Bad Ideas (First & Forever 4)

I stroked his hair and said gently, “We can’t do this if you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk. I was just nervous about inviting you over, so I had a few drinks to calm my nerves.”

“Was that bottle unopened when you started?” He nodded, and I sat back on my heels and said, “Then there’s no way you’re sober right now. Let’s call it a night and try again tomorrow, okay?”

I climbed out of bed, but he grabbed my arm with both hands and blurted, “Please stay. I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

“Are you sure? Because that’s not what you said when I got here.”

“I know. I was just scared before.”

I studied him for a few moments before saying, “Okay, I’ll spend the night, but I meant it when I said we’re not having sex. If you’re drunk, then you can’t give consent.”

“I understand.”

“Go find some pajamas while I put something on.” I went back into the bathroom and pulled on a clean T-shirt and a pair of briefs from my backpack. I would have put on shorts or sweat pants too, if I’d had any with me.

When I returned to the bedroom, Theo was swaying a bit in front of his dresser. Every drawer was pulled open, and he was holding a few random items of clothing. He looked at me and said, “I don’t have any pajamas.”

I joined him and wrapped a steadying arm around his shoulders as I asked, “What do you usually sleep in?”

“Nothing.”

My cock instantly started to swell as I pictured that, but I ignored it and said, “How about a T-shirt and briefs for tonight?” When he nodded, I took the clothes he was holding and put them on top of the dresser, then led him back to the bed and helped him strip off his jeans without falling over.

He climbed under the covers, and I shut off the light on the nightstand and followed. There were still two lights on across the room, but leaving them on seemed like a better idea than total darkness, in case Theo woke up disoriented in the middle of the night.

As soon as I settled in under the soft, gray and white striped comforter, Theo slid over so he was right beside me. When I wrapped an arm around him, he put his head on my chest. After a while, he said, “I’m sorry about tonight, Casey. I just—”

“There’s no need to apologize.”

“Yes there is, and I need to do it now. In the morning, when I’m sober again, this is all going to be horribly embarrassing. I’ll probably deal with it the same way I deal with everything, by pushing you away and acting like a prick. So, this is my only chance to apologize for getting drunk and ruining your night.”

I stroked his hair and told him, “You didn’t ruin it. This is actually really nice.”

He slurred a little as he muttered, “I should have known inviting you to my house would be too much for me, and I should’ve suggested a hotel. Now I ruined everything. You won’t want to be with me again, not after this.”

“Of course I will, baby. In fact, let’s plan on getting together tomorrow night.”

“Drunk me better not make any promises,” he murmured, as he shut his eyes and snuggled closer. “Sober me is just going to come along and fuck everything up.” He started to drift off, but before he did he whispered, “I like it when you call me baby. Don’t believe sober me when he says he hates it. I like it when you call me Theo, too. It seems like a name my friends would call me, if I had any.”

“You don’t have any friends?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. You know what I’m like.”

Theo fell asleep a few moments later, and I tilted my head so I could see his face. He looked so young right then, and I wondered idly how old he was. He couldn’t really be younger than thirty, since it would have taken him years to finish medical school and his residency, but I didn’t really have a way of pinpointing his age. Not that it mattered. I was just curious—about that and everything else.

I looked around the room, hoping to pick up some clues, and was struck once again by how unexpected his home was. The clusters of thriving houseplants seemed really unlike him, since the last word I’d ever apply to Theo was nurturing. The books made more sense for someone who was clearly an introvert, though the quantity was surprising. There were dozens of them stacked around the large room—on tables, on the floor, on the mantel, anyplace he could fit them.

When I read the titles of the books on his bedside table, a grin spread across my face. I’d expected serious nonfiction tomes, maybe some dry medical journals. Instead, his taste ran to science fiction and fantasy. In the middle of the stack were Tolkien’s The Hobbit, as well as the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Beneath that was Dune and some vintage Asimov, and on top of the stack was a worn out paperback copy of Neal Stephenson’s cyberpunk classic Snow Crash—a book I’d read at least five times. His copy had obviously been read considerably more than that. It was falling apart, and several efforts had been made to hold it together with tape.