Invisible things (2005 - 2008, 2011)
The way this is set out is different scenes of Q and Brad's past in chronological order but split up by snippets of a scene that takes place a little before he’s taken away. Please bear in mind that the flashback scenes are set when he’s between the ages of 12 & 14 so I obviously wrote little-to-no detail for the sexual scenes because, ew, who wants to read that?
So yeah anyway please add Brad to your hate lists and appreciate the way Spencer goes from wanting to impress him from wanting to deck him xo
“Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation: the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.” - Matthew 26:41.
Did you know that disguising any act that contradicts the faith and morals of the Catechism can be masked as an act of the spirit? No, it’s true, ask any reputable priest; any curate; any child of God and they’ll tell you the same thing. Probably.
“I’m glad you’re feeling yourself again. I hate to see you acting out of terms.” Bradley speaks like this sometimes; when he’s trying to feel clean. He reaches across to the passenger side, where his hand graces the side of Spencer’s face, who isn’t particularly interested in what he has to say but knows that staying silent and humouring the man will bring him to where he wants to be a whole lot quicker.
He nods. “Me too. Thanks.”
Because there’s no better way to mask the flesh as it’s adversary than pretending to be thankful for it. He’ll even thank him again, at the end when what’s done is done, if he’s feeling kind.
Bradley’s thumb slides over his lower lip, and he smiles at Spencer with sad eyes, as if he’s making a martyr of himself; like having sex with him is the man’s own version of self-sacrifice.
Spencer suck’s the thumb into his mouth, and it wipes the condescending look right off his face.
***
“I’m really glad that you could speak to me, Spencer.” Bradley’s smiling kindly as he lowers himself into the free seat beside him.
He’s pretty sure he’s not really meant to talk about what’s said within confession time, outside of the box, but he’s pretty new to it all (albeit several years older than Father Quinn when he’d become a Curate) so Spencer decides to let him off.
Besides, he kind of really dislikes the atmosphere of a confessional anyway, which is why it’s such a relief when Bradley adds, “you know, if you ever have anything else to talk about, I’ll always be open to listen. I know it can be difficult to have some conversations with your father.”
“Thanks,” he says simply as he tries to hold their eye contact but can’t help but let his vision trail over to Melanie Briggs.
She’s helping some other girl that he doesn’t know from school to cover their cake stand with plastic wrap. They didn’t sell too well today, but Spencer spent an extra dollar on a second cupcake, just for another chance to spark up a conversation with the girls. They usually try to sell a few boxed goods at the end of the morning service, then return in the evening if they can.
If he had the money, he’d go over again. He’d offer to buy a whole plate full before the rest of the girls get here to count up their earnings, but he doesn’t, so he can’t.
Bradley must follow his line of sight, because he reiterates, “the thoughts you had are normal.”
Spencer really doesn’t think they should be talking about this right now. He says, “I know,” because Bradley told him already.
“In a few months’ time, you’ll be in your last year before high school. A lot of kids there will have a lot to say about that stuff.” His cheeks feel hot. “But you know where your morals lie, and the flesh—”
“I better find my dad before the rest of the girls get here.”
***
They’re parked around fifteen minutes away from Brad’s place - and God bless his dad for making Spencer stay with Brad to “help him prepare tomorrow’s reading” - but Spencer couldn’t even hazard a guess as to which direction they went in. He was too busy spending the drive there bickering with Beth over text about who’s been ignoring who for the past two months.
There’s parked up now, anyway -fuck knows where- with the headlights off but the interior light on, casting a warm glow over both of them and making the darkness outside impossible to see through. It’s easy to forget that there’s much happening outside the car. It’s why he likes doing this as much as he does – and has been more often lately, come to think of it.
It’s not the best set-up. Brad drives a stick because his car’s a hand-me-down, meaning the gearstick is digging into Spencer’s thigh, and the arm keeping him balanced is beginning to ache as he leans across the console.
Still, though, his hand is warm between the man’s legs, pressed against denim, as Bradley breathes hotly over his cheek between kisses; one arm draped on the back of his seat as he meets him halfway, the other hand curling into the back of his hair.
***
There was an accident last night; Spencer’s dad trying to fix something, Spencer trying to help. It ended with a trip to the emergency room and his dad, out of guilt, telling him he could have today off (“take a three-day weekend,” he’d said).
He’d usually only just be leaving for school now, but today he’s helping Bradley set out programs for today’s funeral service. The lady was so popular that her service is going to run directly after mass, so everybody can be there.
As the man approaches, Spencer says, “hey Bradley, are you staying for the funeral?”
“Brad,” the guy corrects, pointing a finger gun at him as he passes, taking the extra programs from atop the organ behind Spencer. “And yeah, of course I am.” He slips the spares into his back pocket. “How’s your arm?”
Spencer shrugs, glancing down at the bandage just above the inside of his elbow. “Aches, kind of, like—”
But Brad’s already saying, “I bet,” as he takes Spencer’s wrist into his hand and brings his arm up for a better look as if he could somehow see the damage through the bandage. “Bet the girls are missing you at school, huh kid?”
He shrugs. Definitely not.
“And the guys.” Brad raises an eyebrow, but Spencer just pulls his arm away. Hates when he talks about the stuff he tells him, in environments like this.
“Not really. They’re all assholes.”
“Language,” Brad warns, but he’s chuckling as he smacks Spencer’s backside playfully (fondly?) before plopping down onto the bench that they’re stood beside. “Sit. We’ve got time.”
He does. He sits close enough that the arm Brad’s got draped over the back of the bench stretches out behind him now, ‘cause he knows that if he sat further away, Bradley would only slide over anyway. Not that he minds; Brad’s always doing shit like this recently, and Spencer’s old enough now to know what means something and what doesn’t.
Sometimes he catches the way Bradley ducks in to speak to him as he straightens Spencer’s collar, or the way he crowds him into the pantry sometimes with his arms caging him against the wall, or how he smacks his ass as a joke and swings an arm around his back… He knows that these all mean something, the same way he knows that Oliver’s hand on his leg isn’t nothing anymore.
He’s a teenager for goodness sake, he’s not an idiot.
But, innocent or not, Brad’s a nice guy – a really nice guy – and that’s the difference.
Sometimes he reminds him of Dan. Or-- How Dan could be, if he wanted to be. When Brad’s scruffing his hair as he passes or squeezing his shoulders or pulling faces across the room. It’s nice: feeling like maybe Brad enjoys his company; seeks it out, even.
“Nice seeing you dressed up like this,” the man comments and swipes two fingers beneath Spencer’s lapels as he leans in like he always does. Like he’s telling a secret. He’s twisted in his seat a little, angled in his direction.
Spencer hums, unimpressed. “I hate funerals.”
The first time Spencer went to a funeral was just about the most traumatic experience of his life. All the genuflects and synchronising and crying… He’s avoided them at all costs since, today being his first exception.
And to think his dad thought he was doing him a favour. Spencer didn’t even know the woman.
Brad taps a finger beneath Spencer’s chin as he suggests, “how about afterwards, I take you out to eat. You choose where.”
He can’t really argue with that. Really likes the sound of it actually. “Okay.” He nods, only just looking up to return the eye contact Brad’s been looking for. “I’ll think of a place.”
“Cool.” His hand lands on his thigh; squeezes before he stands. “It’s a date.”
***
Brad grunts, head tipped back against his seat, no longer leaning over the console to meet him half-way.
He’s still got one hand in Spencer’s hair, the other down the back of his pants now as he rolls his hips up, pushes himself deeper into Spencer’s mouth, who’s mostly glad of the more comfortable position (one elbow on the edge of Brad’s seat and the other arm splayed over his thighs) although he’s never one to complain about a cock in his mouth either, he supposes.
They buried Curly three days ago, and here, in this car with his dad’s apprentice, is the nearest he’s been to the church since. Jordan keeps asking to see him, but the world feels like nothingness in here, and it’s how he likes it.
“Tomorrow morning,” he’d told his friend; “I’ll come by tomorrow morning”
The only trace of the world, in fact, is the cool breeze against the back of his neck and lower back where his shirt rides up in his hunches position. The windows on both sides are open just a touch because they were cold when they got into the car but Brad’s heater takes a lifetime to cool down again, so they’re stuck with it now. He’ll let the world creep in for the sake of not wanting to crawl out of his own skin.
Spencer pulls one arm away only for a moment; just long enough to get his pants undone, because Brad’s been so close to where he needs him for so long, but the restriction won’t let it be. His fly’s not even half-way down before Brad’s hands sliding down, and Spencer’s choking out a gasp around him.
“Sh-shit, Spencer, that's so good, you’re—” For half a second Brad goes from tugging to patting his hair, trying his hand at a softer kind of intimacy. That is until Spencer hums a moan, and the man’s fingers are buried deep again as his knuckles press into the back of Spencer’s head. Thank God.
***
The younger kids are too engrossed in juice, milk and sandwiches to bother them for a while, as they sit together at a table; small compared to the rest, in the corner of the large room. The best top 40 is playing over the speakers but the quality is so bad that it takes about half of each song for Spencer to actually distinguish what it actually is from the bass-line alone.
“Where did you do it, then?” Brad’s whispering, but he doesn’t need to, not over the squawking children and gritty music.
He really enjoys speaking to Brad now that he’s older and experiencing more things to make him feel… Well, a little more grown-up, he supposes. Brad for sure feels the same though. Spencer can tell by the conversations they have that Bradley sees how mature he is now.
He hums around his sandwich, stalling for a second to swallow before he shrugs. “In the bathroom.”
“At school? Jeeze, Spencer, I—”
“No.” Spencer air-bats him away with his empty hand, but Brad doesn’t look disgusted anyway. Elated, if anything. “At his house. No, I told you I wouldn’t do stuff at school. S’too weird.”
The man seems to contemplate this for a while, mushing ham and bread between his teeth as he thinks. “It’s only been two months; how did you manage that? I mean—” He waves a hand, then places it on his chest earnestly, although there’s a hint of jest in his voice as he says, “I get it: a good-looking guy like you and all. But two months and you’re already—”
“High school guys are way different,” Spencer interrupts. “You know, there’s two fags in m—”
“Spencer.”
“Sorry—two… Gay kids in my grade. Nobody even cares.” He shrugs. A lot of the kids at school throw around words like that. Spencer’s learnt to do it to protect himself. Makes him wonder who else is doing the same.
The man’s knee knocks his own under the table as he wiggles his brows. “Is that who it was? One of the gay kids?”
And God, he feels so damn smug. “Nope. Some music kid. Plays the piano. Hot, right?”
Brad hums, lips curled upward as he nods, but it falls when Jamie, one of the younger kids in the group -stark blonde-white hair and little to no weight on him- stumbles to a stop after sprinting toward their table. He looks teary, blubbers something incoherent about an apple that was actually a pear and something being squidgy and bad. Brad must make sense of it because he picks his apple up from the table and hand sit over, and just like that, Jamie’s smiling again and scampering off.
“Did he do it back,” the man asks once they’re alone again, fidgeting in his seat as he leans towards him a little, finding his hushed tone again. “I bet he did, didn’t he?”
And whatever was left of Spencer’s previous smug expression is wiped away as he shakes his head. Brad looks just as disappointed as Spencer had felt -still feels, a little- as the boy tells him, “freaked out letting a boy touch him.” Brad’s knee is slotted between his own now. He adds, “doesn’t stop me, does it?”
“You’re still on that?”
Spencer shrugs again. “I like girls.”
Bradley is quiet for a while, squinting accusingly, but Spencer doesn’t let it shake him. He takes another bite of his sandwich and returns the way the man’s leg seems to brush over his own, then back again. It’s clear that Brad’s trying to put words together in his head; trying to be smart about it. This usually comes right before he says something like--
“I think you like me.”
Something like that.
He shrugs again. What is there to say? Bradley is handsome and Spencer feels comfortable around him; more than the kind of comfort you feel around a curate of your father’s church - or a brother, even, despite how he’d originally been so desperate to find one in him. The kind of comfort that allows him to tell Bradley about his struggles with his faith on a Sunday morning, and then tell him about touching a guy from his high school in the kid’s mom’s en suite come Saturday evening.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
Spencer nearly laughs. Brad can get a bit needy sometimes. He thinks he’s leading a conversation, but he ends up trying to cram words into Spencer’s mouth. It makes Spencer feel quite powerful, really. “It depends.” The man gives him a look, as if it say, ‘on?’ “Depends if you’d have done it back, I suppose.”
Somehow Bradley manages not to change his expression at all, but something happens to his eyes. They glass over or unfocus or… Something. Spencer feels like he’s lost him for a second as those eyes trail away from Spencer’s, and he thinks they trail down to his mouth, but then they carry on, and the man is just watching the table for a minute before he chuckles.
“Would you have?” Now Spencer’s doing the cramming, still smiling a little -can’t help it- as he watches Brad shake his head in amusement.
But then his friend’s not laughing. He’s looking around the room as he clears his throat, before slipping his knee from between Spencer’s and standing. He clears his throat again, mumbles, “you can’t ask that,” before he walks away like Spencer’s just said something to hurt his feelings.
***
The music’s on. Probably has been the whole time, but Spencer’s only now realising, now his mouths on Brad’s instead of his dick. His breath stutters against Brad’s lips, the man’s hand still slipped down the back of his pants and working, and it feels vulgar, even to Spencer; on his knees in the passenger side as he leans over to press his tongue between the teeth of the man behind the wheel. But it’s leading them to greater things.
Spencer pulls away, mouth trailing over Brad’s chin, down his throat, skipping his torso because his shirt is still on and, frankly, he’s not got the patience. His hand’s still around him and his lips are barely on him again before he’s being pulled back up by his hair, the man telling him, “hang on,” through a gasp as he pulls Spencer’s face back toward his own.
“Too good,” the man adds. “Still wanna fuck you.” He’s only recently started getting bold like that. “Can I—” If there was more to the question, he doesn’t bother to add it.
Already impatient again, Spencer’s mouth strays to his jaw, his breath soon against Brad’s ear as he says, between hiccups of breath, “yes please.”
***
“I finally did it.” He can’t even bite back his smile, head tilted against the wall behind him, up towards where Bradley towers.
The man surely doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but he’s smiling too, chuckling from low in his chest as he taps his fingertip against the wall where his hand rests beside Spencer’s head. The other is tugging the boy’s tie—a pure gesture intending not to loosen it, but to straighten it.
Brad tries to huff through his smile, eyes rolling as he asks, “what? What did you finally do?”
He pulls his lower lip between his teeth, waiting a while for Brad to figure it out for himself as he watches his face, only inches from his own. Bradley makes no guesses though, even as his eyes trail down to Spencer’s mouth, who eventually says, “sucked off the biology guy.”
And he swears he sees Brad’s eyes lose focus, his pupils dilating before he drags his gaze from Spencer’s lips to the upper half of his face. He sways a little - or maybe Spencer arches from the wall; he’s not sure but, either way, they get so close for half a second that Brad’s crotch brushes against him, before the man seems to snap out of it; clears his throat and asks, “did he like it?”
He giggles. “What would you bet?”
The kids have only been gone for twenty minutes or so, but the canteen is almost clean; they’re in no rush, and it’s a good job, with the way Bradley takes his time to consider this, his hand coming up to brush his knuckles over the boy’s throat.
“Bet you’re good at it,” he decides, finally.
“Yeah? How’d you know?” He might be fishing, but it’s not as if he got a lot of feedback after the act. A rushed blowjob in a scrawny redhead’s bedroom whilst his mother vacuums the hallways outside wasn’t the best chance he could have had for a review.
Brad shrugs as he tells him, “you can just tell when someone’s good at it,” as his thumb catches Spencer’s chin and presses until his lips part.
He’s young but he’s not stupid; he gets the message.
Spencer raises his chin, doesn’t want to look nervous as he extends an arm to press his hand to the front of the man’s pants, and Brad’s eyes slip shut as he swallows, movements froze for a second until the very hand that had parted Spencer’s lips pushes the side of his head so far that he sends the boy to the floor.
“What are you doing?” He looks ill as he takes a few steps back before he turns and paces towards the exit.
**
“Sh-shit,” Brad’s moaning into Spencer’s hair, who gasps in turn as the man’s hips snap, pressing the back of his shoulders deeper into the car door.
The rough back seat burns a little as he’s pushed up with each thrust, but it’s not of great concern as the man above him groans into his ear and hooks an arm behind his leg to push closer, somehow managing to shift in the small space into a near-kneeling position and--
“Oh, fuck, there,” Spencer wines, short nails curling into his back to pull the man against him.
Brad straightens up (as much as one can in the back seat of a car) in favour of getting a view of Spencer’s face again as he reaches out to press his thumb to his lips like he’s so obsessed with doing. Spencer opens his mouth, humouring the man as he moans above him like it’s somehow more obscene than anything else they’ve done this evening.
**
His skin’s on fire. He fights the urge to press a hand between his legs, where he aches from having the man’s palm cup him only for a moment before Spencer had made the mistake of acknowledging it, hips raising from the passages seat as he whispered his name.
Spencer’s arm is aching now, in this new position. His palm slips against the car seat but it only brings them closer as Brad pants, “we can’t.”
Except his other hand is already in the man’s pants and has been for the past few minutes. He’s not sure how that happened really since it had started the other way around; making small talk as Brad’s hand wandered. He’d said, “don’t tell anybody,” before anything at all really happened, and the boy nodded.
Spencer asks, “can’t what,” as his nose bumps Brad’s, who turns his head away because they haven’t kissed yet, and apparently that’s where he draws the line. He tries to chase his mouth, but the man repeats the words; “please, we can’t,” even after reminding Spencer of how good he bets he’d look with his head in someone’s lap. Reminding being the keyword, because Lord knows they’ve had that conversation before.
He’s about to give up, retreat back to his own seat in defeat when the man says it again –“we can’t”- but then there’s a hand on the back of Spencer’s head, guiding him down as Brad repeats the same two words.
***
The friction burn had proven to be too much and, at some point, they’d switched places, now in Brad’s lap where the man sits in the right-hand back seat of the car, hands splayed over Spencer’s thighs or waist or throat.
They’re just catching their breaths now, Spencer’s hips just barely rolling, only a minute or so post-orgasm but still fighting the hum that creeps like it does. He’s leaning back, the back of the passenger headrest pressed to the base of his skull as he breathes.
“How d’you feel?”
‘Here we go,’ he thinks, but says, “good,” through a long sigh. He feels Brad’s fingers grace over his chest; feels his eyes on him, and Spencer’s feeling generous, so he adds, “thanks,” to put him out of his misery.
“You’re welcome.” He must have been waiting for it because the reply comes instantly. His arms wrap around Spencer’s waist and he pulls him back into his chest as he catches his breath.
***
“I don’t care, Spencer. It can’t happen again. It’s not right, it—”
“You started it,” Spencer argues, loud enough to drown Bradley out. “You—”
“I only did it for you!” Bradley must forget that they’re only parked at the end of Spencer’s driveway because he shouts so loud that it throws them both a little off-guard as he slams his palm into the wheel. “How could you be so— So- So selfish, Spencer? Gosh, do you really…” He’s whispering suddenly, glancing toward the house for any trace of a flickering light or twitching curtain, then continues when nothing happens. “Do you really think I’d just… Do that, for myself? What must you think of me.”
God knows why he feels so embarrassed about it all. He still feels it on his lips, in his mouth… He just wants to brush his teeth, take a shower, change his clothes.
He says, “you said…” but then shakes his head. “You touched me. First- you touched me first and I just--”
“Please.” Brad shakes his head, rubbing shaky hands over his face. He glances at the house again, then reaches over to switch off the engine. “I care about you, alright? I care about you so just. Please don’t make me regret… What we did.”
Spencer frowns—swallows and cringes. “Why would we do it if you didn’t… I mean you’re the one who.” He stops. Why repeat himself? “I’m confused.”
“I put you out of your misery, okay? This… Obsession you have, with sex, o-or with me, or associating sex with me, I don’t—I don’t know what it is, but it’s gotta end now. It’s done, so you can move on.”
Spencer gets out and slams the door so hard that the upstairs curtains do twitch as he storms up the driveway.
***
“We should get some food. There’s a twenty-four-hour place just past that—”
“I should get home. I’ve gotta meet a friend in the morning,” Spencer interrupts apologetically, back in the passage seat now with his clothes back on, save for the blazer in his lap. Good job it’s a Friday or his dad would have his head if he walked into the house still in his uniform at this hour. “But thanks.”
“Oh, c’mon, we’ll get it to go.”
Spencer shakes his head. “I’m not even hungry.”
Bradley sighs, slumping into his seat as he taps the steering wheel of the still-static car. “C’mon. After that, you won’t even get a bite to eat?”
He checks his phone briefly (11:24 pm) and shrugs his shoulders. “Sorry.”
“Hey, you own me after that amaz—"
“I don’t owe you shit, Brad.” He doesn’t mean to snap, but he really doesn’t have the energy to be stuck here again, and the guy can be so fucking stubborn sometimes. “You wanted to have sex tonight, so did I, so we did. Now I’m tried.”
***
He’s not sure why he hadn’t expected it to hurt, but he hadn’t and it did.
It’s fine, obviously. It was good -kinda, he thinks- just… Not what he expected; on his feet; his palms imprinted with the backs of drawing pins; his pants still on and his ribs hitting the cabinet every other second. When Spencer called from his dad’s phone last week, a little drunk on the beer Oliver had snuck him, Brad had told him how fucking him from behind would be a waste; had said if he didn’t see his face, he’d be missing half the point. Then he’d laughed and said, “I’m only joking.”
It was hot though, he decides as he fixes his belt, leaning back against the storage unit and watching Brad as he does the same. They’re both catching their breaths and Spencer can’t fight his smile – tries to bite it away but ends up having to look down at his shoes instead. Brad’s already doing the same anyway, head down and shoulders up as he hurries to make himself decent.
“Was good,” he decides. He managed an orgasm and so did Brad, so it must have been good.
Bradley nods firmly, clearing his throat for some reason. “Better now?”
Spencer frowns. “Sure,” he tells him although he’s not sure what he’s referring to. He steps towards him, on his toes and with his fingers catching the back of his hair to pull the man in, who just turns his face away and presses both palms to Spencer’s chest, gently sending him back again. “What?”
“It’s out of our system.” He’s got his back to him next, starting to collect what they’d come in here for; cups, plates, tablecloths; check, check, check… “I’ve got this handled. The water cooler’s empty if you wanna…” He trails off.
“What?” What else if he meant to say?
He watches the man’s back as he reaches up and a damp patch on the back of his shirt clings to his skin as the rest of the cotton ripples. He pretends to forget Spencer’s there, clicking his tongue as he fills his arms; mumbles, “where’s the… ah, gotcha,” to himself. Then his hands are full and he doesn’t turn around, just… Fucking stands there facing the shelves, waiting.
“Stop it,” Spencer demands.
“The water cooler, Spencer.” His voice is so even, so patronising and slow.
The boy stammers a little, mouth opening and shutting, lost for words. “We just fucked,” he reminds him since he seems to want to pretend that they hadn’t.
“Don’t be vulgar, Spencer.”
“Quit saying my name like that. We just had sex, right here-“ He knocks the top of the cabinet, the metal shaking beneath his fist. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a kid if we—”
The pile of plastic plates and cups and cloths and whatever else he pretended to need slams onto the nearest box. Spencer jolts, elbow hitting the cabinet and rattling it harder than his knuckles had. “You are a kid.”
“Hardly. If I was a kid, I wouldn’t have—”
Brad leaves the crockery in the storage room with Spencer and lets the door slam behind him.
***
“You gonna eat that?” Brad’s side of the tray is empty, save from the tomatoes which he always refuses to eat. Spencer looks down at the last quarter of his burger and shakes his head, sliding it towards the man. Go ahead. Never was hungry anyway. “Thanks.”
He’s tempted to ask to get dropped off at J’s house after this. If he’s not at his door by nine tomorrow morning, the guy will sleep right through his alarm and, as a result, visiting hours. Then he’ll spend the rest of the day in bed -because why not?- and decided he’ll put off seeing his mom for yet another week, and drink himself into another pity party. No, Spencer doesn’t have the patience for that.
“After this, I gotta go through Westgate,” he mentions around his straw, leaning over to sip from it as he warms his hands between his thighs. It’s colder in here than it is outside. “That alright?”
“Thought you had to go home.”
Spencer looks at the digital clock over at the counter, glowing but flickering beside the ancient till. He tries not to make eye contact with the woman that’s stood over there, looking impatient as if the place isn’t open twenty-four hours. “No point – almost twelve anyway.”
He just shrugs. Nods. Swallows Spencer’s burger down. “How far past Westgate?
“Just off Oak Street? Where the gas station—”
“Oak Street? Who lives that way?”
Bradley accepts Spencer’s vague shrug, clearly not overly interested as he polishes off the rest of the food and tells Spencer to bring his coffee back to the car with him which, thankfully, is still a hell of a lot warmer than it was in the café. He takes back all the mental curses he’d made about the slow-cooling heater when the slight crack of the windows wasn’t even close to satisfying twenty minute ago. Still, though, he’s got his sleeves pulled over his hands as he holds his ice coffee with a little less security than Brad would probably have liked, but the car really is old, and the man can’t care that much, with only one idle hand on the wheel as the other moves conspicuously over his own thigh.
He’s hard again. Spencer rolls his eyes.
