Tell Me It's Real

by TJ Klune

  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 f
ace. “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.