Chapter One

 

Dax rolled over and slapped the snooze button, but Shania Twain wasn’t silenced so easily.

"Jesus," he muttered, as she continued glorying in her femininity. He didn’t care how wonderful it was to be a woman, didn’t know—didn’t want to know.

He hit the button again. But her voice still filled the room, her sugary twang almost as irritating as her irrepressible cheerfulness.

"What does it take..."

Smack.

"...to get you..."

Splat.

"...to shut the fuck..."

Swack.

"...up!"

He rolled out of bed, crouched on the floor, reached for the plug and yanked it out of the wall.

Silence. Blissful, rapturous, blessed silence.

Dax dragged himself back up to sit on the edge of the bed. He dropped his head into his hands and groaned. "Tequila," he moaned. "I remember tequila." Actually, he remembered a lot of tequila. He also remembered an enormous platter of very spicy nachos, loud music and... karaoke. Did he really sing along to Robert Palmer’s Addicted to Love?

Suddenly he lifted his head and sniffed the air. Coffee.

Naked and running solely on caffeine fumes he trudged down the hall into the kitchen. He grabbed a mug from the cupboard, doped it up with sugar and had downed his first scalding sip by the time he felt the presence behind him. Very slowly he turned around.

"Hangover?" asked Clay, his voice as silky and lustrous as the amber tie knotted loosely at his throat.

Another dose of caffeine fortified Dax to face Clay’s laser-blue gaze. Those eyes had blinded lesser men. And more than a few women.

Dax gulped down another mouthful and raised his gaze. "This isn’t a hangover."

Clay crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his rangy frame against the door jamb.

Damn, he looked good. But then again, Clay always looked good. Whether, like today, he sported pleated chinos and a draped rayon button-up or ass-hugging jeans and a skin tight muscle shirt, Clay always looked put together. With that spiked blond hair, gold earing and half day’s worth of stubble, the guy screamed out style. He fuckin’ dripped with it. If he were anybody else Dax would have resented the hell out of him for it.

"No?" asked Clay. "If it’s not a hangover, then what is it?"

"It’s a manifestation of God’s wrath, visited directly on my skull."

"You don’t believe in God."

Dax took another sip, savoring the heat as it drained down his throat. "Call in the priests. I’m about to recant."

Clay rolled his eyes, but didn’t smile. Something was wrong.

But then Clay held out his hand and opened his fingers. "How about drugs? Do you believe in drugs?"

Dax hesitated. "Drugs?"

"Uh huh."

"Good drugs?"

"The best."

"Tylenol?"

"With codeine."

Dax snatched them up and popped them in his mouth. "You’re an angel."

"Huh." Clay turned away. "If I’m an angel, what does that make you?"

Dax swallowed the pills with the last of the coffee, tossed the mug in the sink and followed his partner into the living room.

As usual, the place was a mess. Newspapers and text books littered the coffee table, and a half-eaten bowl of popcorn sat on top of the television. Several stray socks had huddled beneath the state-of-the-art stereo and a stack of unpaid bills waited patiently on the armchair. The futon, at least, was free of clutter, but only because all the crap got kicked off of it whenever one of them decided to nap there.

Dax leaned against the back of the futon for support."Huh? What the hell does that mean?"

Clay stood before the CD rack, hands jammed in his pockets, scanning titles. "You were drunk last night."

"Yeah? So? I seem to recall that happening before." He brushed a few strands of his long chestnut mane out of his eyes. "On occasion."

"Yeah, well you were really drunk."

Already feeling more himself, Dax hopped over the back of the futon and sat down. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "I seem to recall spending half of my time at college being ‘really’ drunk. You didn’t mind then."

"That’s because I was ‘really drunk’, too. I didn’t know the difference."

"Ah ha." Dax leaned back and spread his arms wide. "There’s the problem. You didn’t drink enough last night. If you had, then maybe you would have had some fun."

Clay pulled out a CD, examined it, stuck it back in the slot. "Somebody needed to stay sober so they could drive you home and carry you into bed."

"You didn’t carry me," said Dax, feeling defensive, "and since when is this a problem, anyway? I lost count of the times I had to clean you up and put you to bed."

Suddenly Clay whirled on him. "I was fucking bored last night, okay? The crowd was dull, the service was slow, the food was bad, and—" He growled something unintelligible and stalked over to the sliding glass doors. He unlocked the door and tugged it open a few inches, allowing a fragrant spring breeze to flirt with his hair.

Dax was feeling disoriented. This wasn’t like Clay at all. "And what? What else?"

"Come on, Dax. Karaoke? I mean, how desperate is that?"

"I just wanted to try something different. If you didn’t want to go, you should have said so."

"I did. But you were already too drunk to listen to me. Too drunk to care."

"You’re just mad because I dragged you on stage with me."

"I don’t even want to talk about that."

Dax sprang from the futon. "So, what? I embarrass you now?"

"Only when you imitate Robert Palmer and dance like... like...Ginger Rogers."

Dax’s mouth hung open. Ginger Rogers? Before he could come up with a response, Clay added, "And for God’s sake put some clothes on."

Dax glared at him for a moment before swaggering over to the balcony doors of their third floor apartment. He leaned against the glass, facing Clay. "My being naked never bothered you before, either."

Clay tossed a nervous glance outside, at the three-storey walk-up on the other side of the street. "Maybe not, but the neighbors might have a problem with it."

"I don’t know. I think I look pretty good."

Clay’s eyes roamed over him, the attempt quick but thorough, and not nearly as discreet as he probably thought. He swallowed thickly, his gaze resting in the general area of Dax’s groin. "You know you do."

Dax smiled. Hours of squash, cycling and swimming kept him toned and fit, and he refused to be ashamed of what he’d worked so hard to attain. "Well, then, let’em enjoy the view."

Dax glanced at the front of Clay’s chinos and added, "You certainly are."

Clay’s gaze snapped to his. "Don’t change the subject. If the neighbors see you, they—"

"Oh for God’s sake, who the hell cares about the neighbors?"

"We care."

Dax stepped closer. "Do we?"

Clay didn’t retreat. "Of course we do. It took us a year to get the landlords to accept our... arrangement."

"Fuck the landlords."

"You don’t mean that."

Dax grabbed Clay by the tie and dragged him back into the living room. "Okay, okay, you’ve got a point.."

They stood there, in the middle of the living room, nose to nose, chest to chest, breath mingling, blood pumping.

Dax released Clay’s tie and allowed his hands to drift. Through the light fabric of Clay’s shirt, Dax traced the outline of Clay’s pecs, skimmed the ridges of his abs. Unlike Dax, Clay preferred to get his exercise indoors on treadmills and Nautilus equipment. He worked out four times a week and it showed.

His hands resting on Clay’s belt, Dax whispered, "I don’t wanna fuck the landlords. You know full well who I wanna fuck.

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