Chapter Twenty-One
‡
Stepping out of the shower after I’ve finished up with my Pilates—because it is, in fact, a Thursday—my phone rings. Not an unusual state of affairs, so I pick it up with my towel wrapped around my waist while I study myself in the half-fogged mirror. Not bad for thirty-eight, I don’t think.
“This is Rey.”
“Hey, it’s Hart.”
Oh. My reflection looks surprised and stands up straighter. Hart rarely calls me; it’s almost always the other way around. Me issuing invitations to parties, to go out, to come over, and him saying yes or no depending on his mood. Mostly yes these days. Calling me, though? That’s new.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I slide my fingertips across my chin, my jaw, cautious curiosity building. Perhaps he’s calling with his own invitation? That would be novel. Like a foolish kid picking out their outfit before they’ve even been invited to the big dance, I start running through my mental calendar to see if there would be anything standing in the way of me accepting.
“I wanted to tell you I’m not going to be able to see you as much anymore.”
That’s why you’re not supposed to count chickens before they hatch. Although whatever this is, I should be grateful. Perhaps he’s started dating someone. Which is what I want. I like it when that happens, when people move on of their own accord. Which doesn’t explain the thing poking me in the side. But I’ll keep my response neutral.
“I see.”
He pauses, as though he was expecting more, and I rub a pair of fingers over my brow bone. He didn’t give me much to work with, so I don’t know what he needs from me right now. Luckily, he finds his tongue before I have to formulate a plan.
“I…I got a job. Start tomorrow. It’s temporary, construction, but it pays enough I can start looking for a place again. So I’ll be busy.”
The corner of my mouth pulls up, and honest happiness rolls over me. He’s perhaps using the pretense of not being able to see me so much anymore to call, but I think what he wanted was to share this with me. “That’s wonderful. Congratulations.”
I bite back my offer to help him find an apartment because he wouldn’t like that. If he has more good news in the future he wants to share with someone, I want him to call me.
“It’s good too, because it won’t interfere with watching the kids or with Kendra’s classes, so…”
So what? I know he’s not waiting for my approval, would probably bite my head off if I offered it. Is this his way of saying he doesn’t want to see me at all? Why wouldn’t he have led with that? Or stopped answering my calls? Could have, though I’d like to think he wouldn’t.
Another possibility occurs to me. I don’t want to overstep if this isn’t what he’s after, but Kendra doesn’t work or have school on Thursdays, so he might, possibly, be calling because…
“Well, if you’re not busy, I’d love to take you out to celebrate. There’s a new Persian place I’ve been wanting to try. Then we could bring the party back to my place?”
“That would be great. Do you have clients or could you pick me up at Kendra’s at seven?”
No clients, no nothing. I’d been planning to catch up on some personal correspondence and phone calls, but that can all wait. I don’t think a one of them would mind being neglected for another day if it means I get to spend time with Allie.
“That works for me. I’ll see you then.”
“Cool.”
Then there’s silence on the other end of the line, and my reflection stares back at me, looking smug as fuck. Yeah, yeah, you smug bastard, we all know you’re going to have a good time tonight.
*
I’ve just fucked the ever-loving hell out of Hart after I had my way with him downstairs. For someone who was so reluctant to bottom, he sure has got the hang of it. And my, does he ever suffer beautifully.
He’s not suffering now, though. Not even a little bit. We’re lying together in my bed, me propped up against pillows and him with his head in my lap while I feed him. I don’t usually eat in bed since I’m rather fastidious when it comes to my own personal space—I like it quiet, simple, clean—but this fits. Allie has no need to know exactly how uptight I am about things that have no consequence. The color of his socks, sure, but knowing I have a thing about stains and crumbs in my sheets? He can do without.
Blueberries, blackberries, raspberries, dark chocolate chips, and almonds. These are the things I offer to him, that he takes between his lips and savors, that I can feel his jaw work around as he turns to look up at me.
In between feeding him from three separate bowls—wouldn’t want the chocolate or almonds to get wet from the freshly washed fruit after all, and yes, fine, I like controlling even what flavor he’ll have in his mouth next—I’ve picked up my phone and not put it down again. He doesn’t seem to mind, exhausted as he is. In between bites, I run my hand over his scalp, sometimes brush a thumb behind his ear.
The next time I offer him an almond, he shakes his head. “I’ve had enough. Thank you, though.”
I eat it myself and then let my hand drift to caress him again. While I sometimes miss having hair to grab onto and stroke, I’ve become accustomed and rather attached to the smoothness of Allie’s head when he’s shaved that morning and the barest of prickles when he hasn’t.
I expect his breathing to even out, the deep, mouth-open sounds of sleep and the heavy weight of his head in my lap. What black magic is it that people seem to gain weight when they’re unconscious? I swear it’s true. But instead of a dozing Hart cozying into my thighs, he shifts. And shifts again.
Tearing myself away from a client issue, I look down at him. “Are you uncomfortable?”
“No, sir.”
“Then what’s with the fidgeting?”
“I…”
Hmm.
“Go on, Hart. You know by now you can tell me anything.”
“I had something to ask you. Not tell you.”
Even more interesting. Especially given the already intimate tenor of our evening. Not the sex and the kink, because sure, but the congratulatory dinner. Of all the friends and family he has, he wanted to celebrate with me.
“Go ahead, then.”
He doesn’t say anything right away, so I go through the motions of picking up my phone again, punching in the code. Sometimes it’s easier for people to spill if they think your attention’s divided. Doesn’t usually work with Hart, but this doesn’t seem like your everyday kind of request. Please, sir, I’d like to try the rubber flogger. Would you show me what a paddle feels like, sir? If he gets ticked off, it’s easy enough to let him know he has my undivided attention. Perhaps more of it than he would’ve liked.
My trick seems to work, though, and he takes a swill of air. “My sister’s having people over for a barbeque and watching the Raiders on Sunday. She asked if you’d like to come.”
Oh. Not that I never get invited to these things—in fact, I frequently double as a plus-one, though usually to formal events because I clean up well and already have my own tux. But backyard barbeques and—the Raiders play football, right?—football games aren’t usually the thing. Especially not with family. Which also means Hart’s told Kendra we’re seeing each other. Not just fucking. She had to know something was going on with him and someone at the rate I see him, but still.
I’ve had the experience of the blood in my veins running cold from fear and hot from lust, but this feels like something else entirely. A clement, pleasant warmth. As if it’s tea at the perfect temperature being pumped by my heart. It’s quite something, and I wouldn’t want to trade it for anything in the world.
He’s only told me I’ve been invited, though. He hasn’t said how he feels about this, which is the important part. Though Hart isn’t thoughtless or rude. Coarse sometimes, certainly, but not cruel. So I doubt he’s mentioning this to tell me I’m not welcome. Which means…
“So I…I’m asking you if you’d like to.”
I put my phone down on the bed, done with the pretense and needing to see his face, to glean every ounce of information I possibly can from the way his emotions arrange his features.
“Would you like me to?”
There’s hesitation and, if I’m reading him correctly, shyness. “I would.”
“Then I’m there.”
“But it’s a Sunday. You’re usually busy.”
“That’s true, but I don’t have to be busy every Sunday. Unless you don’t actually want me to go.”
“No, I do. I was trying to give you a way out if you wanted one. You don’t seem like much of a family man.”
“I adore my mother. I see her as often as I’m able. And India…she’s not blood, but she’s my chosen family. If you’re talking about kids, though, it’s true. I’m…” It’s not that I don’t like children. They seem well enough and certainly necessary for the perpetuation of the species, if you care for such a thing. So how to put this? “Inexperienced.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine. You can avoid them if you want.”
“And what about me? How are you planning to introduce me?”
He shrugs, an awkward motion that rubs the sheet over my legs. “As the man I’m seeing.”
“And?”
“And what? What else do people need to know?”
“They’ll likely ask me what I do for a living, and I don’t think you want me telling them what I actually do.”
He snorts a laugh and squirms. “No, I definitely do not. What do you usually tell people?”
“I’ve been all sorts of things. Life coach, attorney, film producer, journalist, personal assistant… I can impersonate all of those reasonably well. Just stay away from anything sports-related or telling anyone I’m a medical professional. Otherwise, have at it.”
I purposefully don’t mention the time I faked being a drug kingpin as I don’t think that would be appreciated in this company.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. It’s actually quite entertaining, dressing up for a day, pretending to be someone I’m not. However, you may want to consider exactly how long you expect this charade to last.”
As soon as the word is out of my mouth, I regret it.
“Hart, I didn’t mean—”
“No, it’s fine, I know what you meant.” I have no doubt he does, but I’m sorry nonetheless. “I think I’ll stick with life coach.”
“How we met is already meet-cute material so you needn’t worry about that.”
“True. Makes you look like a good guy, and they already know I’m hopeless at mixing drinks.”
“So it’s settled. Give me the details and I’ll make it happen.”
Before I can do anything else, Allie’s up on his hands and knees, stripping the sheet away from my body and leaning over my lap. As his tongue licks over the jut of my hipbone, I start to get hard, and he takes me in his mouth. Had I known he’d be so grateful I would’ve offered to meet the family a lot sooner.
*
Hart seems nervous as we pull up to his sister’s house. It’s one of those small California bungalows that sits close to its neighbors behind chain link fences. I can already hear the voices bubbling out from the backyard, and it sounds like everyone’s deep into their good time. And maybe some beer.
I’d asked Hart what I should bring to the party, and he’d looked at me sideways. “If you want to bring something, you have to make it yourself. I don’t want Matty making something out of Julia Child.”
“I’m insulted you think I can’t cook,” I’d sniffed, though he has no reason to know I’m actually quite handy in the kitchen. “Maybe a bottle of wine?”
“This is a beer crowd, Walter. None of those fancy-ass microbrews either. We like our beer to actually taste like beer.”
In the end, I couldn’t do it. So a carefully sealed container of sangria is sitting on the floor of the backseat. White wine, peaches, blueberries, Cointreau, and some lemon-lime soda. It’s not bad if I do say so myself, and Hart had grudgingly admitted it was good. After he’d also given reluctant approval to my outfit.
“There isn’t going to be a valet there or passed hors d’oeuvres. Jeans, okay? And those sneakers you wore when you showed up to watch the game. Scuff them up before because I know you haven’t worn them since, and they almost blinded me, dude.”
I’d huffed, but the truth is I hadn’t worn the sneakers since that memorable night. I’ve been wearing them around everywhere I can get away with for a week, much to Matthew’s amusement. Now they’re on my feet, with the requested jeans and a polo shirt.
Hart’s looking quite fine in a Raiders jersey and jeans, even if he’d seemed twitchy, drumming his thumbs against the steering wheel of his truck as he drove and singing under his breath to songs I don’t recognize on a radio station I’ve never listened to.
We walk toward the house, and Hart doesn’t bother to knock, just walks right in and is soon accosted by two small people, a boy who looks so much like Allie and Kendra I can’t get even a hint of what his father must’ve looked like, and a girl who’s got their same smile, but different shaped eyes that I match to a man in some photographs hanging on the walls and sitting on a sideboard. I’ve thought before that must be Lamar, and now I have proof.
It’s a wonder Allie hasn’t toppled over from the children’s enthusiasm, but instead he scoops each of them under an arm and turns to me.
“This rascal is Marcus, and this little troublemaker is Imani. Guys, this is my friend Rey.”
A tiny chorus of “Hi, Rey!” makes me laugh and wave with my hand that’s not keeping the sangria safe. “Nice to meet you. Your uncle talks about you all the time. I hear you both play a mean game of Apples to Apples. Maybe you’d like to trounce me later?”
They cheer and then squirm until Allie puts them down, sending them racing off toward the backyard. I find a place to put the sangria down and then follow Allie through the house and out to the backyard. The game won’t start for a couple of hours so everyone’s out here, chatting and laughing and eating.
That’s what I’d also like to be doing to because the food smells amazing. Manners first, though. Hart introduces me around. I shake a lot of hands, smile at a lot of people, commit their names and faces to memory because that’s something I’m good at. Not like how I’ll be less than useless once the…puck drops? No, that’s hockey. First pitch is baseball, tip-off is basketball, but that sounds closer…kick-off. Yes. One less way for me to make an ass of myself.
Kendra greets me with a hug. After we say our hellos, she gives her brother a meaningful look that embarrasses him, and she shoves us in the direction of the food. I’m only too happy to oblige, picking up a bit of everything until my plate is beyond full.
“Dude, are you going to eat all that?”
“I am. Then I’m going to come back and get a bite of everything I missed.”
Hart’s eyebrows draw together, making that ever-present crease between them deepen, but the look on his face isn’t confusion or displeasure. It’s this incredibly sweet and earnest half-smile that burrows right into my heart and takes up yet another one of the empty chambers. By this one small act—and it’s not as if eating this incredible food is going to be a hardship on any level—I’ve made my Hart happy. Forget the blowjob I got when I agreed to come and the scene we’re going to have when we get home tonight, this look was worth the price of admission.
It makes me want to kiss him. Lean over our plates overflowing with home-cooked food to press our mouths together, briefly and almost chastely. Although I don’t know that that would be welcome here. Nor is that probably a good idea for my relationship with Allie.
When I’ve played boyfriends or fiancés, that’s been understood. It’s a game. Not for realsies, not for keeps. A charade for various reasons. This doesn’t feel so much like pretend, though, so I have to look away, grabbing another deviled egg to cover my discomfort.
*
Though I genuinely enjoyed watching the Sharks game with Allie, and I can appreciate some of the elements of football—bless those pants—I find myself not being all that engaged, not caring overmuch whether the Raiders win or…I don’t know, whoever the blue team they’re playing is.
So after helping myself to some dessert and a cup of bright red punch, I wander into the next room where the kids are occupying themselves with toys and coloring. As soon as I step inside, they’re on me like a jungle gym.
“Want to play with us, Rey?”
“Please?”
“Uh, sure. What do you want to play?”
Board games I can do, and though I’m far from an artist, I can draw a decent stick figure. But no, the little monsters want to play tag. Since the room is small, it’s half hide-and-go-seek and half-tag. You’d think that would be awkward, but it works. After all, the real goal appears to be to tickle the stuffing out of the person you’ve tagged—which looks more like tackling, to be honest.
The thing is, though, when I tickle Imani, she immediately shrieks, “Stop!”
So I do.
Then she gives me that injured look only small children can give, as if you’ve wounded their very soul by refusing a request. “Why’d you stop?”
“Because you told me to?” That is what stop means, right? Not to brag, but I’m kind of an expert in consent and I’m pretty sure…
“I didn’t really want you to stop!”
Ah-ha. This, I understand. The question is how to put it in a way a kid will understand and won’t result in having her ask her mother some unfortunate questions and Allie never speaking to me again.
“How about we have a code then, so when you really want me to stop, I will, but when you don’t, you can yell all you want?”
She agrees, and I suggest “tickle stop.” Again with the not wanting weird questions to surface and Allie murdering me. Partly because, at this point, I’m pretty attached to being alive, partly because there are still far too many people I need to settle, and partly because I don’t think Allie would be subtle about it, which would result in him going to prison. So “tickle stop” it is.
Play is resumed, and our code works out rather well if I do say so myself. In the next round, I catch Imani again and tickle her mercilessly—her armpits, her neck. She kicks and squeals, shouting all the while: No! Stop! Don’t!
I don’t, though, not until she says the magic words.
“Tickle stop!”
So I do, help her off the floor so she can go tearing after Marcus, but she doesn’t. Instead, she leans her head into the side of my hip and slips a hand to rest on the inside of my knee. That’s when I realize Allie is leaning up against the doorway, watching us.
“Are you kidding me?”
“What?”
I know I’m not used to spending time with children, but I didn’t think I’d misstepped in any serious way. Perhaps I’m being too familiar and I should dial it back. I do a quick glance at Kendra to see if she doesn’t approve of how I’m playing with her kids, but she’s smiling. Imani takes the opportunity to grab another cookie from the table.
“What is that? Baby’s first safeword?”
I’m thankful I haven’t taken another sip of punch, because it would be all over Allie, maybe all over the floor. Instead, I’ve basically choked on my own saliva. Then I laugh. Stridently, and all the heads in the next room turn toward me, because when I’m not prepared, my laugh is more of a guffaw.
It takes some clearing of my throat and pounding on my chest, but I get myself under control.
“Jesus, Hart. You’re going to kill me. Baby’s first safeword.” I shake my head and tone down my outburst into a chuckle. He’s grinning back at me.
“It’s funny, that’s all. It’s a weird way to bring your work home with you. Are you ever not like that?”
“Like what?”
“So…conscientious.”
I pick up the punch and take a sip, the bright red liquid feeling as vibrant on my tongue as it looks in the clear plastic cup. Slightly carbonated, it fizzes down my throat as I swallow. “Not if I can help it.”
There’s a look on Allie’s face I can’t quite read, but it looks a little like pity. I don’t like it, but I don’t have time to dwell because then Imani’s in my arms again, launching her body into me so hard it nearly knocks me on my ass.
“More tickles!” she demands, her smile sinking dimples into her cheeks. What can I do but oblige? I set her on the floor so she won’t fall in her squirming, and then I go for the sides of her ribs, making her squeal and wriggle under my hands. I look up at Hart, and he’s got this expression on his face, something I can’t quite figure out. Though the uncertainty makes me uneasy, I try to shrug it away. Easy when I’ve got this kid in the throes of euphoric giggle-fits.
She shrieks and squeals, her protests a little hysterical, and when she says, “Tickle stop,” I do. Baby’s first safeword indeed.