A New Chapter: An Mpreg Romance Page 8

  “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Tristan asked him after a few moments of silence. Silence that neither were sure was a comfortable one. Myrick spared the taller man a glance as he flicked the switch of the kettle on while he contemplated what he was supposed to say in response, given what had transpired in a matter of hours.

  “I mean, I'd say we're, if nothing else, friendly enough colleagues for a drink of tea? Especially after tonight’s escapades?” Myrick flushed, unsure of why he was even half making it seem like he was insinuating something when he was just trying let someone in.

  He was very clearly not good at middle grounds.

  “Well, I can’t say no to caffeine,” Tristan seemed to finally settle on those words, and Myrick was grateful that he wasn’t trying to test any waters again. He needed that right now. “And thank you; I can take a guess that you want the night to end on a better note for both of us.”

  “Yeah, well,” Myrick sniffed, eyeing that bottle of replacement Tylenol he had left on the counter and taking a couple of the capsules out for himself. “Wasn’t gonna just shoo you off after you did so much to help me through that particular episode.” He tossed the gel capsules in his mouth and swallowed, glad he had mastered taking those without a drink. “What kind of tea do you like? Any preferences?”

  “As long as it isn’t plain green tea, we’re fine.” Tristan rested a hand on his hip as he leaned his shoulder against the wall. Myrick noticed he was keeping plenty of distance between them, still not wanting to crowd the smaller man, and he was grateful for that. He whistled low when Myrick opened his cabinet and rummaged around for a blend of tea that would suit them both. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone with a cabinet dedicated to tea before.” Myrick snorted.

  “You’ve never been to Isabella’s place, then. I picked up the habit from her!” They shared a laugh.

  “Though I guess that’s not totally true, now that I think about it,” Tristan mumbled almost to himself as Myrick scanned the different boxes of teas he had, debating between loose leaf and bagged before deciding that loose leaf was too much cleanup for him to worry about for the moment. “There’s this friend of mine, bless her heart, she’s always sick, so any time I stop by her house or check in on her, she always has a cabinet completely dedicated to soups, teas, and like cold medicines and shit.” Myrick nodded as he grabbed two coffee mugs out from his cabinet. “I always worry about that girl—she has such a frail immune system.” He shook his head, clearly not wanting to discuss his friend anymore, and Myrick didn’t press the subject, opting instead to fish out some tea bags and plopped them into mugs while they waited for the water to finish boiling.

  “You strike me as a worrier.” Myrick realized how hypocritical that sounded, and hastily added, “That’s coming from a serial worrier, just in case you couldn’t tell.”

  “I never would have guessed,” Tristan pursed his lips but still managed to let out a throaty chuckle. “But I guess I’m bad at hiding it too, so I can’t really say anything.” He sighed and moved toward the counter Myrick was standing at, leaning against it. “I stress about everyone in my life that I even kind of give a shit about.” He shrugged. “Guess it comes from being everyone’s bodyguard throughout school.”

  “People would turn to you for protection?” That wasn’t exactly a surprise, nor was it hard for him to picture. “I’m guessing you were big even back then.”

  “Yup!” Tristan popped the 'p' with an emphatic nod of his head. The kettle switched itself off, signaling that the water was ready, and Myrick took the time to pour them each a cup. “Even before any of us had presented as anything, I had sorta taken all my friends under my wing; anyone tried to mess with them, they had to go through me first.” He scrubbed the back of his neck, looking a little sheepish but not at all sorry. “I, ah, might have been a frequent flyer in the principal’s office for most of middle school and high school.”

  “I can imagine.” Myrick chuckled, but it felt rough in his throat. He handed one of the steaming mugs to Tristan, which he took with a soft, ‘thanks,’ before he began to blow on his own tea. “I’m just…gonna sit down, yeah? My legs still feel shaky.” Tristan nodded and followed him out to the living room, where Myrick sank gracelessly into the plush, overstuffed armchair with a deep sigh, feeling his weariness in his very bones. Tristan took a seat on the couch catty-corner to the armchair, leaning forward and holding his mug in both hands. “Thanks, sorry—you were talking about when you were younger.”

  Tristan nodded, looking more than a little happy that he had been listening. “I don’t think that anyone was even sort of surprised when I presented as an Alpha.” Tristan grinned, eyes crinkling in a smile, though it looked almost tinged with bitterness. “Only solidified people’s want to be my friend so I would protect them. Sorta made things a little overwhelming, but that’s life, yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Myrick croaked at the sudden warmth that flooded his chest at the sight of that disarming smile. “But…how was it overwhelming for you, specifically?” He couldn’t fathom an Alpha struggling against anything but his baser instincts, though did his damndest to try and squash that assumption—it was bull, and even he knew that.

  “Mostly it was other Alphas that felt like they had something to prove. It wasn’t a whole lot of them, but I wasn’t bothered too much by that; better it be me that takes the hits than someone smaller, that’s what I always thought. Nah, that wasn’t the bad part,” he took a drink of tea in the same way a man drinks hard liquor—in a deep pull with no mind for the burn on its way down. “I mean, it still hurt, and it still sucked, but that wasn’t shit compared to the people that would try to pretend to be my friend just so I’d protect them.” Myrick watched his eyes darken over, and in that moment they looked eerily like the ones he saw in the mirror every morning. “They didn’t care about me—all they were interested in was what I could offer them.” He took another glug of his tea, throat bobbing with the swallow. “Ahh, no sense in talking about it.” He shrugged a shoulder. “No sense in dredging up what I can’t change.”

  “But you still just…let people in?” Myrick asked, unable to keep the incredulity out of his tone. “And you don’t worry that someone’s just using you for what you can give them?”

  “Oh, I always worry about it,” Tristan shrugged, draining his tea and setting the mug down on the side table next to the couch. “But I don’t want to let that worry stop me from having a social circle, y’know?” Myrick didn’t know, but kept that to himself, taking a long drink from his tea to avoid answering. “I’d rather have been burned a hundred times and only made ten friends through it all than never been made to care.”

  “Isn’t not caring easier?” Myrick mumbled into his tea. Tristan didn’t seem deterred.

  “Is it?” Tristan gave a thoughtful hum. “I don’t think so. I mean, sure, it’d probably be easier to not let anyone in or try to make connections, but isn’t getting by without anyone else to lean on way harder than not?” Myrick didn’t have an answer, but Tristan’s gentle expression lingered in his mind even after he looked down into the last of his tea, as if staring at the bag in his cup was some twenty-first century divination method that would help him find the answer.

  What a peculiar thought, he realized with a chuckle.

  “What’s so funny?”

  Myrick flinched, worried that he had come across as laughing at Tristan’s comments.

  “I was just thinking about cheap tea leaves, questions I don’t want to answer, and feelings I don’t want to feel. About how sometimes we try to find any solution but the obvious one and just make more problems for ourselves later.” Startled by his own revelation, brought about by Tristan’s more relaxed perspective, he fell into silence, draining the last of his tea.

  “True, though I think it just comes from fear.” Tristan shrugged.

  “You always seem so calm,” Myrick marveled at how outside of work Tristan was as solid as he was when they were back in their offices. Myrick was good at leading while he was working—he wouldn’t have gotten to the position he had if he wasn’t, after all—but when he was left to stew over something, or worse, he was forced into confrontation outside of the business he conducted during work hours, his nerves would fray and tear quickly.

  “I just don’t try to do more than I can or think about more than what I can control.” Tristan shrugged again, scratching at the back of his neck. “I know what I am and what I’m not, and even though it took me a while to figure out how, I’ve drawn lines where those things end.” Admiration for Tristan swelled in his chest, and he felt strangely warm, like he had neglected to turn the thermostat down before he left the house. Had he? He needed to check on that.

  The Tylenol he’d taken had begun to kick in, and though his legs felt more sure than they had before, he was starting to feel the niggling demand of sleep from his muscles, and he couldn’t stop the yawn that snuck up on him from escaping.

  “I should probably let you get some sleep. You’ve been put through the wringer, so to speak.” Tristan chuckled, putting his hands on his knees and rising from the couch. He plucked his empty mug from the side table, taking the used tea bag out of it to toss it in the trash with a wet plop before setting the mug in the sink. “Since your car is at work, I can come pick you up in the morning. That way you can drive home tomorrow and be good to go.”

  “Ah, I don’t want to put you out.” Myrick said, his tone timid. “I can just call a cab—”

  “No sense in wasting the money,” Tristan insisted with a dismissive wave of his hand. “What time do you usually come in? Eight?” Knowing he was beat, Myrick nodded. “Perfect—I’ll pick you up around seven thirty?” Tristan stepped back into his shoes, hand already on the door. “Is that
a good time?”

  “Yeah, that’s usually when I leave anyway.”

  “Perfect!” He smiled brightly. “Get some rest, you hear, boss? I’ll see you in the morning—I’ll bring coffee!” With a wave goodbye, he pulled the door open and stepped back out onto the threshold. “Have a good night!”

  “Good night, Tristan,” Myrick gave a meek wave of his own, hesitating long enough to make sure Tristan made it to his car before closing the door and locking up for the night. The loudness of isolation began to fall around him —when did he start noticing it? He wasn’t sure, but now that he knew what loneliness sounded like, that it had a presence, he wanted to get rid of it, or at the very least, shut it out.

  That he knew the difference between comfortable quiet and empty solitude was progress.

  Slow progress, but progress, he supposed.

  Sliding his hands off the door and trudging to his bedroom, he felt as though his limbs were leaden and stiff. He rallied himself into functioning long enough to change into pajamas, but though he forced himself to pick up the pieces of his suit off of the floor after he’d peeled them off, he couldn’t be bothered to even think about hanging them up, opting to toss them on his computer chair. His whole body ached—it always ached after he got nauseated, and by the time he made it to his bed and tumbled onto it, he scarcely felt human for how much he hurt all over. Sleep came for him quickly, too quickly for him to even bother with crawling under the blankets. Just as well; he felt warm, almost feverish.

  His groggy mind wondered if he was getting sick.

  5

  Heating Up

  Seven o’clock the following morning found Myrick tumbling out of bed with about as much grace as he had used to get into it the night prior, though he was glad to only feel weighed down with physical tiredness, not emotional now. His morning routine was much the same as it always was: a quick shower with scalding hot water, fumbling himself into one of the suits that he had pressed earlier in the week, and did his best to smooth his hair into a professional side sweep at least somewhat sleeker than its natural wavy mop. Dressing himself was enough to get him moving around, and moving around was enough to begin to rouse his mind from the last bit of sleep that clung to him and made his thoughts sluggish and fuzzy. Once he was at least somewhat presentable, he stepped into his kitchen and snatched a banana from the bowl of fruit he had on his counter—he was still tired and just wanted something soft but filling to munch on for his breakfast, and a banana suited his needs just fine.

  He had just polished off the banana and disposed of the peel when his phone rang, and for a moment, he was surprised when Tristan’s number came up on the caller ID and wondered what he was calling him for, but then the previous night came back to him with more clarity and he remembered Tristan was picking him up for work. He answered the call and began to gather the essentials for what he needed for the day.

  “Tristan?” he said, as he scooped his car keys off of the coffee table and pocketed them.

  “Rise and shine, boss man!” Myrick winced at the enthusiasm in his vice president’s tone, and briefly wondered if he ever ran out of optimism and enthusiasm. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  “No, no, not at all.” Sparing a glance around his living room he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was forgetting something when he spotted the replacement bottle of Tylenol he’d meant to bring yesterday and snatched it off the counter to stuff it in his pocket. “I’m all dressed and ready to go. I’m guessing you’re on your way?”

  “Pulling up right now, actually.” Tristan laughed. “Hope you like iced mocha!”

  Myrick laughed and ended the call, stepping outside and locking his house behind him. Sure, he was awake, and he’d managed to successfully dress and feed himself before stumbling out of his house, but that didn’t mean that he was, by any stretch of the imagination, a morning person like Tristan clearly was.

  Sure enough, there was Tristan’s sleek black car, engine idling and Tristan inside, no doubt ready to face the day bright eyed and bushy tailed. Myrick sighed happily as he opened the passenger door and the scent of coffee filled his nostrils. He stepped in, smiling in greeting as best as he could when he hadn’t fully awoken yet. Tristan was positively beaming as he handed him a large iced cup of coffee with swirls of chocolate drizzled into it. It was probably more calories than most of the things that he’d eaten in the last week, but as he sipped at the sweet, potent drink, he moaned in happiness at its rich taste and decided that he didn’t exactly give a shit about calories at the moment.

  “I’d thought to ask you what kind of coffee you wanted,” Tristan gave him an apologetic look. “I just wish I’d thought of it before I pulled up to the drive thru window to order it.” Myrick nearly snorted up some of the coffee he was sipping through the straw, and coughed out a laugh that he wasn’t prepared to have.

  “Ah, it’s too early in the morning to be laughing like this,” Myrick gasped when his coughing stopped. “I haven’t had enough caffeine yet!”

  “Good thing you have the very thing that can change that in your hands,” Tristan grinned, his eyes back on the road.

  Myrick gave a hum in response around the straw, intent on draining the coffee before they got to the office so he didn’t look quite so much like a caffeine addict when he made himself a pot of coffee on top of this. Granted, it was likely just a secret shame of most of the office—hell, most of the business world—but he was certainly not going to be the first one to out himself as someone with a problem.

  They chatted amicably for the relatively short ride to the office, and once he’d drained the coffee Tristan got for him, he at least felt like he could operate with all of his brain’s functionality for the day—or at least, until his next cup of coffee, if he was being honest with himself. What was worrying him was that he still felt faintly fevered, like he was too hot all over. While not unbearable, he was certainly uncomfortable, and made a note in his phone to call and schedule an appointment with his doctor to see if he was contagious.

  As had been the custom for the past few days that they had been working together, they stepped into the elevator together and rode it to the top of the building. They parted ways once they had reached their destination, Tristan heading to his office on one end of the hall with the promise to let him know when he heard back about the on call employees that were pending a response on their offer, and Myrick sequestering himself in his to prepare for the meetings that he was going to have later on in the day.

  He hadn’t even gotten to take a seat in his desk chair before his desk phone was already ringing off of its dock, and three of the lines were blinking angrily at him, all demanding his attention. With a groan, he answered line one, and forced his best bright eyed businessman voice as he began to speak to clients that had appointments with him.

  At least he remembered his Tylenol this time, he thought bitterly as he popped two of the capsules.

  It was another half hour by the time he was able to tear himself away from the phone long enough to make himself a pot of coffee, and he could tell that his composure had certainly suffered for it by the end of the last phone call he had been stuck on. He should have probably not cut off the client when they asked about the rates of his employees (for the fourth time in a phone conversation that had already taken ten minutes longer than it had needed to) but in his defense, they could have not been so stupid. He winced at that thought—his mood had suffered even more than he had thought.

  Noting how sour he had grown in the first hour of his work day, he opted to grab the canister of his high quality coffee beans that he saved for special occasions—or to help him work through particularly rough days—and measured them out in his coffee maker, situated at the side counter across the room from his desk and there, ostensibly, for guests and clientele to use. And they did—just not as much as he did. He snapped the lid off of the canister and breathed in the aromatic blend: a delicious creme brulee roast with a sweetly rich and bright scent that filled his nostrils, bought at a lovely little coffee shop while on a business trip out of state.