If there’s one thing that can make a shitty day better, it’s biting into a still-warm chocolate chip cookie.

Add in the fact that they were hand-delivered by one of Hollywood’s most beloved icons, and I’m practically over the moon. Living across the hall from Judy K has turned out to be even better than I ever imagined. In the past few days, she’s dropped off numerous desserts, dispensed invaluable acting advice, taken away some of the sting and loneliness that comes from living alone, and pretty much just become my favorite person ever.

I take another bite of the cookie, savoring the melty chocolate on my tongue, making a mental note to thank Judy for this almost-orgasmic experience disguised as a cookie and figure out a way to convince her I’m going to need a steady supply of these things for the foreseeable future.

Life is so much greater when cookies are involved.

Cookies make you forget things, like your homophobic boss who called an emergency meeting this morning to try to do some damage control from his little outburst the other night. As I predicted, word got out. A few news stations have called, trying to get a statement, but we’ve all been instructed not to open our mouths. So far, no videos have surfaced from that night, which is practically unheard of in the age of smartphones. Everyone is carrying around a camera in their pocket and is usually quick to record anything that might give them their fifteen minutes of fame in the form of YouTube’s next viral video. Rick sees the lack of evidence as a good thing—that the patrons in the club that night were just as disgusted as he was by the men and therefore don’t want to tarnish the reputation of a good man. However, someone had to have caught it on camera. And, if you ask me, they’re just biding their time. Waiting for the perfect moment to destroy the career of a bigot.

And I can’t wait to see it happen.

Working for Rick has gotten harder and harder since his freak-out. It’s hard to stay silent and pretend not to be bothered after something like that. Especially since the one thing he hated about those men is the same thing that defines so much of my character. The character that Rick seems to enjoy being around.

After the meeting this morning, he tried to talk me into grabbing a burger and a few beers with him for lunch. I lied and told him I had to work at the bistro this afternoon. He seemed crestfallen, but as my boss, he couldn’t really encourage me to try to get out of it. What kind of employee would that make me, blowing off work to hang out with a friend? Definitely not one he’d hire, right? Or at least that’s what I told him when he tried to argue the fact that I never wanted to hang out with him.

I came home and crashed for a couple of more hours before the sound of Judy’s knocking woke me. Being roused out of a sound sleep, the vision of a certain missionary’s full lips wrapped around my cock violently torn from me, didn’t exactly make me happy. I was ready to throttle whoever was on the other side of that door. And, if it had been anybody else, I might’ve followed through. Lucky for Judy, I like her. And my mother would murder me if she found out I even gave an old lady a dirty look, let alone took a swing at her.

The thought of my mother makes me realize how long it’s been since I’ve talked to her. The last time I remember calling her was the night Alec booted me. I was so frustrated, I needed to talk to my mom to cool down. She is always good at that. And, fine, maybe I also needed money for a security deposit. But remember what I said about LA being expensive as fuck? Even this shithole I’m currently residing in comes at a pretty penny. Not as pretty as the one Alec and I shared, but there were two of us to cover then. And, even though the place wasn’t really anything special, it was a damn sight better than this dump.

I pull my phone out of my pocket, finding my favorites list and scrolling for my mother’s number. It doesn’t take me long to find it. My mom has always been my number one favorite person.

Though Judy K might be giving her a run for her money. Especially if she keeps bringing me cookies.

As the phone connects, the first ring sounding in my ear, I think about how odd it is that my mother has let it go this long between calls. Normally, if more than a day or two goes by without her hearing from me, she’s on the phone, reminding me all about how she was in labor for twenty-two hours and that she’d be damned if she went through all that just for her son to forget about her.

A small pang of worry develops in my stomach as the phone continues to ring, my thoughts turning to the worst-case scenario, as usual. This has always been a problem for me. Whenever the smallest seed of apprehension plants itself inside me, it’s like I pour ten thousand gallons of Miracle-Gro on top, and within seconds, that small seed blossoms into an entire forest of anxiety.

What if she’s been in an accident? Oh, God, what if she was out jogging at night, like she likes to do, and got hit by a car? What if she’s just lying in a ditch somewhere, out of sight to any passersby, raccoons ravaging her remains, as her good-for-nothing son doesn’t even think to check up on her?

Not that calling her would do her any good if she were lying dead in a ditch. But, still, I could call the police to report her disappearance.

I’m just about to hang up and do exactly that when the line clicks over. I wait for a moment, unsure if someone has picked up or if it’s her voice mail.

A deep chuckle comes across the line, and either my mom has the worst cold in the history of colds, or this is a dude.

Oh my God, has she been kidnapped? Is this guy holding her for ransom?

“Miranda’s phone. Miranda’s sex slave speaking.”

What.

The.

Actual.

Fuck?

A soft feminine giggle, one I easily recognize as my mother’s, sounds in the background.

“Who is it, Jason? Give me my phone!”

There’s a rustling, as if my mom and whomever this Jason person is are wrestling over the phone. A few more innuendos are tossed out as I listen to them, causing my previously anxious stomach to turn to nausea.

Gross, Mom.

After what feels like forever—and if I ever hear my mom say the words give it to me again, I might vomit all over her shoes—it sounds as if she’s finally wrenched the phone free from his grasp.

“Oh my God! You did not answer the phone as ‘Miranda’s sex slave’ when it was my son calling!” she shrieks.

The masculine chuckle sounds again. This Jason guy sure thinks he’s funny, doesn’t he?

“How was I supposed to know that Q-Ball was your son?”

I smile when I hear that, remembering the day I changed my name in her phone. Evidently, even three years later, she still hasn’t figured out how to fix it. Old people and technology shouldn’t mix.

“What am I supposed to say to him?” she whisper-shouts.

Am I crazy, or is she slurring her Ss? I look at my watch. Accounting for the time difference, it’s about seven o’clock there. Is my mother drunk at seven p.m.? On a Wednesday?

The two of them go back and forth for a moment, trying to decide what my mom should say to explain the last five minutes to me. She’s trying to argue the benefit of just hanging up and pretending like I must’ve had the wrong number when Jason’s brain apparently kicks in.

“Randy, he’s been on the line this whole time. He’s heard everything. You really think you’re going to be able to convince him he didn’t?”

Randy? The fuck? This dude has a pet name for her?

She sighs. “You’re right. Might as well face the music.” She chirps into the phone, “Hi, baby!”

“Hi, Randy,” I answer dryly.

“Oh, uh…you heard that, huh? That was Jason. He and I work together, and he stopped by for a few drinks after work.”

A few drinks? From the sounds of it, a few drinks turned into a few bottles.

“I won’t keep you then. Just wanted to call and check in. Call me later.”

She clucks her tongue at me. Now, that’s a sound I’m familiar with.

“Don’t be silly. I’m never too busy for you. Give me just a second,” she says, more rustling coming over the line.

I can almost picture her climbing to her feet off the couch. At least, I hope that’s what she’s doing. I’ve now heard things no child should ever have to hear from one of their parents. I’m scarred for life.

“Would you excuse me for a moment, Jason? Finish off that bottle while you wait. I’ll bring another one when I’m done.”

I knew it! A few drinks, my ass. My mom is drunk as a skunk.

A door closes in the background, and I know she’s stepped into her bedroom. I listen as she settles herself on her bed. The same bed I ran to in the middle of the night during thunderstorms. The same bed she’d cuddle me in whenever I was sick. The same bed Jason has probably—nope. Not going there.

“Okay. What’s up, kiddo?” she asks once she’s comfortable.

“Who is Jason?”

She sighs. “I told you, he’s a friend from work.”

“That didn’t sound like a friend from work. I’m pretty sure I’ve never called and heard you acting like that with Nancy,” I say, naming the woman she’s worked with for over twenty years and one of her closest friends. I don’t remember a time in my life where Nancy wasn’t present—at least, in the background. After my dad left when I was six, Nancy was my mom’s rock. She has always been there for her.

Sounds to me like she has a new rock now. A rock who, from the noises I heard a few minutes ago, wants to bury himself inside her sandbox.

Ew. That wasn’t even a good one. Apparently, hearing your mother and her boyfriend two seconds away from getting it on destroys your ability to think of creative double entendres.

My mother lets out another deep sigh. “He’s just a friend. For now. I like him though, Quinn. And I think, if you met him, you’d like him, too. He’s good for me. He makes me laugh. Makes me feel special.”

As far as I’m concerned, there is no man on earth good enough for my mother. She’s an angel dipped in fairy dust, topped with a smidge of royalty. You know that saying, They broke the mold when they made her? Whoever coined that term must’ve known my mother. Because I’m pretty sure the mold didn’t just break when she was made. Whoever made her knew the world couldn’t handle two people as amazing as her at once. So, that mold wasn’t just broken. It was torched, shattered, stomped on, and buried in the center of the earth. She’s truly one of a kind.

So, no, no man will ever be good enough for her. I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve always been a bit…overprotective when it comes to her. But I was old enough at the time to remember my dad leaving. I remember how much she cried. How long it took for her to be herself again. And, even then, there has always been a piece of her I can tell she keeps guarded from the rest of the world. Everyone, except for me. I’ve always been the only man in her life. And I know it sounds like I’m being a petulant four-year-old—hell, maybe I am—but the thought of that being taken away from me scares me.

“Q,” she says softly, her voice laced with love and concern.

Did I mention that, on top of the whole angel-fairy princess, my mom is also psychic? Even from two thousand miles away, she’s able to discern my thoughts without me having to speak a word. She takes that whole mother’s-instinct thing to a whole new level.

“Baby, you know how much I love you. You’ll always be the most important person in my life. Always. But you’re off, living your life in California. Don’t you think I deserve a little fun? A little happiness?”

God, I’m a selfish prick.

“Nobody deserves it more than you, Mom. Sorry I overreacted. I was just caught off guard. A little warning would be nice next time, eh?” I say with a chuckle.

She blows out an exasperated breath. “Well, hell, I can’t say I blame you. That wasn’t exactly an ideal way to break the news to you that I’m considering seeing someone, was it?”

“Not exactly.”

We spend the next few minutes catching up. She assures me that she’s fine. The only reason she didn’t call me sooner is because she wanted to give me time and space to adjust to my new place. Plus, Jason has been keeping her rather busy in the evenings, wining and dining her across Atlanta. She’s right; he does sound like a decent guy. Still not good enough for my mama but decent nonetheless.

We promise not to let as much time go by between calls. I hang up the phone with a smile on my face. Until I look at the clock and realize there’s still two hours before I need to get ready for work. Ascent doesn’t pick up until the after-dinner rush, especially not on a weeknight. So, it’s rare that I’m scheduled to go in before eight. I’m torn between elation that I have a couple of hours before I have to face Rick again and complete and utter boredom because I have nothing to do until I go to work.

I pick my phone up again. Angry Birds, it is.

I hate this fucking game. It pisses me off beyond words, those stupid-ass pigs looking at me with their stupid-ass faces when I fail yet again to knock their stupid asses over. I yell and scream and throw my phone across the room eleven billion times. Yet, for some reason, I can’t seem to stop playing the damn thing. You don’t even want to know how many hours I’ve wasted in the bathroom, not able to get up until I’ve finally defeated the level I’m on. Let’s just say, sometimes, it takes a while. A long while.

I’m right in the middle of a phone-throwing tantrum when there’s a knock at the door. I tap the black bird I’ve just launched, watching as it explodes into several smaller birds before hitting the structure and those fucking pigs. Three of the four collapse instantly, the fourth teetering for a second before settling right back where it was.

Fuck a duck.

I toss my phone on the bed next to me, climbing to my feet to go answer the door. Whoever this is, they’d better have cookies. If not, I might just be inspired to form my own Angry Birds game right outside my living room window.

“If you’re not a Hollywood legend or a Girl Scout, you might want to rethink your decision of knocking on my door!” I shout, finding myself way too amusing for my own good. I swing the door wide with a smile, the grin dropping and my brows furrowing when I see who’s standing there.

Elder Fisher.

And Barkey Boy.

Just as quickly as it vanished, the smile reappears on my face. Barker is in his usual attire—black slacks, white button-down, thin black tie. His little nameplate is fastened to his shirt pocket, and he has his black messenger bag slung across his chest—a chest he’s yet to fully grow into but promises to be something to see in a few years. He looks so innocent. So young. So positively tempting.

“Good evening, fellas. What can I do for you?” I say, leaning a hip against the doorjamb as I fold my arms across my chest.

To my dismay, Fisher speaks, once again pushing Barker into the background. This dude has some serious control issues.

“Elder Barker and I wanted to come up and see if there might be a time we could schedule a meeting with you. We know you’re terribly busy. But considering some…recent events,” he says, covering the words with a cough, “we feel you’d really benefit from hearing what we have to say. We think, if you’d just keep an open mind and hear us out, you might really discover a whole new world for yourself. A world full of the Lord’s blessings.”

I lift the corner of my mouth in an amused smile. Does this guy practice this shit in the mirror every day? He says it with such a straight face that I can’t help but wonder. And I can totally see him down there, giving himself a pep talk every morning, grinning at his reflection, as he rehearses his speech. I’m sure he even gives himself praise. You’re so great, Elder Fisher. You’re so handsome. Nobody can resist your words.

Well, I’ve got news for you, buddy. None of those statements are true.

Sure, he might be a decent-looking dude. But, the second he opens that gaping mouth, any semblance of attractiveness flies right out the window. Along with the attention span of anyone who’s unfortunate enough to be within hearing distance.

He disapprovingly stares at me as I take him in, my eyes flicking between him and Elder Barker. Fisher’s lips are curled back off his teeth, as if even being in the same vicinity as me is making him sick. That’s all the clue I need to know what he meant by recent events.

As I kissed Ross last night, seeing Barker’s eyes on me is permanently ingrained in my mind. There was no mistaking the look I saw on his face, his lids hooded, his bottom lip pulled in between his teeth. It was pure hunger. Curiosity. He wanted his to be the body I tasted. And I would’ve been more than happy to comply.

He disappeared far too quickly though. And, afterward, I was no longer in the mood. I couldn’t stop thinking about Barker and the way he’d watched me, and that wasn’t fair to Ross.

Ross is a good guy. He and I run in the same crowd, so I always see him out whenever I am partying with my friends. One night, we got to talking and realized how much we had in common. We tried going out on a few dates, but there was one problem. Despite how alike we were and how easy it was to talk to him, there just wasn’t any spark. We both decided it would be better to remain friends…with benefits. There’s so much nasty shit being passed around in the streets of Los Angeles. Ross and I are both clean—though we still take precautions each time. It’s just nice, having someone who can come over, chat a bit, maybe have a couple beers, and then be able to let off some steam. I don’t care who you are; sex is the best stress-reliever there is. Anyone who says otherwise is a fucking liar. Or a virgin. So far, it’s worked out great. We both know it won’t develop into anything more. And, if one of us is lucky enough to find the person who ignites that spark we’re both searching for, we’ll walk away, no questions asked. It might not be ideal, but it works for us.

Even still, it wouldn’t be cool to fuck my friend while thinking of the guy who lives beneath me. I apologized to Ross, telling him the complete truth. I told him all about the Mormon missionary who’d moved in downstairs last week. And how, even though we’d only had a few brief interactions, I couldn’t seem to get him off my mind.

“I don’t even know his first name, dude. Why in the hell is this guy all I can think about when I know absolutely nothing about him?”

Ross just shrugged. “I don’t know, man. Sometimes, you just know things are different. It doesn’t have to make sense. But you owe it to yourself to explore it.”

Blinking back to the present and the two men standing before me, I realize how hard it’s going to be to explore anything with Barker when he always has a babysitter around. A babysitter who, if the look he’s currently giving me is any indication, would not look too kindly on his companion having any alone time with me.

“Sure, boys,” I say, stepping away from the door and gesturing to the room behind me. “I’ve got a few minutes now. Why don’t you come on in? Make yourselves comfortable.”

When Fisher steps into the room and realizes the only place to sit is on the bed, he seems to rethink his decision.

I plop down onto it and pat the space beside me. “Come on. I won’t bite.”

Fisher’s eyebrow arches, as if he thinks that’s exactly what I’ll do. And, fine, maybe he’s right. But only if that’s what Barker is into.

Fisher glances around the room, his eyes landing on the tiny table and two stools I found at a secondhand store that now make up my kitchen table. He stalks over, grabbing both stools before planting them in front of the bed. He and Barker take their seats, sliding the black messenger bags they both wear over their heads.

“Can I get you guys something to drink? I’ve got a six-pack of Bud in the fridge.”

If possible, Fisher’s sneer curls up even more. “We don’t drink. We also don’t have a lot of time. How about, for today, we just start with a prayer, and then we’ll leave you with The Book of Mormon and some pamphlets? We can schedule a time in the next couple of days to come back and answer any questions you might have.”

I nod. “Sounds like a plan.”

Elder Fisher unzips his bag, fishing around inside for a moment before his shoulders droop. “I don’t have any more Book of Mormons. Elder Barker, how about you?”

Barker unzips his bag and looks inside for a second. “Nope. I’m all out.”

Fisher looks between the two of us before his eyes move to the door. “If you’ll excuse us for a moment, Quinn, we just need to run downstairs and grab a few. I’m glad we caught it before we went out again. At least we can get them easily.”

My eyes land on Barker. If I can get Fisher to go downstairs alone, it would be the perfect opportunity to talk to him about last night.

And, as if the same thought occurs to him, Barker turns to Fisher and says, “Why don’t I get started? I’ll give Quinn a quick overview of what we do and what to expect over the next couple of weeks. Then, you can lead us in a closing prayer, and we can wrap things up.”

Fisher looks skeptical, as if the thought of leaving Barker here alone with me is akin to leaving him with a known serial killer who’s already sharpening his knives.

Barker sees the apprehension on his face. “It’ll just take a second. And we don’t have any time to waste. We’ve got to be at Andy’s in half an hour.”

Fisher’s eyes narrow as he looks at me.

Barker lays a hand on his forearm, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll be fine. You’ll be gone for two minutes. We’re wasting time here.”

Fisher finally gets to his feet. “I’ll be right back. If you need anything, just yell. I’ll be back up before you know it.”

Jesus, what the fuck does this guy think I’m going to do?

Barker and I both watch as Fisher walks out the front door, leaving it wide open behind him.

I climb off the bed and close it. “Don’t want to let out all the cool air.”

Barker nods, his face tightening and his eyes falling now that we’re alone together. He seems nervous.

I walk over to the stool Fisher just vacated, taking a seat next to him. I turn my body, so it’s facing his, my knees just millimeters from his legs. “I saw you last night.”

Barker doesn’t raise his eyes to mine. “I don’t know what you mean,” he croaks out, his voice raspy and deep.

I smile at his unease. “Yes, you do. You were watching me. Out on the street.”

“I just…I heard a noise, is all. I wanted to see what it was.”

“Then, why’d you stay and watch?”

His face turns a deep shade of crimson. “I-I…”

“It’s okay, Barker. I didn’t mind being watched.”

At the husky tone in my voice, he finally lifts his gaze, his eyes meeting mine. I can still see the nerves written all over his face, but he doesn’t seem spooked. He’s nervous, yes, but he’s more intrigued than scared by my words.

I take a chance, reaching my hand out and placing it on his thigh. I gently squeeze it, massaging my thumb into the muscled flesh. “Have you ever kissed a man before, Barker?”

He inhales with an audible gasp, the breath catching in his throat, as goose bumps spread across his skin. When he doesn’t protest my touch, I try to take it a step further, moving my hand up his thigh. I can feel him trembling beneath my touch, but he doesn’t try to stop me. I won’t push it too far. Though I can’t deny I’m enjoying the thrill of just being this close to him.

My eyes scan his face as he watches my hand work over his thigh. When his tongue darts out and licks his bottom lip, I almost lose it. I need to taste those lips. I need my tongue to be the one moistening the pink flesh.

Leaning into him, I hear his breath catch once again as he realizes what I’m about to do. I hesitate, giving him another chance to stop it. I don’t want to do anything he’s not a willing party to. But he doesn’t say anything, his labored breathing nearing my own face as he leans into me.

“I’m going to kiss you, Barker,” I rasp, my voice so thick with desire that you could almost cut it with a knife.

And it’s a good thing I’m sitting down. Just the thought of my lips on his has my dick hard as a rock. And, though Barker seems to be enjoying my touch and my company, something tells me he’s not quite ready for that yet. Just seeing the bulge in my jeans might be enough to spook him off for good.

Barker’s eyes close as he nears my face, his tongue once again swiping over his lips.

I need that tongue in my mouth.

I lift my hand to his face, running my thumb across the soft skin of his cheek. But, just as I lean in to close the tiny distance between us, footsteps pound up the stairs outside my apartment.

Barker springs away from me so quickly, you’d think he’d been shocked. I’ve never seen someone move so fast. He’s up and over by the window as Fisher throws open my door.

“Why was this closed? I left it open.”

I shrug, moving back over to my bed and pulling my pillow onto my lap. There’s no way in hell I want Fisher seeing the evidence of what he so rudely interrupted. As it is, I already kind of want to maim him for barging in on us just before I could get a taste. Having him fling his derogatory comments around would only worsen my already-foul mood.

“Didn’t want to let the cool air out. I don’t pay to air-condition the whole neighborhood,” I say, pulling a line my dad used to use all the time when I was a kid. “Were you born in a barn?” I add, again thanks to my father.

Fisher’s eyes narrow as he looks at me. I smile, giving him a little flutter of my fingertips. He responds with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. Somebody needs to teach this dude some manners. Judy K would have a coronary if she saw him.

Barker is still looking out the window, ignoring our exchange. When Fisher joins him, he turns and grabs his bag, taking some of the blue books from Fisher’s hand and stuffing them inside. He tosses one on my bed. “Here. Try giving this a read. We’ll come back in a few days and chat some more.”

Fisher picks up his bag, still watching me with a disdainful eye.

Barker pats him on the back. “Come on, Elder. We’d better get going.”

He holds the door open for Fisher as he walks out, stepping out right behind him. Just before he pulls the door shut behind him, he throws me one last look. The smile on his face tells me all I need to know.

This isn’t the end for Barker and me.

Oh no, this is only the beginning.