The Miami heat takes some getting used to. Two months since relocating here from Washington State and I’m nowhere near used to dealing with it on a daily basis. I have a hunch I’ll still be complaining about the warmth and humidity for a long, long time.
My apartment is sweltering, even at this early hour, having forgotten yet again to set the thermostat so the air-conditioning would come on automatically. Another thing I’m not used to. Air-conditioning sucks the life out of a room and gives it a sterile feeling. I never needed it where I used to live, so I’ve never developed an affinity for it. I’d much rather open all the doors and windows and let the outside air in.
After doing just that, I get a pot of coffee going and wander out onto the balcony while I wait for it to brew. This view sure as hell makes up for the fact that I constantly feel like I need to shower. Damn, if someone had told me a year ago that I’d be living in an apartment in Miami with an ocean view, I’d have told them to have their head examined. Strangely enough, here I am doing just that.
Jack’s been trying to get me to move here since he set down roots years ago. Every week I’d get the call from him, the pros and cons about relocating across the U.S. and leaving everyone and everything I know. No surprise that Jack’s pro column was always much longer the con. Looking at this view, I can completely understand why.
I will admit I like living in the same town as my brother. We’ve always been very close, though it’s safe to say that our parents’ vile reaction to his coming out of the closet in his teens did put a strain on our relationship. I’d never support the nastiness they spewed his direction, but they are still my parents. I spent a lot of time carefully working hard to maintain my relationship with my brother and also keep a cordial one with them. In the end, exhaustion wore me down as did their hatred and bigotry, which I will never understand. Jack has always been exactly who he is: honest, straightforward, and unapologetically gay. I’ll never swing that way, but I will also never condemn him for wanting … for needing to be his true self.
Once I’ve got an oversized mug of black coffee cupped between my hands, I settle in the cheap plastic chair on the balcony and take stock of my day. I should probably do some laundry, especially since I can’t recall the last time I actually did any. I’m pretty sure I have no clean towels. Or boxers. I should also run the vacuum since that hasn’t happened since the day I moved in.
Get it together. You’re not a fucking teenager.
Dragging my fingers through my hair, I sip at the hot brew and contemplate the week ahead. I’ve got a meeting with the principal midweek, a lunch appointment with the other English teachers on Friday, and a never-ending list of things I need to do and purchase before school starts next month. Teaching is the most heartwarming and alternately heartbreaking job in the world. There’s never enough time to spend with your students, never enough money for classroom supplies and field trips, and never ever enough support from parents for the thankless job we do every day.
I knew I was destined to teach as far back as I can remember, back when Jack and I used to play together in our room. We’d dream of our unknown futures with wide, curious, innocent eyes as we played make-believe. I would always wear a pair of my dad’s welding goggles, pretending like they were actual glasses, and I’d stand in front of Jack, playing the part of the teacher. He’d somewhat pay attention to me as I walked back and forth, book spread out over my palm, waving the other hand around as if I was giving a lecture. I could barely read, but I made up wild stories, created characters in my mind, and sometimes I actually had his attention.
We played our school game until we were too old for make-believe and turned our attention to sports. Jack loved track but swimming was my thing. I remember our parents running from one event to the other, splitting their time so we both had their support. Too bad they can’t seem to remember they used to be devoted to two children and not just one.
For whatever reason, Jack has found a sense of peace about our parents’ neglect. I, however, can’t seem to let it go. When I’m with them, they never mention their other son—the literal other half of me. Even when I try to gently sneak his name into the conversation, they act as if he doesn’t exist, like he died the day he opened his mouth, at the tender age of fifteen, and declared, “I’m gay.” For years I made excuses for them and tried to reason with my brother to give them one more chance. As the years went on and the tension with my parents started to affect the relationship with my twin, I knew I was going to be forced to choose.
I did some networking, applied for and got the job I will start next month. Then I packed up my apartment and told my parents goodbye. They didn’t have to ask where I was going. They knew. They also knew it was their fault; they drove away not one son but two. I love my parents, but I will always hate the close-minded, homophobic, hate-filled people they have chosen to be.
How ironic that the Moran’s have welcomed Jack—and now me—with open arms treating us like their own. There was not one hint of judgement with anyone at the party yesterday, which I find shocking. I shouldn’t, but I do. Jack’s told me time and time again that life is different here. The people are different here. I’ll never completely believe there aren’t homophobic people in Florida, but he’s clearly found his happy place.
Speaking of happy places … I’d like to find my happy place right between Isabella Moran’s thighs. Damn, what a beauty. Ice fucking cold but drop-dead hot nonetheless. There’s a lot going on behind those guarded blue-green eyes, though she made it quite clear I’ll never be granted a chance to find out. Too bad. That spunky attitude of hers is a total turn-on.
I’m curious about her. I shouldn’t be. I don’t have time for dating or a relationship right now. Maybe not for a long time. I haven’t settled into a new school in a long, long time, so like the students I’ve got a lot to learn. Getting my feet wet will take time, and complicating that with a woman in my life is a recipe for disaster. Though it is safe to say that the impression I got from Miss Moran is that she’s not the least bit interested in me.
Well that’s a half-truth. I saw her looking at me, checking me out like women do. And even though I had my good-boy persona (hair pulled back and glasses shielding my face) on yesterday out of respect for the elder Morans, I have no doubt she saw right through the disguise. What did she see exactly? Was her first impression that I, like my brother, play for the other team? Somehow I doubt it, but it is something to consider. I’m not insulted if people make that assumption. Jack and I are very confident in who we are.
She spent a lot of time pretending like I didn’t exist, which I find amusing. A lot of time avoiding my questions too. Some women do that to maintain their mystery, but in Isabella’s case I sense there’s more to it than that. She was noticeably intent on remaining standoffish toward me and it leaves me wondering why.
Let it go.
Yeah, I answer my inner voice. I do need to let it go. Chances are I may only run into her once in a great while: the rare dinner with her family or another birthday celebration for Emmy. Wasting time dwelling on the dark-haired beauty is a lesson in frustration. My concentration needs to be on my new job and settling into Miami. Learning my way around and seeing a few sights is paramount before school starts. And if I’m lucky, I might be able to squeeze in a night out at a club. I sure as hell don’t need a date or a relationship, but I’m more than overdue for a warm body in my bed. Sadly, I can’t even remember the last time I got laid. Such an embarrassment for a thirty-year-old single guy.
Snickering at myself, I step back inside the apartment and go in search of something to make for breakfast. I’m just shoving bread into the toaster and cracking eggs when the outside intercom buzzes.
“Yeah?”
“It’s me.”
A few minutes later, Jack is strolling in my door. “Tell me you have coffee.”
I gesture with my head toward the pot. “Cups are in the cupboard above. Want some food?”
He glances at my simple breakfast and wrinkles his nose. “Do you have whole wheat?”
Chuckling, I shake my head. “No, you pansy-ass. Get over yourself. One slice of white bread won’t kill you.” This must be his new crusade of the week: eating healthy.
Jack rolls his eyes. “White flour will be the death of you.”
“Dude, let it go.”
I finish making our breakfast, cutting open an orange and dividing it between us to pacify him, and fill our plates. We settle on the couch and while I fire up the big screen, he shovels food into his mouth like he hasn’t eaten in days. After a quick scroll through the guide, I settle on some action movie I’ve seen a few dozen times.
“What are you doing here so early?” I ask, breaking the forbidden white bread toast in half.
“On my way home from a sleepover. Thought I’d see what you are up to today.”
I suppose I should be thankful Jack never feels the need to censor himself around me, though at times I do wish he’d refrain from all the details. I’ve lost count of the numerous times he’s tried to tell me about deep-throating another dude. There are just some things I really do not need to know. Or hear.
Swallowing down a bite, I reply, “Not much. Chores maybe. Haven’t really decided.”
With another wrinkle of his nose, he sets his mostly-eaten meal aside and shoots me a devious smile. “Guess who I ran into in the elevator on my way up?”
“Your next sleepover partner,” I say dryly.
He rolls his eyes and grins. “I wish.” Turning to face me, he pulls one knee up on the couch and rubs his palms together. “Isabella. As in the blue-eyed hotty you were eye fucking yesterday.”
I finish chewing then set my plate down on top of his. “Oh yeah?” Denying that I was indeed eye fucking her will just make me look like a tool. Besides, Jack knows me too well to try and hide from the truth.
“She lives in this building.” His eyes remain glued to mine, like he’s trying to use The Force to see what the hell is going on in my head.
“Huh. Well, that’s cool.” It’s really not. I sure as hell don’t need to be running into Miss Ice Cold on a daily basis. Granted, I’ve been here for about six weeks now and haven’t I seen her one. Chances are I’m overreacting.
Jack lifts one dark brow. “You are so full of shit, little brother.”
The big-little argument is one we’ve worn into the ground over the years. Technically, Jack is the older brother … by a minute. But there is no way in hell that I’m the little brother. I’m at least an inch taller, which in my book qualifies me as the big brother.
Regardless, the current discussion is not that one but rather the fact that Isabella and I live in the same building, which is bound to cause curiosity among her family and irritation for her. Fanfuckingtastic. Just what I need.
“Do you know her well?”
Jack shrugs and takes a quick sip of coffee. “Not really. We’ve talked a bit at a few family functions. She’s nice, sweet as can be. Very reserved though.”
“Cold?”
“No. Not at all. I’d say cautious.” He shoots me an amused look. “Why do you ask?”
Gathering up our plates, I move into the kitchen to put some distance between me and my annoying brother. “Just wondering.”
“Me thinks you protest too much,” he drawls.
Rolling my eyes, I reply, “If you’re going to attempt to quote Shakespeare, at least get it straight.”
“What the fuck ever, teacher man. Like I give two shits about Shakespeare. Or reading for that matter.”
“You should.” Resuming my seat, I prop my bare feet up on the table and dart him a sideways glance. “Did you tell her I live here?”
He looks at me like I’m a nitwit and replies, “Yes, Jace. Yes, I did.” Fuck … twice over. “She’s on the seventh floor. You know, in case you’re feeling neighborly and feel the need to show her how much. With your cock.”
“Come on, man …”
Jack laughs loudly and gets to his feet. “Sorry. Just couldn’t resist. You look like you’re constipated.”
Yeah, I think to myself. Being slighted by the ice queen will do that. “It’s all good, man.”
“Well, this has been fun, but I think I’ll head home and take a nap. Or jerk off. It’s a toss-up.”
Laughing at my brother’s always outrageous behavior, I walk him to the door. “Didn’t you just get laid last night?”
He shoots me yet another look that makes me feel like an idiot. “Little brother, a man cannot come too much. You not knowing that scares me. A lot.”
“Goodbye Jack.”
Reaching for me, he embraces me tightly before dropping a kiss on my cheek. “See ya, little bro.”
I’m still shaking my head at him as I lock up and stroll down the hall toward my bedroom. Crazy as he is, he does have a point. And since I’m all too aware of the fact that I don’t come nearly enough, the idea he planted now blooms fully in my head—the lower one blooms impressively as well. I blame the ice queen.
Flopping down on the bed, I slide my shorts off and dig around in the nightstand drawer for some lube. Getting off will sure as fuck help relax me, which will in turn help me focus on all the shit I have to do. Getting off to thoughts of Isabella? Not exactly something to be proud of, but I’m too damn lazy to fire up the computer and go in search of porn. Hell, who needs porn when all I have to do is think of the seductive blue-green eyes, those long, trim legs in tiny white shorts, and the perky tits that had me fixated.
Squirting lube into my palm, I take myself in hand and start to stroke. Fuck. I am overdo for this. Since when did getting off fall to the wayside to be replaced with things like laundry and to-do lists? Christ, I’m becoming that guy. The pathetic single guy so focused on his job he forgets to focus on himself.
Getting off to thoughts of Isabella Moran isn’t exactly focusing on myself, but it’s a start. By the way my body responds to those thoughts, I’m slightly relieved she said no to my coffee offer. As attracted to her as I am, I doubt I’d be able to keep my hands to myself.
Arching my back, I increase the pace, stroking faster, harder. Damn, that feels good. It would only feel better if it was a woman’s hand—her hand—and if the promise of more was lying right here next to me.
A few more tugs and I’m coming all over my hand, my stomach. The relief is instant and brief. I lie there panting, irritated at myself for stooping to this level of depravity. Then I start to laugh. My life is such a clusterfuck. I’ve still got boxes to unpack, a million things to do before I start my new job, and currently my parents are refusing to speak to me. So how do I handle all that stress? I rub one out, like a fucking teenager, to thoughts of a woman I’ve just met.
Pathetic. Damn pathetic.