out to each other, back before Charlie’s injury. A round knob was from the window crank of his first car— an ancient piece of shit that only lasted seven months, but it’d been his.
He set the hair clip in gently, shut and latched the lid. Wait. Later. Don’t think about it now.
He was in the middle of the timesuck of moving. He had a truck burning rental money in the driveway. Now was not the time to get tangled up in something else as complicated as Ariana. He tucked the box carefully back into his backpack, well down near the bottom, and set it beside the door. Not losing that again.
When he returned to the bedroom, Charlie was sitting on the bare box spring, texting.
“Ordering breakfast?” Nick asked, leaning on the doorframe.
“Reassuring my mother, again, that I won’t let you talk me into heavy lifting or a boxing match or mowing the lawn or anything else that would wreck my shoulder.” Charlie gave the phone an extra-firm tap, stood much too creakily, and stuck it into his hip pocket. “I could go for some food, but you’re buying.”
Nick was torn between ragging on Charlie’s mom for hovering, and kind of agreeing that he wasn’t good for Charlie’s health. He settled for, “I don’t have a lawn.”
“I told her that.”
“Why don’t you go pick up some donuts or something? Let me grab you some money.” He picked up the envelope off the floor. Sure enough, twenty bucks. He held it out.
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“Maybe.” He made himself grin. “Before you find my butt toys.”
“Ooh, toys.” But Charlie came out of the room good-naturedly. “Sure. I can fetch some stereotypical cop food. Jelly or chocolate?”
Nick didn’t let himself flinch at the reminder of their lost jobs. “Both. And coffee. Lots of coffee.” He dug his keys out of his pocket. “Take my car.”
As soon as Charlie had headed out, Nick began hustling to get the mattress and box spring out to the truck. Charlie wasn’t stupid about his disability, but he hated to give in to it. The last thing Nick wanted was for him to cripple himself up just so Nick could bring his damned bed. He wrapped an end of each piece with cling wrap for the skid-factor and dragged them out, not worrying about a little damage.
Lifting and heaving the stupid things was good. It made him breathe hard and sweat and not think. He shoved the box of his probably-useless-in-North-Carolina winter gear over and manhandled the mattress against the truck’s side wall, cursing at its unwieldiness. At least there was room to maneuver. His stuff, which had looked like so much, between the trailer and the rental house, didn’t even fill half the truck.
Just as well. He and Brian didn’t have a new place to put it yet. They’d managed three days together in a dumpy motel, before he’d had to return the previous rental truck to Minnesota. It hadn’t been long enough to do much planning. A little smile quirked his lips at the memory of what they had managed to fit in.
He turned and sat on an overstuffed carton, pulled his phone out of his pocket and hovered over the text icon. Brian likes it when I call. He hates struggling with texts. It’s called being a good boyfriend, not jonesing to hear Brian’s voice— Nick wondered who he thought he was fooling, inside his own damned head. He tapped his favorites list.
The phone rang for a while, but right before it would’ve cut to voice mail, Brian panted, “Yeah? Hey! Nick.”
Three ordinary words, and something in him relaxed. “Yup.”
“What’s up? Ouch!”
“You okay?”
“Dropped something on my foot.” Brian’s breathing steadied. “Is there a problem? You’re still arriving on Friday, right? You didn’t change your mind?”
“Of course not.”
“Sometimes I worry.”
Fucking understatement. Brian had no self-confidence. Nick had quit his job, his trailer was up for sale, and he’d closed off the lease on the house. He’d spent two weeks packing and organizing and sorting both places, and apparently Brian still didn’t believe in him. Over a mix of affection and irritation, he said, “I promised you. I don’t break promises.”
Brian’s sigh was loud enough to hear. “I trust you. I don’t trust life.”
Hell, can’t argue with that. “Yeah, okay. But Charlie’s around to beat life into submission with one hand tied behind his back.”
“Ha. Yeah. Go Charlie. Is he all right?”
“Seems to be.” He hadn’t actually talked to Charlie about all the shit