Chapter 6

Performing CPR Is Just One Tongue Away From Making Out

 

 

MY ALARM went off, but I was already awake. I hadn’t slept much. Every time I closed my eyes, I would remember that kiss, the feel of his hands on my face, the shine in his eyes that made me feel warm even though I was sure it was all a fluke. Even the talking-to Wheels had given me the night before seemed somewhat of a distant memory and my resolve seemed a weaker.

I tried to get determined in the shower.

I tried to get determined in front of the mirror.

I tried (and almost succeeded) to get determined while brushing my teeth.

I tried (and failed spectacularly) to get determined while getting dressed.

I knew that Sandy wasn’t just fucking around when he said he would give me until the end of the day or he’d do it for me. There are times when I think he’s pulling my leg, but this was not one of them. I knew because of the gleam in his eye, the way Helena peeked out from inside. When Helena tells you she’s going to do something, you can be sure as shit that it’s going to get done. Helena doesn’t believe in wasting time by just saying she’ll do things. She likes to grab life (and muscle men) by the balls. And if there was ever a ball-grabbing moment for her, this was it.

I figured I’d have the rest of the day to work up my courage before five o’clock hit, so I had plenty of time. I stared at myself at the bathroom mirror for the sixteenth time. “You’re cool,” I told my reflection. Wheels barked at my feet in what had to be complete agreement. “You’re hip. You’re a badass. You don’t take no prisoners. You’re a go-getter. You see something you want? You go get it. Be suave. Be smooooth. Practice. Practice.” I cocked my eyebrow at my reflection. “Hey, Vince,” I said, dropping my voice a bit. “Let’s go get physical. Oh fuck. Olivia Newton-John? Really, Paul? That’s the first thing you go to? Don’t be such a homo! Try it again.” I smiled at myself, trying to put a sexy curve to it. It looked like I was smelling something awful. “Hey, Vince,” I said again. “You and I should go get some coffee.” I tried to lick my lips seductively as I finished: “I like mine with extra cream.” I ended up looking like I was licking my own face off.

Wheels howled quietly, then barked once, saying, Yooooooooooouuuuuu suck!

“Okay, I can do this. It’s not like I’ve never asked out a guy before. Okay, I haven’t, but I’m not even asking him out. He already asked me out, and even though I said no, I’m allowed to say yes now!” I glared at myself in the mirror. “Don’t be such a pansy,” I growled at Pansy Paul. I gave a sort of regular smile. “Hey, Vince. Fancy seeing you here. Oh goddammit! We work together, for Christ’s sake! Hey, Vince, I decided to take you up on your offer of dinner. You’re welcome. Ew. God, that sounded smarmy.” I sucked in my stomach and puffed out my chest, lowering my voice. “Hey, Vince. Let’s go work out and run on a treadmill for eighteen miles because that’s so much fun to do.” I gasped in air. I turned and looked at myself in the mirror. “Do I have a double chin?” I asked Wheels, frowning at my reflection. It didn’t look like I did until I lowered my chin to my chest. Look up, single chin. Look down, double chin. Look up, single chin. Okay, so always look up. Suck in the gut a little. Your ass looks pretty good. Not great, but not bad either. Maybe you should try some lunges. And lunge! And lunge! And—ow, my fucking thigh! Goddammit. Okay bring it on in. Bring it on in. And… pose! Not too shabby, Auster. Not too shabby indeed. Except for the fact that you are already sweating and your face is red and you always look down because you’re shy, so you will always have a motherfucking double chin!

My reflection stared sadly at me, shaking his head. Judgmental bastard.

There was nothing else I could do, I knew. Well, there was; I could have always gotten into my car and driven down to Mexico and changed my name to Esteban Mendez and opened up my own dusty bar in the tiny town of Xonoca. I look pretty good in a poncho, and I could have gotten a big sombrero and grown a sweet mustache and spent my days saying things like Sí and Toda la cerveza se ha acabado, pero puede comerse algunos de estos tacos que hice. ¿Qué le pasó al Sr. Rodríguez? No ha sido el mismo hace que su esposa él dejó. He oído que ella era una puta bastante grande. (Translated: I am all out of beer, but you might have some of these tacos I just made. What is up with Mr. Rodriguez? He hasn’t been the same since his wife left. I heard she was quite the whore).

But I didn’t. I didn’t drive down to Xonoca to open my bar called Taco’s Bell. I decided against that whole life because I had to go to work and face my motherfucking fears. To prove the point to myself, I turned on the stereo again and put in Celine Dion’s cover of “All By Myself” and sat at the stop light, waiting for it to turn green. “Allllll byyyyyyyy myyyyyyyyyysellllllllllllf,” I sang forlornly. “Don’t wanna be, allllllll byyyyy—” And then I realized my windows were down again and the same woman from yesterday was sitting next to me. Except this time, she wasn’t singing along, but rather staring at me with tears streaming down her face, her nose running. She looked positively wrecked.

“I don’t want you to be all by yourself!” she cried at me when she saw me watching her. “You go get yourself a man! You deserve it so much!”

“I’m trying!” I shouted back, above Celine. “The motherfucker kissed me yesterday!” It felt good to share that.

“Where?” she called back.

“In the supply closet!”

“No! I meant where on your body?”

“What?”

“Did! He! Kiss! Your! Penis!” she screamed as she sobbed.

I gaped at her.

“Hey, move it, assholes!” A horn started to honk behind me. And it was the same motherfucking guy in the truck from yesterday. This time, I did flip him off because I wanted to continue the conversation with the strange lady in the car next to me to find out why her first thought would be that I got kissed on the cock instead of the mouth? But she had already pulled away, and Celine Dion was starting to grate on my nerves, and I was kind of worried the guy in the truck would follow me and rip off my testes, so I drove away rather quickly, trying to speed around a few cars to put some distance between me and the truck driver.

Twenty minutes later, after dealing with the police officer who pulled me over for speeding and weaving in and out of traffic to the point where the first thing he asked me was, “Sir, if you’re drunk this early, then you’ve got a drinking problem,” I pulled into my parking space on the side of the street. My hands were sweating, and I was breathing heavily. I looked myself in the rearview mirror, and my eyes were so wide, I’m pretty sure you could see parts of my brain poking through. “Calm down,” I whispered hoarsely. “Just calm the fuck down, and everything will be okay. You’ve already had his tongue in your mouth. You can do this.”

So without looking, I opened my car door.

And it was about that time that Vince Taylor was riding his bike past my car. Physics teaches us that when a moving force meets an immovable object, bad shit happens to hot people. I think Sir Isaac Newton said that. Or Sir Elton John. I don’t know. I get my “Sirs” confused sometimes.

But, regardless, the moving force of Vince and his bike met the immoveable object of my opened car door. I heard him say, “Oh bananas,” and then he crashed into the inside of the door, flipped up and over it, and landed on his back on the pavement on the other side. The front tire of his bike crumpled before the whole thing fell over onto the ground next to my car with a metallic clang.

Then it got really quiet.

I just stared.

I thought about closing the car door and just driving away, but knowing my luck, I would have run him over in the process, and I’d already had one brush with the law today. Plus, I worked for a car insurance company, and that sort of thing is frowned upon.

My next thought was I was happy he was at least wearing a helmet.

My third thought was how awful I was going to look in prison orange if he was dead.

My fourth thought was how sad I’d be if he was dead, and why didn’t I just let him kiss my cock in the storage closet?

My fifth thought was that I had to save him, just like he saved me the day before. He was the one who sort of caused me to choke on spinach, and now I was sort of (read: completely) the reason he probably had splenic lacerations and contusions on his pretty, pretty behind.

I jumped out of the car and tried to close the door, but part of his bike got caught in it and I ended up closing the door on my leg. This caused me to trip over the bent tire and I fell, skinning my hands and a knee on the asphalt. I gritted my teeth against the sharp pain, realizing that whatever I was feeling, Vince had flipped over my fucking car, so I couldn’t be bitchy about scrapes on my hands and dirty khakis (even though I was already bitching in my head).

Once I was able to disentangle myself from the stupid bike and got my leg out of my stupid car, I rushed around the door and saw Vince sprawled out near the front tire, on his back, eyes closed. He didn’t move except to ooze little driblets of blood from his right arm and left leg. Little flecks of gravel were stuck in the blood trails.

Of course, to me, it looked like he was dead, and I was sure that I’d killed him, so I rushed over to him, trying to remember back to my Baywatch days and how they gave mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I didn’t even check to see if he was breathing, because I was convinced he wasn’t. I figured that this was real life, so I probably shouldn’t go in slow motion like they did on Baywatch. David Hasselhoff could save people, and so could I.

So I got down on my knees next to him, ignoring the obvious gaping flesh wound on my leg. I thought about chest compressions, but I didn’t want to break any more of his ribs, and I was pretty sure his clavicle was probably already going to be pushing through his skin, and I really didn’t want to see that. So I ignored the chest compressions and tilted his head back (something about avoid tongue blockage or some bullshit) and pressed my lips against his and gave him the gift of life.

“Breathe, dammit!” I whispered fiercely, taking another breath and pushing it into him. “Live, I say! Live!”

It took two or three breaths into him before I realized a tongue that was not my own was in my mouth each time I went back down, and that for all intents and purposes, I was making out with a man I’d hit with my car. Okay, well, semantics, it really should be that he hit my car, but whatever. When this hit me, I froze a little bit, my breath caught halfway between him and me, and then he brought the arm that wasn’t bloody and gross up behind me, pressing the back of my head, holding me in place while he tangled his tongue over mine. He pulled away slightly to nibble on my bottom lip and groaned, though from pain or what, I don’t know.

I opened my eyes to find his inches from my own. “Totally worth it,” he whispered with a grin. Then he passed out.

It took me almost a full minute to call 911 because I just sat there, his taste still in my mouth.

 

 

“HELLO?” I said to the pretty black woman at the front desk at the hospital a couple hours later. I couldn’t help but think that if this were a TV show, she’d be the sassy black nurse that always had something funny to say before dispensing pearls of wisdom.

She looked up at me and smiled. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so,” I said nervously. “Um, I hit a man with my car and he was brought here? Okay, well, he technically hit me, but that is so beside the point.”

She frowned slightly.

Which I took as a sign I should continue babbling. “I mean, who doesn’t see a car door opening on the side of the street? And he had to have been going at least eighty miles an hour. Okay, well not eighty, but at least ten. I feel really bad, but he sort of deserved it for making me all weird and crazy over the past few days, right? I mean, I’ve only known him since Saturday and we’ve already made out twice and he can make me feel all twisted up already? What is up with that?”

She cocked her head at me.

“My dog gives me the same look,” I told her. “You two could be related.”

She gasped.

“Oh, crap,” I said, the blood draining from my face. “That is so not what I meant! Oh, Jesus Christ! I’m so sorry. My dog is just a mutt. Er, not to say that you’re a mutt or anything. Besides, mutts are boy dogs, I think. And you’re obviously not a boy.” I eyed her boobs, making everything that much worse. “Very obviously not a boy. Girl dogs are bitches, right? So you’d be a bitch and… oh my God, I didn’t mean to say that either!”

She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest, not saying a word.

“I’m not very good at talking to women,” I admitted. “I’m gay, so your dangly parts scare me a bit. Uh, not that anything of yours is dangling or anything. Everything seems to be perky enough. Um. Perfectly perky. It even looks like you had work done, they are so pointy. And as you can tell, I don’t have any social graces. This is why I like to deal with people over the phone, so I don’t have to look at them when I speak. It makes life easier for me so I’m not sitting here calling you a bitch with really nice tatas.”

She shook her head.

“Please,” I said bleakly. “Please help me shut my mouth. I just need to know where Vince Taylor is. That’s all. Please tell me and I will go so far away that you’ll never see me again and I’ll be nothing but a horrible memory for you by the time you get home to your cat.”

She glared at me but clacked on her computer. Finally, “What’s your relation?”

“Oh, uh. He’s my… brother.” Quick thinking.

She got a weird look on her face. “Your brother?”

I nodded. “My younger brother.”

“And you’ve made out with him twice and only known him since Saturday?” she asked, looking like she was going to hit a button and have men in lab coats come carry me away.

Oh sweat balls. “Erm, we didn’t know we were brothers? Long lost. It was awkward, for sure.” I was sweating profusely. “Caused a big family drama. I think my mom will need therapy for the rest of her life.”

“Are you sure she’s the only one?”

“No, no. I’m pretty sure I will too once this is all over.” I laughed and I sounded way crazy. “It’s hard being attracted to your own brother. No… no other way around that.”

“This is some Maury Povich shit up in here,” she said. “Lord have mercy.”

I couldn’t help but grin. “I knew you’d be the sassy black nurse.”

“Now you racial profilin’ me?” she huffed. “Just because I’m black doesn’t mean I’m gonna be sassy, you hear me, cornbread brother lover?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now, if you done bullshittin’ me, Mr. Taylor is in room 214. He’ll be discharged in a bit.”

I felt relieved. “Thank you. I’m sorry about everything I said.”

She turned serious. “And,” she said softly, “you need to make sure you get yourself some help. Nothing ever came from being in love with your brother.”

“Pearls of wisdom,” I said in awe. “You are the sassy black nurse—”

Her eyes flared. “Boy, I ain’t no nurse. I am an administrative professional, and you best get your ass out of my face before I make you leave.” She tapped her acrylic nails against the desk so loudly that each one sound like a gun shot. I couldn’t help but notice how orange they were, and I knew I needed to leave before I told her I saw her as more of a magenta.

“Room 214?”

She nodded tightly.

I turned and walked away, feeling her eyes like daggers in my back. That was pretty much the reason right there why I don’t like meeting new people. I tend to say things that others have a filter for, and I don’t have the power to stop myself. It’s like once I start, I can’t stop until everyone involved is either mortified or ready to shoot pepper spray in my eyes because I’ve somehow made it seem like I’m either a serial rapist or a participant in an incestuous relationship with my long-lost brother. Sometimes I don’t even know how these conversations get where they go, but it can’t all just be me. Other people seem to bring out my crazy, which is why I didn’t like speaking with pretty much anyone face to face.

Room 214 didn’t take that long to find, even though I wished it had. The closer I got to it, the more nervous I got. Not only did I want to agree to go out with Vince, I’d now maimed him, and I didn’t know if that was the best way to start a relationship. Then I started thinking about the word relationship and why my mind immediately went there, and that made me start to sweat even more. I was pretty sure I was sweating buckets by the time I reached room 214 (which, in my head, sounded slightly ominous, like a direct-to-DVD horror movie starring some eighties pseudo-icon who has not aged well. Room 214: Check-In To Terror). I thought about bypassing the room completely, but then I heard Vince’s voice and I just couldn’t. I tried not to think about what that meant.

You can do this, I said, psyching myself up. Just go in there, and speak as little as possible.

I knocked quietly on the partially opened door. It swung open almost immediately, a doctor standing on the other side. I was about to smile and introduce myself, but I was immediately distracted by the fact that Vince was sitting shirtless on the edge of the bed, wearing only his biker shorts.

It was right then that I believed in God.

Dear God, I thought. Thank you for this bounty you have bestowed upon me. I will be your humble servant forever now because of this view. Love, Paul. P.S. He has a pierced nipple?

He was lovely, completely and thoroughly. His tan skin reminded me of cinnamon, his strong chest covered in a smattering of curly hair that drifted down from his pecs to his stomach. My eyes stuttered on his right nipple for a moment, the small silver bar going through it flashing in the harsh fluorescent lighting overhead. I wondered what it would be like to tease it with my tongue and if he liked it to be twisted.

Then I realized I was in very real danger of popping wood in front of him and a doctor, so I thought of gross things like maggots and Mitt Romney and I was able to keep my errant dick under control.

Then I saw his abs, which weren’t quite defined, but almost so, and even the thought of Mitt Romney laid out spread-eagled in front of me covered in offshore tax incentives couldn’t keep the blood from flowing. Literally only four seconds had passed since the door opened, but I’d spent those entire four seconds ogling Vince like I wanted to eat him right then and there. Which to be fair, I kind of did. I glanced up to his face and caught the sly but tired grin that said he knew exactly what I was doing.

I blushed and looked away.

“You here for Vince?” the doctor asked cheerfully, oblivious to the fact that I’d been essentially eye-fucking his patient.

“Er. Yeah,” I muttered.

“I’m Dr. Hal,” the doc said, shaking my hand.

“Paul,” I mumbled, looking down at the floor.

“He’s the guy who put me in the hospital,” Vince confided in the doctor.

“Oh!” Doc Hal said. “Well, this has got to be a bit awkward for the two of you. But it’s a nice thought that you’re coming here to check on him.”

“We knew each other before this,” Vince said, leaning back on his hands, the muscles in his stomach clenching slightly and awesomely. I shot him a scowl, but it fell from my face when I saw the bruising forming on his side, wrapping around to his back where I couldn’t see it anymore. I felt awful. “I guess he didn’t think there were any better ways to get my attention.” He grinned at me again, and I didn’t feel so awful after that.

Doc Hal frowned. “Why didn’t he just ask you out?”

Vince shrugged. “Dunno. I asked him out a few days ago, and he kind of freaked out a bit, and then he choked on spinach, so I saved his life with some Heinrich maneuvering.”

“Heimlich,” I said. “It’s Heimlich.”

“Quick thinking,” Doc Hal told him, ignoring me completely. “So he thanks you by hitting you with his car instead of going out with you? That’s odd.”

“Right? His life belongs to me now. It’s an old Japanese idea.”

“It’s Chinese!” I said indignantly.

Vince rolled his eyes. “It’s all Asia,” he said. “I want to go there some day,” he told the doc.

“Asia?” Doc Hal said, looking over Vince’s charts. “Where at in Asia?”

I could tell this confused Vince, but he just shrugged and said, “All over.” I didn’t think he understood the concept of Asia as a continent yet.

“Ah. Well, Vince, you’ve got a moderate concussion, but your CT scans were clear, so you should be right as rain in a few days or so, thanks to the fact that you were wearing a helmet. Way to protect the ol’ noggin. You’re probably going to be a bit more sore the next couple of days, so I want you to take it easy. You’ll need to stay awake for the next few hours, just to make sure no further symptoms manifest. You have a roommate who can watch over you for a while?”

He shook his head. “Live alone.”

“Parents?”

He hesitated. “Out of town for the next couple of weeks.”

“Friends?”

“No one I’d feel comfortable with.”

“Well, then, I wonder who we could get to sit up with you for a while?”

And, of course, it was obvious where it was going from there. Both Doc Hal and Vince turned to me at the same time, and I tried to count the ceiling tiles while pointedly pretending I hadn’t heard any part of the conversation.

No one said anything, and I knew it had become a contest of wills to see who would crack first, though I couldn’t figure out why Doc Hal wanted to play. Maybe he saw how uncomfortable I was, or maybe he was a secret closet romantic who thought he was doing something sweet when all I wanted to do to him was wipe that knowing smirk off his face with some brass knuckles. But then I realized I didn’t know where to buy brass knuckles, or even if those were real things anymore, so I sighed, resigned to my fate. “You guys totally planned this, didn’t you?”

Doc Hal and Vince exchanged a look I couldn’t quite place. “I don’t know what you mean,” Doc Hal said blandly. “Now, since you will be taking care of the man you injured, there are a few things you should know.”

I winced. Vince chuckled. Bastard.

“You need to keep an eye out for any symptoms such as dizziness, dilated pupils, nausea. If those start to occur, it might be a good idea for him to get back here for further tests. I’ve given him a mild painkiller, but he’ll need to stay awake for a few hours before he can sleep, so it’s up to you to keep him up.”

“I’m sure we can think of a few things,” Vince said, waggling his eyebrows.

“None of that for the next day or so,” Doc Hal admonished slightly.

Vince pouted.

“No sex,” Doc Hal told me. “I’m not releasing him to you just so you can molest him in his weakened state.”

“But… it’s….” I sputtered. “It’s not… I don’t….”

“No buts,” he said sternly, like I was trying to disagree with him.

“Wow,” Vince said. “Maybe you should hit me with your car more often. Arguing with the doctor about sex with me? That’s hot.”

If looks could kill, Vince would have exploded in a blast of meat and blood given the way I glared at him. “I’m not arguing,” I hissed at him. “I’m not going to have sex with you!”

“You can this weekend,” Doc Hal said as if trying to soothe me. “He just needs some rest before he should try to get it up.”

I was horrified. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You cleared from work the next few days?” Doc Hal asked him.

Vince looked at me.

I scowled at him.

He waited.

“Fine,” I said. “Yes. I told them what happened and that you’d need a few days off. Everyone says they are thinking of you, and they called me a jerk for putting you in the hospital. Tad told me to tell you that he hopes you get better soon so he can take you in the supply closet next time. I fucking hate that guy so fucking much. He’s such a little bitch.”

“Paul and I made out in the supply closet,” Vince told Doc Hal. “I think hitting me with his car was kind of his revenge. Or maybe foreplay. He might be into some kinky shit, I dunno.”

“Like he needs to hit things with his car to get off?” Doc Hal asked, glancing at me. “That brings a whole new meaning to the word ‘autoerotic’.”

“Are you even allowed to say things like that?” I growled at the doctor.

“I don’t get it,” Vince said, sounding confused again.

“I spent twelve years going to medical school,” Doc Hal said to me. “And I still have over a hundred grand in student loans. I’m allowed to say things like that because if I didn’t have a sense of humor, I’d be sad.”

“You’re not funny,” I retorted.

“I still don’t get it,” Vince said. “But now I’m really fucking tired.” He looked at me, and I could see all the humor had fallen away. “Can we go home now?” he asked me quietly. His words seemed a bit slurred, whether from exhaustion or narcotics, I didn’t know. All I knew was that my heart thumped a little beat in my chest at the sight of him like that. I tried to fight down the urge to wrap myself around him and shield him from everything and to take care of him forever.

Jesus, I’m such a fucking girl sometimes.

I looked to the doc, who nodded at me. “Yeah,” I told Vince. “We can go.”

He looked at me gratefully before looking down. “Don’t have a shirt,” he mumbled, as if suddenly embarrassed. “They cut off my cycle jersey ’cause it hurt too much to pull it off over my head.”

“I can get you some scrubs,” Doc Hal offered.

I shook my head. “Don’t worry about it,” I told him. I unbuttoned my dress shirt and took it off, almost but not quite self-conscious about only wearing the white T-shirt underneath. I walked over to Vince and hesitated for a moment, but then I found some bit of resolve buried deep in me and wrapped it around his shoulders.

He sighed softly and pressed his forehead against my shoulder as I fussed with the collar. I grazed his skin with my fingers and he was warm. I had to stop myself from going any further.

“Here’s a scrip for some muscle relaxers,” Doc Hal said. “Only have him take them if he absolutely needs them. He should try to stick to over-the-counter stuff if possible.”

I nodded and took the scrip and shoved it in my pocket.

“Ready?” I asked Vince.

He moaned softly but nodded, and I helped him to his feet. With my arm around his shoulders, I steered him out.