed. “Doesn’t count.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t get me wrong. It’s a cool movie. But those aren’t zombies.”

  Carlos was pretty sure he hadn’t imagined the whole movie being about zombies. “Yeah, they are.”

  “No way.” A solid shake of the head refuted the very idea. “They broke one of the main rules.”

  “There are rules?” Ahhh, so there were fine points to this fandom.

  Deion skewered him with a look. “Of course.”

  “And they broke a big one?” Carlos tried to hide his grin as he slid one hip onto the couch arm, settling in to hear this.

  “Yes. Zombies. Are. Slow,” Deion said, enunciating each word with precision. “They shuffle. They stumble. They do not sprint or jump or lunge. They just don’t.”

  “And this is a bad thing.”

  “It’s one of the rules.”

  “So it doesn’t count.” God, this was fun.

  “Like I said, good movie—”

  “Hot guy,” Carlos interrupted, testing out the admission, which felt kind of flirty, because yeah, Brad Pitt was still worth looking at, especially when he was kicking ass and taking names against the undead. Even the fast ones.

  Looking at Deion was even more worthwhile.

  Deion raised an eyebrow, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, like he’d finally caught on to Carlos’s teasing. “Even with a hot guy, doesn’t count.”

  “What about The Walking Dead?” He’d seen that show. Some.

  “That counts. Although it’s not really about the zombies,” Deion said, contradicting the very idea of the show as far as Carlos had been able to tell in his limited viewing experience. “It’s all about the social dynamics, but yeah, it counts. Although the graphic novel was better.”

  “I couldn’t get into the show,” Carlos had to admit. “Too much gnawing on intestines for me.”

  “Another zombie staple.”

  “So much intestine,” Carlos groaned, collapsing onto the couch at the far end and stretching out until his feet bumped up against Deion’s hip. Casually. “I can’t deal. I mean, one scene with a whole lotta greasy, growling intestinal chewing is manageable. Two is disgusting, but I can handle it. But after I binge-watched the first season, I was done.”

  “See, that’s your problem,” Deion said, dropping a hand casually on Carlos’s bare ankle as he leaned forward to grab the remote and press play.

  The heat of Deion’s hand was arousing. Made the hairs on Carlos’s leg stand up straight and his dick ache. He tried to concentrate on the conversation, because he was pretty sure Deion didn’t even know where his hand was.

  Pretty sure.

  Just because they’d talked about . . . stuff didn’t mean that heavy hand on his ankle meant anything. He tried to count the number of places Deion’s hand touched his bare skin but got lost somewhere after four. Four places. The center of his palm on the knobby bump of Carlos’s ankle. Two—no, three—fingertips lined up from the top of Carlos’s foot up onto his shin.

  “What’s—?” He cleared his throat when a lump lodged in it. “What’s my problem?”

  Other than the rapidly becoming noticeable bulge in my shorts. Why did I wear basketball shorts?

  Except that wasn’t even a question he wanted to let float through his brain, since the answer was: Because you could see his dick print in these shorts and he’d wanted to find out if Deion would notice.

  Deion who was giving him a graduate-level class in all things zombie.

  Carlos was trying to listen. He really was. But it was hard to focus when he couldn’t stop staring at how the pink of Deion’s lower lip, sculpted and plump, perfectly matched the T-shirt he was wearing. And how the TV’s flickering lights reflected in the deep brown of Deion’s eyes. And he was developing more than a minor obsession with the thick slabs of muscle that wrapped from Deion’s neck to his wide shoulders.

  Eventually, he had to stop it, or else he was going to start wiggling his toes against the silk of Deion’s own basketball shorts, to see what happened.
>
  “You can’t binge watch The Walking Dead or the intestinal snackage gets a little too much, you know? You gotta be current and then you’re only doing one episode a week, with time to recover from the grossness.”

  “I see. So it’s too late for me then. I’m seasons behind. Too bad.”

  “Nah. You could catch up. Just, you know. Slowly.” Deion paused, then looked him in the eye. “Plus, it’s more fun if you watch with someone else.”

  5

  Deion was trying to focus. The whole world—or at least every square inch of Miami, it seemed—was shot through with extra electricity. He could feel it vibrating in his bones. So he kept babbling, reciting the entire history of his lifelong obsession with zombie movies, from Night of the Living Dead to Resident Evil: The Final Chapter, hoping he could keep his eyes off the front of Carlos’s shorts where he got glimpses of his dick print every time Carlos shifted on the couch.

  When Carlos stretched an arm along the back of the couch, it didn’t feel like a teenage dude making a move on a girl, but it didn’t not feel like it either. Deion was hyperaware of Carlos’s hand draped so close to his neck on the couch cushion.

  Fingertips pressed lightly on the back of his neck. “I can’t believe I’m watching this.”

  Deion couldn’t believe it either, mostly because he was pretty sure the universe had frozen in place with a pop and a sizzle the moment Carlos touched him.

  He wasn’t even sure Carlos was aware he’d done it. Deion glanced out of the corner of his eye—without turning his head, because he didn’t want to dislodge those fingers, hell, he was hardly breathing for fear of that—but Carlos’s gaze was firmly locked on the screen, his free hand pressed in a fist to his mouth as he grimaced at the TV.

  The pressure on his neck shifted. Then shifted again.

  Stroking him.

  Carlos’s fingertips were stroking the back of his neck.

  Deion shivered so hard the couch shook.

  A door slammed open.

  “Hey, party people, what’s happening?”

  In Minnesota, Deion had tackled Josh so hard in practice drills they’d both seen stars. He’d had Josh show up drunk at his door and pass out on his couch after going out with some girl pre-Benji. He’d hauled Josh’s ass to and from the airport at all hours of the day and night during the cross-country boyfriend years.

  But he’d never wanted to punch Josh in the face before now.

  “Just hanging out, bro,” he growled out. Carlos was a hundred miles away on the far corner of the couch now, and all Deion wanted was to drag him back to where he’d been ten seconds ago.

  Josh glanced at the TV. “At least it was zombies and not that cooking show you always had on at school.”

  “What?” Benji pounced on him. “You watch a cooking show?”

  Deion steadied Josh’s boyfriend with a hand on his shoulder, trying not to look at Carlos as his friends grilled him. He kept his answer minimal. “Baking.”

  Benji’s gasp was cartoonish. “Don’t. Tell. Me. You watch The Great British Bake Off? Why did I not know this? Why are we not talking about this all the time? Who’s your favorite contestant? Don’t you love Mary? Were you crushed at the news of the new crew?”

  “I worship at the altar of Mary Berry,” Deion said solemnly, only half joking. Before he had to restrain himself from going into a rant about the loss of his two favorite cast members in the most recent off-season—because damn it, Mel and Sue were the heart of the show—Josh, thank God, interrupted them.

  “Somebody had a little too much champagne at the fundraiser.” Josh and Benji had gotten last-minute tickets to a Chamber of Commerce event, apologizing profusely for abandoning Deion on his third night there, but desperately needing to lobby their city commissioner for permit approval of a rezoning application they’d submitted to add a food license to their location. Josh grabbed his boyfriend by the shoulders and pulled him out of the room. “I’m putting him to bed.”

  “Hey!” Benji’s outraged yelp was soothed by Josh’s application of a whispered phrase in his ear, sending Benji’s spine from stick-straight to pliable and willing in an instant. “Ooh, yes, please.”

  Their voices faded as Josh steered Benji down the hall to their bedroom.

  “So, the Great British Bake Off, huh?” Carlos asked him with a smile.

  Deion shook his head. “It’s a good show, man. Everyone’s just so nice. It’s the best for de-stressing. And those desserts. I’m a fan.” He slapped a hand against his stomach and rubbed it.

  “Yeah. You’re a dessert-eating machine,” Carlos scoffed. “I’m sure that’s how every guy with a six-pack does nutrition.”

  On the inside, Deion was grinning so hard his cheeks hurt at the news that Carlos had noticed his six-pack. It was hard for a guy his size to get one, because half the trick to a visible six-pack was low body fat. And half the trick to stopping a nose tackle was anchoring himself to the football field with every one of his three hundred pounds. When he was playing, he weighed a good twenty pounds more than he did now, but being unable to get back on the field had had one stupid side benefit. He’d focused on his diet and exercise enough to carve those muscles back into sight on his stomach. He was damn proud of his six-pack.

  On the inside.

  On the outside, he kept things cool and unbothered. “I fancy a bit of pudding now and again,” he said, stealing the British word for desserts of any kind.

  “I bet you do,” Carlos said, muttering the words under his breath with a level of heat that made Deion flush.

  Somehow they were flirting again. He was almost entirely sure of it.

  A massive crash from the back of the apartment, like someone had taken out an entire shelving unit’s worth of knick-knacks and photo frames, startled them both.

  “Uh, Deion? A hand here please?” Josh called.

  “I’ll let myself out,” Carlos said wryly, giving him a salute.

  Fuck.

  * * *

  Deion’s phone buzzed on the bedside table an hour later. Cleanup of the mess in the guys’ bedroom had been speedy, Deion cursing under his breath and working the brush and dustpan as Josh kept drunk and barefoot Benji from trying to help and cutting his feet on the broken glass from a framed photograph.

  He’d given up on watching the end of his movie and had gone to bed instead. When he sat on the couch, all he could do was think about Carlos and contemplate crossing what he was pretty sure was a strict polite houseguest boundary.

  Jerking off on your hosts’ living room furniture was almost certainly a no-no.

  He grabbed his phone.

  Carlos: Hey. This is Carlos.

  His stomach gave a jolt, energy crackling from his tailbone to the base of his skull in one hot second. He wasn’t sleepy at all anymore.

  Deion: Hey . . . what’s up?

  Carlos: Just wanted to say sorry I didn’t get to see the end of Chopper Chicks in Zombie Town.

  Deion: Ha. Right. You hated it.

  Carlos: I did not!

  Deion: You totally did. You were just watching it because—

  He hit send to give himself a moment to think of an end to that sentence, and then couldn’t think of anything at all.

  Or more like: Everything he could think of was way too revealing. All kinds of shit, like why Carlos had touched the back of Deion’s neck and let his fingertips linger, scratching at the short hairs there. And how Deion had meant to pull away, but then he’d shivered and the fucking thrill he’d gotten at knowing Carlos could feel that was scary in its intensity. How he’d seen Carlos’s hand flex in his lap, like maybe he wanted to grab something. And maybe that something was Deion. And maybe Deion would let him.

  The only thing he could think of to explain why Carlos had stayed to watch a stupid zombie movie with him when Carlos didn’t even like zombie shit was . . .

  Carlos: Because I wanted to hang out with you and you like zombie movies. And it wasn’t as terrible as I thought it was going
to be. ;)

  He dropped his phone.

  That was weird. Was that weird? It was weird, right? For Carlos to say it flat out like that. I wanted to hang out with you. Deion curled over on his side, like he needed to hide his screen in case anyone came looking. Maybe he was imagining things. Maybe Carlos was just a friendly guy.

  Maybe that whole strange vibe he’d felt between them on that couch, the weird energy and hesitation and pent-up breath was only in his head.

  Carlos: Besides, you’re the only bi guy I’ve ever talked to who’s never told anyone either. Or done anything. And I was going to . . .

  Going to what?

  Deion stared at his phone like he could will words into appearing on the screen with the power of his laser eyes and Jedi mind control. Before more than approximately four seconds had passed, though, his wait-and-see-ing strength evaporated.

  Deion: Going to . . . ?

  The wait for an answer lasted four hundred and thirty thousand years.

  Approximately.

  Carlos: I don’t know. Maybe I’m imagining things.

  He fumbled an answer fast enough to have to correct three typos in two words.

  Deion: You’re not.

  Fuck. His dick was getting hard, and he wasn’t even really letting himself think about where this conversation was going.

  Carlos: LOL. You don’t even know what I was going to say. :)

  Deion: I think maybe I do.

  Carlos: Yeah? Then what was it?

  And maybe it was being so far away from his regular world. Or being in Josh and Benji’s tiny guest room, which felt like a secret space where he could say or do things he wouldn’t even consider anywhere else. Like a Hobbit hole where he could hide from all the Tooks and Brandybucks in the Shire. Whatever it was, his fingers flew.

  Deion: You were going to say maybe you were imagining something was . . . happening.

  Carlos: Between us.

  Deion: Yeah.

  Carlos: Yeah.

  Deion: You’re not imagining it.