Running Parallel

Part 4 - Luke

Who knew all those times I ate lunch at their place, it was Connor who did the cooking?

"He seemed fine," I tell Duncan, remembering our brief interaction this morning. His face had been pink when I'd walked in the kitchen, and he'd avoided eye contact, but that wasn't unusual. Especially when I'd walked in right as Caleb was telling him about how we'd slept together in his bed. God, I loved Caleb, but he could be a bit insensitive. As if taking over his bedroom wasn't enough, I doubt Connor wants to hear about how his brother and I fucked on his sheets.

Duncan huffs a disbelieving laugh. "Fine? Man, I'd have kicked your ass. If my brother pulled some shit like that, he'd have to watch his back."

I hesitate, knowing he's right. Connor's reaction was kinda odd, given the circumstances.

Frowning down at the nearly clean vent, I add, "He made us breakfast."

"The hell?" He stops scrubbing, turning to face me fully. One brow arches in skepticism. "Did he poison it?"

I scoff. "He was being nice."

"Nice? After you guys pulled that shit, 'nice' would be not murdering you both." Duncan goes back to scrubbing his vent. "Why'd you guys do it in his room anyway? Was someone using Caleb's?"

I blink down at my steel wool, realizing he's right. I hadn't even stopped to wonder why Caleb was in Connor's room to begin with.

"Honestly," I say, sighing heavily. "I don't know. I hadn't thought to question it. It was dark, I was drunk, I thought he'd taken off with the guy with the earrings." And then he'd gasped when my hand touched his foot, and he hadn't pulled away. Hadn't told me no.

Had grabbed my hand and pressed it to his cock.

Had kissed me back.

Duncan hums in thought.

"What?" I ask, glancing at him.

His mouth presses into a flat line, brows furrowed.

"Seriously, Dunc, what?"

He shakes his head. "I don't think you'll want to hear it."

I open my mouth to retort, to demand he tell me anyway, when my father's voice cuts me off.

"Are you boys working or gossiping?" Dad asks, coming around from the storage area, where the back door sits open for us to come and go. His blue jeans are stained with grease, hairy forearms tanned and dotted with more brown grease stains.

Sometimes I regret taking this job, but then I remember how much I earn per paycheque. I could have a worse job.

"Almost done," Duncan assures him, covering both our asses.

Dad leans around us to eye our progress before nodding his approval. He claps us both on the shoulder. "Good, I want to be out of here before midnight. That manager is getting on my last nerve, hovering over my guys like that. If he wants it done fast, he's gotta let my men work."

I snort. It's the same story every time we have to deal with the store manager here. He watches us like a hawk, demanding perfection, but also rushing us out the door so he can go home at a reasonable hour. Too bad for him, as contractors, we don't give a fuck what he wants. His bosses pay for the service, and he can get either perfect or fast, not both.

Either that, or watch his restaurant get slapped with a violation for having a dirty ventilation system. Wait long enough for the grease to build up and say goodbye to your restaurant as it burns to the ground.

Dad leaves us to it, and Duncan and I set the finished vents with the others.

I open my mouth to demand that Duncan tell me what he meant, but one of the other guys comes in to work on the interior vent hood, and I don't get the chance. There's no way I'm gonna talk about hooking up with a guy around the others. Not that I think they'd be assholes about it, but Larry is a forty-year-old divorced guy, and Brian is a single dad in his thirties. Not really the type to relate to my situation. At least Duncan kinda understands where I'm coming from, despite being straight.

For the rest of the night, I don't get another chance to connect with Duncan, too busy working our asses off to get done and go home. By the time we've finished putting the place back together and loading our gear back into the van, it's quarter after midnight, and I'm so exhausted I can barely climb into the truck. My fault for staying up drinking last night and then waking up so early this morning before a big job. We've cleaned three restaurants today alone, and every muscle in my body is screaming for a soft bed.

Hell, I'd even settle for the bed of Dad's truck.

Larry hops in the driver's seat of the van, ready to take it back to the office and pick up his car. I watch through my window as dad and he exchange a few words, then dad strides to the truck and disappears around the tailgate. The driver's side door pops open a second later, and he pulls himself inside, shutting the door behind him.

He sighs, weighed down with exhaustion like the rest of us. "Time to head home."

I don't bother to respond. My eyes are drooping, body heavy. It's been a long ass day.

Dad backs us out of the spot and cranks the air conditioning. I cringe, feeling the ice-cold blast hit me in the face.

"Why?" I grumble, crossing my arms and huddling down to ward off the chill.

"Can't be falling asleep on the way home," he explains, eyes on the road. Ever the reasonable one.

I roll my eyes and pull out my phone. Maybe I could text Caleb? We usually send each other stuff every day; memes, tiktoks, an invite to hang out. It wouldn't be weird to text him, right? To check in, see what he's up to? How he's feeling? My memory of last night is a bit hazy, but I don't think I was overly rough with him. But it'd be kind of insensitive not to at least check in, right?

My thumb hovers over the messages icon. It's after midnight, maybe this is a bad idea. He's probably sleeping.

I tap on Instagram instead. Scrolling through posts from celebs and some YouTubers I watch, stopping to heart a post from a friend, I skim through a dozen or more photos and short clips before stopping on one made by Caleb early this morning.

In it, he lies shirtless on the couch, looking as relaxed as any college guy who doesn't work would lying around the house on a Saturday. One arm is bent behind his head, brown hair a mess on the pillow, cocky smile on his lips.

The caption reads, "Best night of my life," with several eggplant emojis and a winky face with its tongue sticking out.

Attraction sweeps through me like fire, burning from the inside. My cock stirs in my jeans, which is the worst when I'm trapped in this truck with my dad sitting next to me. I tap out of Instagram and tuck my phone away, but it's no use. That picture is burned into my retinas.

Best night of your life, Caleb? Mine too.