“I’ll see you later,” he called out.
He glanced at his cell as he exited the bar. Chuck would be back in town in less than twenty-four hours and Jesse didn’t want to be a hungover, hot mess when Chuck showed up at his place.
They needed to talk.
Jesse riffled through an old issue of Sports Illustrated, stopping to glance at the byline of each photo and finding, just like Kam had said, Chuck’s name peppered throughout the glossy mag.
Chuck was stretched out on the couch, his feet crossed on the armrest and hands balancing his phone on his bare chest as he typed. Jesse cleared his throat and turned the pages more forcefully, with a loud thwack each time despite the flimsiness, but Chuck’s eyes stayed riveted to his phone. Jesse flipped to an action shot of a hockey player, blatantly stared at Chuck, and held the magazine up.
Chuck’s gaze flicked to Jesse, the corner of his lips tugged up, and he set his cell on the coffee table. “Meow?”
Jesse stared at him blankly, then roared with laughter. “Yeah, cat’s out of the bag, buddy.”
“Sorry I wasn’t the one to tell you.” Chuck sat up, scratching his stubble. “With as much as we’ve been talking, I’m honestly surprised it didn’t come up yet.”
“Well, you’ve been outed. Big time. What the fuck?”
Chuck ran his fingers through his hair, tousling it. “Are you seriously pissed?”
“Hell no! This shit is awesome. I gotta ask, though….”
Jesse took a deep breath. He wasn’t pissed that Chuck hadn’t told him about his previous job—the man’s business was his own. What was fucking with his head, though, was that a guy with that status, and likely the money that followed, could’ve used it as bait to get whatever man he wanted into bed.
He’d searched for even a hint of that persona when Chuck had knocked on his door last night, but once they were alone inside, Chuck had kissed him with confidence, not bravado. Then he’d thrown his hoodie over the arm of the couch, stripped down to nothing, and let Jesse take control. Jesse hadn’t really expected Chuck’s actions, or his own view of Chuck, to change at all—Chuck wasn’t a prick.
He simply couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that Chuck could’ve picked anyone, and yet he’d chosen Jesse.
“I don’t get it. I’m a salesman in a suburban shithole. Why…me?”
Chuck furrowed his brow like the question didn’t make sense. “Because I like you too, asshole.”
Jesse chuckled. It wasn’t exactly a romantic proclamation, but warmth spread through Jesse’s chest nonetheless.
“Listen. I should’ve told you. But people look at me differently when they know.”
“You thought I would?”
Chuck shook his head. “Charles Dunnbradley is my birth name, but it isn’t me. You know the real me, not that guy”—Chuck waved a hand dismissively over the stack of magazines—“and you still want me around.”
Now Jesse was even more confused. “You’re fucking with me, right? You have your shit together and I’m a closeted, out of shape—”
“Hey.”
Chuck’s gentle tone cut Jesse off immediately. Chuck stood and closed the distance between them, climbing into the chair with Jesse and straddling his hips. “Your body turns me on, Jesse. You turn me on. And I definitely don’t have my shit together.”
Jesse wrapped an arm around Chuck’s waist and pulled him closer. “You want to tell me about that?”
“Not now.” Chuck tipped his head and bit at his lip. “The rest of me is a canvas you’ll just have to unfurl.”
Jesse snorted. “Damn, you are an artist.”
“I’ll paint you in my cum later just to prove it.”
“That was a fucking awful line, Dunn.”
Chuck smirked. “I haven’t made any coffee yet, you want a cup? And maybe something to eat?”
Jesse glanced at the clock. “It’s too damn early for a full breakfast. I picked up real bagels and raspberry jam from the bakery on the way home yesterday, though. And there’s a box of green tea in the cupboard.”
“Fuck, you’re pinging my gaydar.”
“Good thing for you.”
Chuck leaned forward and kissed Jesse on the forehead. “Great thing for me.”
Jesse tilted his head up, coaxing Chuck’s lips to his. He dug his fingers into Chuck’s hips as Chuck’s mouth met his, that warmth infusing every inch of his body as they lazily kissed.
Chuck canted his hips, nudging up against Jesse’s thickening shaft. Jesse went for the button on Chuck’s jeans and popped it open, sliding his hand over warm skin and Chuck’s half-hard cock.
Chuck set his hands on Jesse’s chest and pushed away. He ran his tongue over his reddened lips and smiled. “Later. I need caffeine and food.”
Jesse thumped his head against the chair. Fuck food. It was the last thing on his mind when he had his hand wrapped around Chuck’s cock. But now that Chuck had said the word food, he couldn’t suppress the rumbling of his stomach.
Chuck poked at his belly. “See? Give me a couple minutes. We can be back at this in ten.”
He waved Chuck away with a frustrated scowl and sat back on the recliner. He’d just brought his boner under control when a knock echoed through the living room.
He glared at the front door, then at his cell—silent on the table next to him. It was barely seven a.m. There were less than a handful of options for who would be stopping by this early without calling first, and none of them sat well with Jesse. Especially with him wearing only boxers and Chuck—probably still rocking a semi—in his kitchen.
The knock came more insistent this time.
“I know you’re in there.” His sister tapped at the glass for effect, her blonde hair popping into his view as she jumped to get a look inside. “I may be short, but I can see the top of your head through the window.”
He sighed and got out of his chair. He flipped the deadbolt and opened the door partway, blocking her view to the rest of the house. He took a moment to run his gaze over her—checking for bruises or cuts and finding none—before slipping into the familiarity of sibling taunts. “What do you want, Em?”
She ducked under his arm and darted around him, laughing. “Can’t a sister just drop by to see her brother? You’re not returning my calls or my texts. Which means you’re avoiding me. And I know I didn’t do anything this time to bring out the Hulk. So, what the hell—”
She stopped mid-sentence as Chuck walked into the living room carrying a tray with two cups of tea and toasted bagels. Jesse’s face flamed as he noticed the fingertip-sized bruises on Chuck’s hips, visible over his low-slung jeans, the top button still open from when Jesse had yanked it open only minutes ago.
Emily cleared her throat and lifted an eyebrow.
Jesse’s gaze bounced between them. He was fucked. “Uh, Emily, this is Chuck. Chuck, my sister Emily.”
“Well, hello,” she purred.
Chuck held the tray out. “Tea?”
“I would love some.” She sauntered over and swiped a cup from the tray, then looked at Jesse and mouthed oh my god, before plopping down on the couch, a smirk plastered to her face.
Chuck gave Jesse an apologetic smile and placed the tray on the coffee table. “Bagel?” he offered Emily.
“Oh, you’re a keeper, Chuck.”
“Sit down,” Chuck said to Jesse as he walked by. “I’ll make more.”
Before Jesse could protest—he did not want to be left alone with his sister when she looked this self-satisfied—Chuck was already back in the kitchen.
“So. Chuck, huh?” Emily said as she sipped her tea.
Jesse dropped into his recliner, defeated.
“Never would have guessed it, bro. But if you’re letting him stick around long enough to make you breakfast then that’s the biggest commitment I’ve ever seen you make.”
“Nice,” he replied sarcastically. He couldn’t disagree.
She shrugged. “The tats are super sexy. And was
that a barbell in his nipple?”
“Shut up, Em.”
“Mom always tried to tell me that the day was much more productive when you got up early. Damn, she was right.”
Jesse scrubbed his hands over his face. “Please shut up.”
“She doesn’t know about this, does she?”
Jesse shot her a look that said what the fuck do you think?
“Interesting. Any of the boys know?”
“No,” Chuck answered as he casually strolled in, as if meeting the sister of his closeted boyfriend was a situation he regularly encountered.
Maybe it was. What did Jesse really know about him or his history? He’d just discovered Chuck was one of the gods of sports photography. What else was there he didn’t know?
Wait….
Boyfriend?
Where the fuck had that come from?
He realized that some time had passed with him sitting with his jaw hanging open, trapped in the waist-deep mire of his own thoughts, because Chuck was now sitting next to Emily on the couch telling her the stories of the tattoos on his sleeve.
“…This fading one was one of my first,” Chuck said. “I got it in the Netherlands at some booth at the side of the road. I was eighteen at the time and so stupid. I don’t want to get it touched up, though. That it will fade before any of the others is a story unto itself.”
“They’re beautiful,” Emily replied.
Jesse was shocked at the sincerity in her voice.
The two of them brushed shoulders as they talked and she ran her hand down his arm. Chuck would reach over every now and then and punctuate something he was saying with a gentle touch to her hand. She never flinched, never drew away. It was rare to see her this unguarded with a stranger, especially a male one.
Jesse took a deep breath. Could being with Chuck really be this easy? Chuck had a calming aura about him. And he was charming. So fucking charming. Jesse tried to imagine what it would be like for the Kensington boys to know Chuck as his boyfriend and not just as Kam’s co-worker or a guy who played backup quarterback in their league. Chuck and he sharing a pitcher at McLoughlin’s with everyone knowing the two of them were heading home together. Being able to kiss the man whenever he wanted. To grab his ass when Chuck gave him one of those irresistible, dimple-popping grins. Would his friends be able to watch that without flinching or looking at him with disgust written across their faces?
The thought twisted his gut. He wasn’t ready to find out. He didn’t know when, or if, he would be able to ever tell them.
He hadn’t said a word yet when Emily stood. “I have to get going. It was so good to meet you, Chuck.” She slapped Jesse across the back of the head. “And you. Answer my fucking calls.” She leaned down and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. But he couldn’t budge from the leather recliner. His skin, slick with sweat, stuck him fast to the chair.
Chuck walked her to the door, gave her a hug, then clicked the lock back into place when she was gone. He turned to Jesse, leaning his back against the door. “I like your sister.”
“You may be the only one.”
“I doubt that highly. She’s pretty.”
“Looks like my mom,” Jesse answered. His head was still swirling.
“Then your mom must be a looker.”
Jesse startled. “Did you just say my mom is a hooker?”
Chuck roared with laughter. “Looker, not hooker! You in there? You didn’t say one word while she was here.”
“She just took me by surprise.”
“And you didn’t want her to meet me.”
Jesse opened his mouth to protest but couldn’t. Chuck was right.
“It’s okay,” Chuck said. “After our last conversation about this, I’m clear on your feelings about coming out. Don’t worry, I don’t think she’ll say anything.”
Jesse cocked his head. The ease at which Chuck was accepting this was in complete contradiction to their phone conversation. “Okay…?”
“Relax. I’m here, right? Even after your declaration that you may or may not be queer….” Chuck shrugged. “I think there was something we were going to get to in ten minutes that Emily interrupted. Something that is very queer, if memory serves me right.”
Chuck licked his lips.
Was Chuck really going to let him off this easy?
As if he was reading Jesse’s mind, Chuck slowly unzipped his jeans and stepped out of them. He hadn’t bothered to put on a pair of underwear this morning and his cock sprang free, ready.
Apparently, it was going to be that easy. Jesse beckoned Chuck with a wave of his hand.
Chuck crossed the room in slow steps until he was standing just out of arm’s reach.
Chuck’s cock still glistened from the lube they’d used this morning. His abs flexed and his cock bobbed, hypnotizing Jesse.
Jesse had no idea where this relationship was going. All he knew was that he craved the man in front of him more than he had anyone else. And as Chuck straddled his legs, pulling Jesse’s dick out of his boxers and bringing their lengths together in his hand, Jesse decided that, for now, savoring every second Chuck gave him was all that really mattered.
5
Ashton’s gloved fist slammed against the punching bag, the thud echoing through the gym, hit by punishing hit. Chuck circled the bag, snapping shots of Kam training the smallest member of the East Side Warriors Boxing Club. Ashton, Ash for short, was a scrawny sixteen-year-old kid who packed way more power in his jab than Chuck would’ve expected. The cinched tight boxing shorts on Ashton’s waist hung loosely from his hips down, accentuating his stick-thin legs.
Ashton, as Chuck had learned from the interview he’d done with him a few months ago, was a drug baby who was still suffering the consequences of his mother’s former addiction. It was hard for him to keep on weight, hard for him to eat, and it took more time for him to learn and more effort to pay attention in school. At least it had until he started working with the boxing club.
His improvement was marginal—to anyone else, it might not have been worth noting at all—but the kid’s blue eyes shined with pride when he shared that he’d gained five pounds and could eat a whole Quarter Pounder from McDonald’s now. His fair skin flushed with excitement when he talked about his new friends at school, and the family, the brothers, he’d found at the club. His wide smile was electric when he looked at Kam at the end of each session and told him thank you.
It was brilliant stuff. Provocative, moving, and damn humbling.
Ashton had been handed a shit life. Forced into accommodating the deficits created even before his birth by an addict mother and a nonexistent father. But he kept fighting—literally and figuratively—and every day, inch by excruciating inch, pound by hard-won pound, he was bringing about change in his own life. The small things mattered to him, just like they did for every kid in Kam’s boxing club. As did their honor, their loyalty to each other, and honest recognition of just how fucked their lives could be if they let them be that way. But they wanted more. They strived for more.
They didn’t make excuses and they didn’t ask for rest.
They just kept fighting.
Chuck had been in awe of them since the beginning. But, as he’d gotten to know the Warriors better, he’d realized that this gig wasn’t just about rediscovering his passion, it was learning from them that real passion meant infusing your whole life with a fire that made you awake and aware for every second you were granted.
They weren’t just alive in the ring or in sparring sessions. He documented them at school, at home, out with friends, and that fire never left their eyes—even when the gloves came off.
Chuck had had to fight too, but not in the same way. Unlike them, he'd grown up in privilege. Wealthy and virtually unaware that there were others in the world that had way less than he did. The best schools, the best clothes…. Every wish of his was granted without thought—as long as that wish could be bought. Above all e
lse, he’d strived to earn the love of his parents. It had been the strongest driving force in his life growing up.
Until the night he’d ended up in the back of a police car when his dad discovered Chuck was gay.
He’d felt a change coming before the night of the fight with his dad, and he’d already deferred his college enrollment, cashing out his savings before his parents could take it away. Their high-priced lawyers had argued in court that it wasn’t his money at all, but at least the judge had sided with him on one thing. After a brief but memorable stint in county lockup, he’d traveled to Europe, met Adalric there, and…everything had changed.
He’d started taking pictures of Adalric as reminders, love poems of a sort, but had fallen deeper in love with the art of sports instead. Then, when a journalist saw the photos and contracted a couple for her magazine, his career was born.
When Adalric became an on-again-off-again relationship because of his rise to a professional basketball player, Chuck’s career became his life. He’d gone to the top as a sports photographer because his work had defined him. He’d lived on planes, in stadiums, arenas, and locker rooms. He’d had a face that people seemed to trust, and he’d used it as his biggest advantage, eventually scooping stories that had more to do with athlete’s bedrooms and drug habits than their on-the-field greatness.
He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when his work had slipped from National Geographic quality to National Enquirer—when gossip had become more important than capturing the inherent power and beauty of athletics. He’d lost his eye for the art. Lost his passion. But his bosses hadn’t cared because his photos were pushing sales and filling their, and his, bank account.
However, he knew exactly the moment when he’d woken up to the reality of who he’d become—as he’d stood outside a rundown motel in a suburb of Danbury watching the league’s most prominent quarterback kiss his boyfriend goodbye. Hands sliding down their arms and to their fingertips as they parted, shoulders hunched forward in defeat, neither of them daring one look back, for cars in opposite directions. Lives in opposite directions. Because the league, the players, and the fans wouldn’t be able to handle that one of their own wasn’t straight.
Out of the Shade Page 6