André

by Jayce Ellis

  “Marcus, sit down, sit down. How are you?” she asked, diving right in.

  I pulled out the chair, a plush thing that was designed to make you comfortable, not hop up and leave, and thought about it. I could be honest, or I could do what I’d learned to do my entire career, which was tell people what they wanted to hear.

  Dr. Brenda looked like she could see the decision I was warring with, and she laughed. “That bad, huh?”

  I tried to play it off, but I knew it wasn’t happening. “Is it common to come back for the second year and not want to be an advisor at all?”

  She chuckled. “We wouldn’t be doing our job if we didn’t make you reconsider your career path.”

  I nodded. “Good to know.” So maybe what I was feeling was common, but it didn’t feel like it. It felt deeper.

  She leaned forward, resting her elbows against the table. “You got more on your mind.”

  “I guess it’s more than just worrying about whether I want to be an advisor. It’s...” I let the word trail off, not sure if I was ready to give voice to the battle raging in my brain.

  Dr. Brenda had patience on lock, because she waited quietly until I made up my mind.

  “I’m not sure I want to work.” I paused and waited for a response. There wasn’t one and I looked up. She hadn’t moved, and the intensity of her gaze made me clear my throat. “What?” I finally said.

  “I was waiting for you to finish that statement.”

  “Um, I did?”

  “You don’t want to work—at all?”

  “At all.”

  She leaned back. “Can I take off this counselor hat for a moment?”

  I coughed, a vain attempt to unclog the blockage that had taken up residence, not entirely sure I wanted to know where this was going, but increasingly curious. “Sure,” I finally pushed out.

  Dr. Brenda chuckled. “Marcus, don’t nobody want to work. At some point, even if you do what you love or whatever it is they say, parts of it are drudgery.” I must’ve had a mulish look on my face, because she laughed again. “What? Did you think you were immune to it?”

  Yeah, somehow I thought I would be. Which was perhaps the most naïve thought I’d ever had. I looked at her, a bit chagrined. She was still smiling, but a healthy dose of understanding underlay it. “My boy Jake is all about finding your life’s joy, and while I tend to think he’s full of it, I guess I internalized a bit. And there is absolutely no joy in this. Not even a little. I should half-ass like it, right?” I winced at having cursed, but she waved me off. “I should get some satisfaction out of it, shouldn’t I?”

  “What do you get satisfaction from?” she asked.

  It was a simple question, but still, I was taken aback by the answer that sprung immediately to mind. What made me happy? André. Taking care of him. Cooking for him. Massaging his shoulders. Throwing his feet over my legs while he worked, something we hadn’t done, but I fantasized about that as much as I did the sex. Which meant that there might be something wrong with me, because what the hell?

  When I’d told Jake cooking wasn’t what brought me joy, I was right. I could probably go to culinary school and make more than a decent living, but I already knew I wasn’t cut out for listening to patrons bitch about their meals. But taking care of people? That was what did it, and that was something I’d never allowed myself to give voice to until now. And now that I’d released them, I wanted to fall to my knees and scramble the words back as quickly as I could, because that reality was pure fantasy.

  A soft hand landed next to mine and I jumped. I’d forgotten I wasn’t in my room, mired in my own thoughts, and Dr. Brenda’s kind face was staring at me while I worked through my personal demons.

  “Sorry,” I muttered.

  She waved me off. “Don’t be. I’m taking it that’s the first time you allowed yourself to express what you really feel?”

  “Yeah, and I’m still not sure how I feel about feeling it.”

  “Well, being a kept man isn’t something we really do. We barely do stay-at-home moms.”

  As my mother could attest to. Maybe that was what had built up her resentment about it. She’d had a career before her illness, and now that I thought about it, she probably expected to go back to work. She hadn’t, and for a while had been increasingly isolated from her friends, as their careers meant they didn’t have the free time to get together like she wanted. Perhaps that’s why Dad was so accommodating about her sorority activities.

  “Marcus, I’m not going to say I’ve heard this from multiple students before, deciding that they not only don’t want to be an advisor but aren’t interested in any career at all, but the important thing, especially at your age, is maneuverability.” Dr. Brenda’s voice pulled me back to the present. “If you decide that’s what you want to do, that’s fine. You need to put yourself in a position to change your mind later. For that reason, I strongly recommend finishing your degree. You don’t have to use it, but in whatever you do later on in life, having the background gives you an edge.”

  She was right, and it’s exactly what I’d said to myself. I couldn’t tell if this sudden, overwhelming desire to stay home and cook and fuck was because of André specifically, or because it was something I genuinely wanted for myself. And who knew if André would even be interested in it. It would put him in the position of being breadwinner, and that would mean our relationship was way further along than we’d ever discussed.

  “I’ll leave you to think on that a little later. But for now, tell me about your project this summer.”

  I delved into Clarymore, with honestly a bit more distance than I’d previously had. I could talk about the pros and cons of the larger clients, how that differed from the smaller ones, the ones that I helped André with during that truncated two-week span, and what I wanted going forward.

  “Do you expect them to make you an offer?”

  That was one of those questions that felt like you were being pretentious if you said yes, but I couldn’t imagine that Clarymore would spend the funds to fly me out to DC twice a month and not offer me a position, would they? So I nodded. “Yes, I think they will. I had a pretty good rapport with them, and I think I would fit in well.”

  “Good. Keep your options open, Marcus. That’s all I ask of you.”

  I thanked her, then ambled back to my small, shared apartment. I roomed with two other business students and a law student, and our schedules were all over the damn place, so no one was home right now. I needed to talk to someone, to hash out these feelings, and right now, Jake seemed like the perfect bet.

  Me: Hey man, you around?

  Jake: yep. Just chillin. What’s up.

  I didn’t hold back, filling him in on the exact same conversation I’d had with Dr. Brenda. After saying it once, it was drastically easier to rehash it a second time, easier still with someone like Jake, who would probably be all gung ho about me finally realizing my dreams.

  Jake: you fucking kidding me? You want to be a stay at home... What?

  Or not.

  Me: I know it sounds wild, but that’s the happiest I’ve been in the past few months.

  Jake: you sure this guy ain’t got you dickmatized or something? Because this don’t make no sense.

  Me: I thought you were all about peace, love, and finding your joy.

  Jake: of course. Always. But it’s gotta make sense. This runs counter to everything I’ve known about you for fifteen years, and I’m trying to figure out where the hell it’s coming from.

  That’s because I met Jake after Mom had been home for a while and Dad had made clear his disdain of my preference to stay with Mom and her friends in the kitchen rather than outside with the boys in the mud. Mom had put me in Jack and Jill so I could be around other kids my age, and maybe man me up some? I didn’t know, but I’d repressed at least a portion of that since then.
/>   Me: okay, then. Well, forget I said anything.

  Jake: no no no. When’s the next time you’re coming down here? I thought you said they were flying you down?

  Me: I’m down this weekend.

  Jake: Well, you can stay with me. Mom and dad are at some retreat or something.

  I almost didn’t want to tell him, but what the hell?

  Me: no thanks. I’m staying with André.

  Jake: you come down here and you stay with him? I don’t even know where this fool lives.

  Me: he lives in Crestline, over by Shaw.

  Jake: yeah, all right. Look, I’m not tryna upset you or anything. I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into, and that he isn’t just convincing you this is something you want.

  That was the last thing I needed to worry about with André. Hell, he hadn’t even tried to convince me that a small firm was what I wanted, and Jake had spent all summer doing that. André’d seemed perfectly fine with me going back to a big firm.

  I didn’t tell Jake any of that. It wouldn’t have made a difference anyway.

  The conversation faded, and after a few minutes with no response, I tossed the phone down and lay on the bed. If I got through this year, the possibilities were endless. I just had to force myself to do it.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  André

  I opened my freezer door and frowned. Seemed I’d eaten all the meals Marcus had prepared, and wasn’t that a damn shame? Nothing tasted as good, in part because homemade food was delicious, and in part because he put his whole foot up in these meals’ asses. I don’t know what ingredients or seasoning or what he found in my pantry to create his masterpieces, but I thanked God for him.

  As if on cue, my phone buzzed, and I smiled seeing who it was.

  Marcus: You working?

  Me: nah, sweetheart, I’m home. Mad at myself for having eaten everything.

  Marcus: Sweetheart? That’s new.

  I shook my head and stared at the screen. Holy shit, he was right, and somehow I’d written it so naturally it hadn’t even occurred to me.

  Me: is it a problem? I’ll stop if you’re not comfortable.

  Because our relationship had been by default. We’d had that one night, been thrown into working together, and things had kind of just...happened. Only one actual conversation had taken place, and at least on my part, the reason was fear. I liked this time with Marcus, the ease with which he fit into my apartment, the simple joy of going to the office on Saturday to get some actual work done and coming home with him. I’d thought having someone waiting for me made my work worthwhile. Coming home to Marcus was beyond anything I’d ever thought possible.

  Marcus: no, I kind of think I like it. This mean I’m destined for an eternity of little spoon?

  I choke-laughed.

  Me: absolutely not.

  Marcus: Good. Because I still have plans for that ass. But can I ask you a question?

  I frowned at the shift in direction. My mind had reverted back to the aborted night, of drinking and bristling at the realization that I couldn’t keep blaming people for my issues, but the tone of the text read differently. This sounded serious, and not about sex.

  Me: of course. What’s up?

  Marcus: How do you feel about stay-at-home parents?

  That was so far out of left field I blinked at the screen. Stay-at-home parents? What in the hell? I fumbled over the words, trying to make sense of what he was really asking, until I convinced myself it didn’t matter. He’d asked a question and I’d answer it.

  Me: I don’t see anything wrong with it if that’s what the couple chooses. Assuming of course that it’s a choice and not a necessity, and from what I’ve heard about childcare prices some places, that’s not always the case.

  Marcus: So you don’t think someone is lazy for staying home?

  Me: of course not. If maintaining a house and taking care of kids weren’t worthwhile, people wouldn’t be so quick to hire others to do it. Honestly kind of fucked up that people associate it with laziness TBH.

  Marcus: Cool, thanks.

  Me: what’s this all about? You got some kid out there I don’t know about?

  Marcus sent back the crying laughing emoji then:

  Marcus: No. Absolutely not.

  I still wasn’t sure that was the end of it, but I’d let it be for now. We were still too new, and I felt like I’d nagged him when he was in town. I didn’t know his tells yet, didn’t know the best way to reach him.

  That had made for a tenser than expected weekend, Marcus spending the bulk of his time in the kitchen with his headphones on, and me going to the office to give him some space. When I’d come back, he’d seemed to be in better spirits, but I could still feel...not anger, but agitation simmering beneath him. He’d kissed and touched and held me, and seemed to genuinely want the connection, but I still felt the distance. I didn’t like it. With that in mind, I wrote back.

  Me: so, tell me more about your plans for my ass...

  Hopefully that would distract him from whatever plagued him, and besides, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. What it would feel like to have him pressed deep in me, pulling me against him, holding me down while he pounded into me. The dreams had gotten increasingly fevered over the past month, since I got the contract and we saw each other less, and it was almost unbearable.

  Marcus: Calling.

  The phone rang immediately and I snatched it up. “Hey.”

  “You want to hear what plans I have for you? You naked?”

  I swallowed down a hard gulp. “No, not yet.”

  “Get there, because when I get the chance to be inside you, I’m ripping every piece of clothing you haven’t taken off.”

  Oh. Fuck. I put the phone on speaker and stripped, then walked naked from the living room to the bedroom and climbed up. “Okay, I’m ready.”

  Marcus’s chuckle was rich and deep. “That didn’t take long.”

  I groaned and palmed my dick. “Won’t take long for me to come once you’re in me either.”

  “With as long as I’ve wanted this? Same,” he confessed, and that did something for me. I’d known he wanted to top, since that first night, but he’d never pushed the envelope, letting me get there in my own time. He’d told me to stop trying to force the issue, even though my seesaw behavior had to aggravate him. Polar opposite of Phil, who’d bugged me about it so much I’d been wary, and obviously for good reason.

  “Lube?” he asked.

  I glanced to the top of my nightstand. I didn’t even bother to put it in the drawer anymore, and I snagged it and got comfortable, putting the phone on speaker. “Yep, got it.”

  “Good. How often do you play with your ass, André?” If anything, Marcus’s voice had gone lower, deeper, chilling me to my core. I shuddered against the sheets.

  “Couple times a week,” I managed.

  “Toys or fingers or both?”

  “Only fingers,” I muttered, surprised the words came out semi-lucid.

  “No toys? Shit, you’re going to be tight as fuck when I get in you.” He grunted, and I could imagine him stroking his own dick, imagining it was my ass he was sinking into.

  The idea made me convulse, and I pressed my neck deeper against the pillows. “Shit, Marcus,” I whispered.

  “Finger yourself.” His voice was guttural, to the point I could barely make it out. “I want to hear you play with yourself until you come.”

  Which was damn near right then, and I only staved off my barreling climax with a tighter grip around my dick than I ever thought possible.

  “Fuck,” I moaned out, long and slow, and Marcus chuckled.

  “You like this, baby? Letting me listen to you play with your hole until you bust all over the place?”

  I was done with words. All I could do was f
eel, the slickness of my fingers as I circled my rim, the clench of my ass as I pressed in, not knowing whether to welcome or repel me, the way my entire body relaxed as I pushed in two fingers to begin and started pumping them in and out.

  I spread my legs as wide as I could, curling into a half-sitting position to fuck myself with one hand while I jacked my dick with the other. I groaned, the feeling of my finger breaching me time and again almost too much to take.

  “Goddamn, you sound so damn good,” Marcus whispered. “How does it feel, knowing I’m listening to every noise you make? Knowing you can’t stop yourself from making them?”

  I was reduced to panting, my thoughts and words equally jumbled. I fought to say something. “Marcus, sweetheart, so good. So good.” Yeah, real intelligent.

  “You’re close, aren’t you? About to come all over yourself?”

  “You know I am. Right there.”

  “Then do it. Come for me. Let me hear.”

  That was all it took. I bore down against my fingers and my ass clenched, and I came all over my fist, my chest, the sheets. My ass was a vise grip, and I wanted nothing more than to pass out just like that.

  “Goddamn, André,” Marcus said, his voice breathless, the first hint I had that he’d come with me, “that was amazing.”

  My laugh was rough, and I buried my head in the pillow, even though there was nothing to be embarrassed about. “I’ve never done that before,” I confessed.

  “Me either, but I can’t wait to do it again. Next time with video.”

  The idea of video brought me up short, and I stilled. Marcus knew about Phil, knew about the video. And I knew Marcus would never do that. Still... “Next time, you’ll be here, and there’ll be no need for video.”

  He laughed. “Damn straight.”

  And I breathed out a sigh of relief, that he didn’t think my response was odd.

  “All right, Dre, I gotta go. Gotta get cracking on these books before class.”

  “Of course,” I said quickly. “We’ll talk tomorrow?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”