Real Bacon
Like he promised, Carrick doesn’t go anywhere. For days, he stays here at my house, not pointing out the ways that my life is falling apart, but picking up a few of the pieces anyway. He cooks me the only real meals I’ve had since Kate left, picks up the dirty socks that just seem to materialize in the floor all on their own, and holds me at night while I try to sleep and mostly fail.
It’s just four days, but it’s a routine that I really wish we could stick to forever. Neither of us points out the fact that it has to end eventually. In fact, we don’t really talk much at all. It’s easier that way, I guess.
I kind of feel like I’m taking advantage of Carrick, but I know that he would never tell me if I was. He would just let me, over and over again, and never complain about it. Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel any better.
The first morning that I wake up and don’t feel his long arms wrapped around me, I toss and turn, searching the bed for him. He’s not there, though. Has he finally gotten tired of waiting on me? The smell of coffee and bacon – real bacon, not that soy stuff he eats – answers that question for me. He’s still here, still attending to my every need.
I pull myself out of the bed and pad to the bathroom down the hall. I don’t know how early it is, but it’s definitely still morning and I am not a morning person. I snarl at my reflection in the mirror, trying to figure out what Carrick could even see in me. Since we’ve been off tour, fat has begun to collect around my stomach again. I grab a shirt from the floor and pull it over my head, covering up all that pudge. Carrick knows it’s there, of course. He spent the whole night with his arms wrapped around it, after all. But I feel better now that I’m not staring at it. There’s nothing I can do about the dark circles under my eyes or any of the other myriad flaws I can see reflected back at me.
Good enough for now, I decide. I’ll worry about my greasy hair and stubbly face after breakfast.
I make my way down the stairs and to the kitchen, the smell and sound of bacon simmering driving me to move faster than I usually would so shortly after getting out of bed. Carrick cooking actual bacon is something I just have to see to believe, though. Sure enough, there he stands in front of the stove, a spatula in his hand and a pair of my pajama pants barely clinging to his waist.
He glances over his shoulder and gives me a tiny grin. “I was hoping to surprise you.”
“Breakfast in bed?” I ask, grinning back at him as I walk to the refrigerator and pull out a carton of orange juice. I lean over Carrick to grab a glass from the dish drainer, and a shiver passes through me even though our bodies barely touch at all. I wonder if he feels it too.
If he does, he doesn’t let it show. He just smirks. “Yeah, something like that. But since you’re not in bed now, you’ve ruined that plan.”
I give him a little pout. “I can go back to bed.”
“Just sit down,” Carrick replies, chuckling, and I comply, my glass of orange juice in hand.
I take a seat at one of the bar stools where I can watch Carrick cook. He’s frying a few eggs – he doesn’t even need to ask how I take mine – to go with the bacon I know he won’t eat. I feel a sudden wave a guilt pass over me; he’s cooked me breakfast so many times lately and usually not under the best circumstances. When am I going to get my shit together and stop making other people take care of me? I want to offer to help, but he’s practically done now, anyway, shoveling a huge portion of bacon and eggs out onto a plate for me.
“Thanks,” I manage to croak out, feeling like absolute shit when Carrick passes me the plate with a smile.
A moment later he joins me at the counter, his own fried egg sandwiched in between the halves of a bagel. I didn’t even know I had bagels. Kate must have bought them. So many stupid little things like that just wouldn’t get done around here without her. I hate that realization, but it’s true. I’m such a mess. My immaturity is a joke to everyone and I know it, but I can’t seem to find the punchline now that I’m facing the prospect of really being alone and having to take care of myself.
“You alright?” Carrick asks.
I realize that I’m just staring off into space, holding up a piece of bacon. Carrick must think I look like an idiot. Once again, I wonder why he puts up with me.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” I reply, shoving the bacon in my mouth before I have to answer any more questions.
Carrick raises an eyebrow but doesn’t question me – at least, not with words. But I can tell that he doesn’t believe that I’m okay, and he’s right not to. I don’t think I could explain to him just how worthless I feel right now, though, without only feeling even worse for having voiced that feeling. He won’t push me, though. He never does.
Neither one of us really says anything at all while we eat our breakfast. It’s a little bit of an awkward silence, but I don’t know how to fix it. I’ve got to let Carrick know that I appreciate him and that I know I’m a worthless asshole for depending on him so much. He probably already knows the latter, though.
When he finishes his bagel and egg sandwich, I scoop up his plate before he even has a chance to think about doing the dishes himself. It isn’t much, I know, but it’s my own damn house and I ought to be able to do the dishes myself. It’s not like I’m totally incapable of functioning like a normal adult; it’s just that I usually choose not to, and there’s always someone else there to pick up my slack. What if there isn’t, though? What if Kate really leaves? I’ll still have Carrick in some way, I’m sure, but maybe it’s time for me to finally grow up a bit.
I stick my leftover bacon – for once, I couldn’t eat all the food put in front of me – in the microwave and toss Carrick’s plate in the sink, along with the other dishes he’s dirtied. I can do this. I can totally wash my own dishes, and I don’t even care that I’m acting like it’s a bigger deal than just a minor little household chore.
“Look at you,” Carrick says, walking over to the sink with his glass of juice. He finishes the last few sips, then tosses the glass in with the other dishes and smirks. “Being all domestic.”
It’s a subtle acknowledgment that lets me know that he understands exactly what I’m trying to do. I just give him a sheepish little smile and turn on the hot water, almost enjoying the way it feels like needles on my hands. It’s like some little form of atonement, I guess. I’m definitely making this into a bigger thing than it this, but I don’t care. This is just the first tiny little step in the right direction.
“So, what’s on the agenda for today?” Carrick asks.
I glance up from the pan I’m scrubbing and give him a shrug. “Nothing, as far as I know. Video games and vegging out, I guess.”
“Sounds like yesterday’s agenda.”
“Yeah, well, I’m on vacation,” I reply, sounding more annoyed with him than I meant. I know he’s not criticizing me for doing nothing all day, but I guess I’m just used to working and facing criticism from someone if I’m not.
“I know,” Carrick replies, his voice soft. He reaches out and rubs my back gently. “And you deserve a vacation. I bet you haven’t taken one since before your voice changed.”
I laugh, but he’s right. I don’t remember the last time, except for perhaps my honeymoon, that I genuinely had any time off from work at all. Sure, we’ve got a few concerts scheduled this summer and we’ll really get to work on the new album once Taylor is back, but for now, this is as real as vacation gets for us. It feels strange. Good, but strange.
I finish the dishes and wipe my hands off on a dish towel before turning to face Carrick. “Did you want to do something different today?”
He shrugs. “Whatever you want to do.”
That’s a pretty noncommittal answer. He really is too good to me, and I wish I had a way to get through to him just how much I appreciate it. I take a few steps closer to him and tentatively place a hand on his waist. He doesn’t push me away, so that’s a good sign. We haven’t really done more than kiss and cuddle a bit in the few days he’s been here, and I don’t know if he’s waiting for me to take the lead or if he’s the one making sure that things move slowly.
I’m tired of moving slowly.
“I think I know what I want to do today,” I say, not even caring that it’s the cheesiest line ever. At least it earns me a laugh from Carrick, although it was probably just out of pity. Good enough for me.
Feeling a little bit bolder, I press Carrick against the counter, sandwiching his body between mine and it. He doesn’t object to that, and I feel bolder still. How far is he willing to let me go? With one hand still on his waist, I trail the other down his face, cupping his chin and leaning in to kiss him. Still no resistance, but kissing is nothing new for us. Maybe I’m ready for something new, though.
I trail kisses across his jaw and down his neck, trying to stay alert to any change in him that would suggest he wants me to stop. He only relaxes slightly, his body becoming more pliant under me so that I’m forced to press him back against the counter more to keep him standing. It’s strange to know I could have that effect on anyone, especially my best friend, but it only emboldens me more, makes me curious to see how much more I can do to him.
Those pajama pants Carrick stole from me are pretty thin and I’m not convinced that he’s wearing anything under them, so I can already feel his dick pressing against me. I’m barely even doing anything to him at all, but I guess it’s working. I let my teeth graze his neck, barely biting down on a spot that I hope is sensitive, and he’s clutching at my shirt for dear life. If I had any doubts about my next move, they’re all gone now.
Not even caring that the floor will hurt, I drop to my knees, the bare tile digging into my knees just as harshly as I expected. That’s the least of my concerns, though. My only concern is right here in front of my face, with only a thin layer of blue plaid between me and it. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to take my time and do it right – not some rushed, sloppy job like I’m sure I did with Taylor.
I barely resist the urge to growl out loud at the thought of Taylor. He’s the last thing I want on my mind when my lips are inches from Carrick’s dick. I take a deep breath, force Taylor out of my mind, then lean in and press a kiss against the thin cotton. Carrick gives the tiniest whimper and that’s the last little bit of encouragement I need. I grab the waistband of the pants and tug them down, realizing that this is the first time I’ve actually seen Carrick’s dick, for all that I’ve been close to it lately.
He’s long – longer than I expected and maybe even as long as Tay. I’m trying really hard not to think about Tay, though, which is pretty easy since I was more than a little drunk when that happened. I can’t totally shake the thought of him, but I’m going to give it my best. Carrick nudges his hips ever so slightly forward, and that definitely helps to clear my mind of any thoughts other than him. I close the distance between our bodies, darting my tongue out to give his length one long lick from base to tip.
The taste is better than I expected, and I want more. Just one lick and it seems I’m already insatiable. I suck him into my mouth, taking nearly all of his impressive length in one try. Not bad, I tell myself. Carrick seems to agree, since he’s bucking his hips again, setting the pace for me. I don’t mind that a bit. I was never good at leading when it comes to this sort of thing, and I’m more than a little out of my comfort zone now.
But this – this feels good. And I think it must feel just as good for him, judging by the little moans and whimpers that keep falling from his lips like music. I could do this for hours.
So, naturally, there has to be an interruption.
The phone rings, its shrill sound causing me to jump back and let Carrick fall from my mouth. Why the hell do I even have a landline, anyway? And who the hell could be calling it? It’s not early, per se, but it’s definitely before noon. There isn’t a single person in my family – the only ones who know the landline number – who have enough of a death wish to call this early. Yet the phone is still ringing.
Carrick tucks himself back into the pajama pants, panting and giving me a questioning look. The phone hasn’t quit ringing yet, so whoever it is must really need to talk to me. With a groan, I pull myself to my feet and walk to the wall where the phone hangs, still practically ringing itself off the hook.
I blink a few times at the little green screen, trying to figure out whose number I’m seeing. The name is withheld; it’s just a number. It’s not a Tulsa area code, and I have to wrack my brain to remember why that area code looks familiar. Finally it hits me.
Georgia.