by Roan Parrish
“You do care.”
“Of course I fucking care if my own father thinks I’m disgusting.”
“Is that what he thinks? That your brother is disgusting?”
“I don’t—look, why are we even talking about this? Are you, like, obsessed with my brother or what? You keep bringing him up.”
“No. I’m not obsessed with your brother.” He gives me this long, amused look, but I don’t know what’s so fucking funny.
“Anyway, thanks for the food.”
“Come here.” He pushes his chair back and stands up.
“Why?”
“Come here, Colin.”
So fucking bossy. I glare at him and he comes to me instead. As he gets closer, my stomach flips and my neck feels hot. This close, the air between us is so charged it seems alive.
He takes my hand and my heart starts to pound.
“I know you feel it.” Rafe’s voice is so soft it’s almost a whisper. My gaze jumps to his face and I can’t mistake the heat in his eyes.
“Feel what?”
“This.” Rafe closes the distance between us, looking at me intently. I look away.
“This,” he insists, and before I know what’s happening, he backs me up against the wall.
My breath comes in a gasp, but it’s not my stupid breathing thing. It’s something very different.
Rafe’s eyes go sleepy and dangerous, his gaze tracking down my body as he presses up against me. I close my eyes. It’s too much. I’m shaking my head and I didn’t even realize it.
“This.” He runs his palm from my neck to my chest to my stomach, and I’m shivering, so freaked out and so turned on that I don’t know what to do. I close my eyes and tip my head back against the wall.
“Tell me what you want,” he says in my ear.
I’m shaking my head again, but lifting my chin, trying to get him to just kiss me. To get us out of this awkward damned position.
“Do you want this?” He squeezes my hips, pulling me into him, and I gasp as I feel the evidence that he wants me. I shake my head over and over, because I’ll be damned if I’m having this conversation right now, and each time I do, he pulls away and I chase his heat, angling my face toward him and then away.
I’m nothing but points of electricity threatening to fly apart. Rafe groans and leans his hands on the wall on either side of my head, his breath hot on my neck, his erection pressing into my stomach.
“I need you to make a decision, Colin. I need to know you want this. I won’t do it any other way.”
I pull him closer to me but then drop my arms. I’m so turned on I can barely breathe. Every inch of us is pressed together, from chests to feet, and I feel like if he doesn’t kiss me, I’ll stop breathing completely. He’d crush me against the wall and kiss me so hard it’d bruise. Pull me against him in a whirlwind of sensation that would go to my head like whiskey on an empty stomach, lighting me up and slowing me down and warming me through and through.
Instead, he’s talking again.
“Colin,” he says, his lips soft in front of my ear, “tell me.”
I want to hit him. Yell at him. He knows what I want—I can tell he does. The sound that comes out of my mouth is more groan than yell. Rafe pulls back, one hand on my shoulder, the other on my neck. His voice is almost mournful.
“Call me when you’re ready to tell me what I need to hear,” he says, his eyes on fire and his hands hot on my skin. And goddamn him, he kisses me gently on the cheek and brushes the spot with his thumb. Then, with a tight jaw, he turns his back and leaves.
5
Chapter 5
The second I step in the door, the kids are on me, Rafe trailing defeatedly behind them.
I texted Rafe last night to make sure we were still on for the workshop even though I hadn’t told him anything about… what he needed to hear. Though there was no way I was touching that one, I’d been picturing Ricky, black-tipped fingers tapping her skinny hips in anticipation of what she’d learn; Anders, maybe, like me, wanting the distraction that working on the car would provide. I’d wanted to see if DeShawn would be wearing all white again, and if Mikal’s brightly colored outfits always matched his lip gloss.
He wrote back almost immediately: Definitely. Looking forward to it, Colin. Just a warning, though—the kids have decided on your nickname & I don’t think you’re going to like it.
What is it?
I won’t steal their thunder. But there was dissent in the ranks.
Mysterious, I wrote back, and I found myself grinning.
“Twilight!” Carlos exclaims, like he’s trying it out. Immediately, the rest of the kids start talking at once, but I can’t make any of it out.
“Uh. What?” I look to Rafe for clarification, but he’s got his forehead in his hand, massaging his temples.
“Twilight,” Carlos says again, as if this means something.
“Your new nickname,” Rafe says through a tight smile. “Welcome.”
“Well, we couldn’t call you James,” Sammi or Tynesha says. I think it’s Sammi; she’s taller. “It’s a stupid nickname, ’cause, like, it’s an actual name.”
“Uh, who is James? What are we talking about?”
Mikal comes forward and takes my arm; I resist the urge to jerk out of his grasp, but he must feel me tense because he takes a step back. His T-shirt is purple with black splotches on it and it has a row of gold spikes on each shoulder. Tight jeans bag a little around his skinny thighs and threaten to fall off his hips. He hitches them up, then puts that hand on one hip and looks up at me.
“James is a character from Twilight. It’s a movie about—”
“It’s a book, Mikal,” Dorothy calls from across the room. “A stupid book,” she adds.
“Fine, dear,” Mikal says, rolling his eyes. “It’s a book about this vampire who falls in love with a human girl, and….” He shivers, hugging himself. “And they’re, like, made for each other because he can’t hear her thoughts.”
“Oh wait, is this that movie where the vampire dude sparkles?” The preview for it came on once a few years ago while we were all watching TV at Pop’s, and Sam admitted that Liza really liked it.
Rafe’s eyes meet mine over the kids’ heads and he smiles. It’s a strange, private smile, and it does something to my stomach.
“Omigod, you know it?! That’s totally a sign, you guys!” Mikal is practically swooning with excitement.
“So, wait, you think I look like that sparkly dude?”
“No, no.” Sammi—I’m pretty sure it’s Sammi—wrinkles her nose. “Not Edward; James. You look just like him.” She points to me. “Especially when you squint your eyes like that.” She looks to the group for confirmation and Mikal and Tynesha nod emphatically, staring at me. I try to stop doing whatever I’m doing with my face.
“Y’all’re nuts,” a voice says from the back. It’s one of the kids who came for the first time last week. I think her name is Mischa. She stands out in this group because she looks like she should be playing soccer in an orange juice commercial or something. She doesn’t dress interestingly like Mikal or DeShawn; she doesn’t have dyed hair or piercings or tattoos, like Ricky and Dorothy. Hell, even Gap Model looks… um, gay. At least, he does now that I know he is.
Mischa has straight honey-blonde hair pulled back in a smooth ponytail, a slight tan, and light blue eyes. She isn’t pretty, exactly, just really healthy looking. She’s wearing a green tank top and jeans and looks completely, blandly normal.
She moves closer, assessing me.
“He’s not James; he’s totally Dean.”
“Dude, you just want it to be true because Castiel has your name,” says Gap Model—Edward, I correct myself.
“Dude,” Mischa shoots back, “you just want him to be Twilight because Edward has your name.”
I look to Rafe again and his shoulders are slumped a little, like we’ve gone to a place he would’ve liked to avoid.
“Wait,” I say, “James
Dean? I can live with that.”
A few of them smile, but the rest look at me blankly.
“James Dean,” I repeat. “James Dean?” I look to Rafe who shakes his head, amused.
“You guys have to know James Dean. He was a total badass. But mostly because he had a totally epic car story. He bought this Porsche 550 Spyder: a really cool little car that looks kinda like a bullet. James Dean loved cars; he did some racing too. Anyway, the story is that he showed the car to Alec Guinness—”
I look around at them and don’t see recognition on any face except Rafe’s. At least he looks interested.
“Alec Guinness.” Nothing. “You guys. Alec Guinness? Obi-Wan Kenobi?” Some of them nod. “Anyway, apparently he showed Alec Guinness the car and Guinness took one look at it and said he thought the car was evil and if James Dean drove it he’d be dead in a week. And he was. Exactly one week later, he crashed the Spyder into another car, out in California, and the car just crumpled.”
Rafe has perked up and he’s giving me a warning look. Uh, yeah, I guess describing gruesome car accidents to kids isn’t totally on point.
“Um, anyway, people think the car is haunted because after he died, anyone who came in contact with it got in a car crash or had some tragedy.”
“Shut. Up.” It’s Mischa again, but she doesn’t sound upset; she sounds disbelieving. “Oh my god, y’all, it’s perfect!” She’s looking at the group. “I am so right I can’t even stand myself right now!”
“Oh shit,” says Dorothy. “I get it. It’s that one episode.”
“Uh, yeah!”
“Which episode?” Carlos asks.
“Dean and Dean!” Mischa says. “Ohmychrist, I didn’t know it was about a real person, though. Okay, so, it’s the one where Sam and Dean are tracking this, like, cursed car that kills everyone who owns it and Dean’s all excited because of James Dean—that makes so much more sense now—and they have to look at the engine to see if it’s the real car, and then later they’re at the wax museum—omigod, so good because—”
“The one with Paris Hilton in the wax museum!” Mikal chimes in.
“Yes, where it’s so funny because in real life Sam was in that House of Wax movie with Paris Hilton, right?”
“Oh shit, I didn’t even think of that,” Mikal says, grabbing Mischa’s hands and almost jumping up and down with her. “And Dean and James Dean and cars and—” He looks at me and back to Mischa. “And he is all about cars and he knew about James Dean and the haunted car!”
I have absolutely no idea what’s going on.
The rest of the kids have been following this exchange like a tennis volley, heads snapping back and forth between Mikal and Mischa.
Finally, Dorothy nods. “Damn, Mischa’s right.”
And it’s like her word is law because everything stops. Mikal pulls out an iPhone crusted with glitter and those plastic gemstone things.
“Final ruling,” he says, and after flipping around on the phone for a few seconds, he holds the screen up to the group. They all look at the screen, then at me, even Rafe.
“Damn,” says Carlos. “You are right.” He shakes his head at Mischa. “Look at what he’s wearing right now.”
I look down at my jeans, black T-shirt, and black work boots.
“Winchester,” Carlos drawls, in the same voice he used to greet me with “Twilight” a few minutes before. “Yeah, that’s got a ring to it.”
“Uh, like the rifle?” I say.
“Supernatural,” DeShawn says when no one else answers me, too caught up in talking about… whatever the hell they’re talking about.
“Huh?”
“It’s a TV show about two brothers, Sam and Dean Winchester, who drive all around the country fighting supernatural forces.”
“Oh. Well, one of my brothers is named Sam,” I offer.
Mikal and Mischa look like they might die of excitement.
“Oh. My. God,” Mischa whispers. “This is the best thing.”
“Hey,” says Carlos, nudging Mischa. “Tell him the car.”
“It’s a 1967 Chevy Impala.”
“You know cars?” I ask Mischa. She rolls her eyes.
“No, duh. On the show.”
“The car Sam and Dean drive is a Chevy Impala,” DeShawn explains, bless him.
“Oh yeah. Cool car,” I say, picturing it. “Triple tail lights. Sixty-seven, you said? Nice. The X-frame gets replaced by a full perimeter frame, angled windshield, full-coil suspension, Coke-bottle styling….”
Ricky, who hasn’t said anything during this conversation about Twilight and whatever the hell show they’re talking about, perks up when I start describing the ’67 Impala, but everyone else looks dazed and I trail off.
“So, um, you think I look like this dude who drives an Impala and fights supernatural forces? That’s pretty cool, I guess. Way better than some sparkly vampire.”
Mikal fits himself to my side and holds up his phone for me to see. On the cracked screen is the guy they’ve been looking at. He’s wearing jeans, black work boots, and a black T-shirt, and is standing in front of a sweet four-door hardtop Impala. He has my coloring, though his hair’s darker than mine. And I guess I can see the resemblance. Honestly, though, this guy is way better-looking than me. I give the phone back to Mikal. They’re all looking at me expectantly, except Ricky, who’s staring off into space.
“Uh, okay?” I say. Mischa grins and Mikal winks at me. Even Dorothy’s smile looks satisfied, and Carlos is nodding like order has been restored.
“Okay,” he says. “Twilight’s out and Winchester’s in.”
Rafe mumbles something I can’t make out.
“What’s that, Conan?” Carlos says.
“I said his nickname’s better than mine.” Rafe looks like one of the kids, slouching with his hands in his pockets.
“Aw, Conan, don’t pout,” Carlos teases, and Rafe straightens up, back in control.
“So,” I say, “we gonna actually look at the car or just talk about them?”
Ricky starts walking toward the car before I’m even done with the question, and we follow her.
We’re talking through how to do an oil change when Rafe puts a hand on my upper arm, causing me to break out in goose bumps despite the warm weather.
“Hey, I need to go deal with something,” he says, low, nodding to the doorway where someone is looking toward us expectantly. “Will you be okay by yourself for a bit?”
“Yeah, course.” I try to focus on the car instead of the line of Rafe’s back as he walks away, but before I can get back to what I was saying, the kids clump in around me. At first I think it’s to see better, but only Ricky is still focused on what’s going on under the hood.
“Okay, Winchester,” Carlos says. “Spill.”
“Huh?” I look down to the oil pan to see if I spilled, but I haven’t started to drain it yet.
“Are you dating Rafe or what?”
“What?” I say, my heart starting to pound and a coil of sick fear unfurling in my gut. “No!” DeShawn is shaking his head at the group, but the rest of them are still waiting like I haven’t said anything. I start to cross my arms and catch myself just before I get oil from my hands all over myself. “Why do you think that? Why do you even think I’m…? I mean, I thought you had plenty of straight volunteers.”
“We have a few,” Mikal says, looking confused as to why I’d bring this up.
“So, why do you think, like… um.”
“Why do we think you’re gay?” Carlos chimes in.
The word hits like a fist.
“Not cool, man,” DeShawn says softly, shaking his head again.
“What—I’m just asking,” Carlos says. “Winchester ain’t gotta answer if he doesn’t want. Right, Winchester?”
I don’t know what to say. The kids are looking at me and now it’s like what they need from me has nothing to do with cars and everything to do with me. With something that I don’t know how to give them. Ander
s, who hasn’t said anything all day, is looking at me expectantly. Dorothy, arms crossed over her chest, has her eyes narrowed at me like I’m disappointing her.
Like I’m pathetic and a liar.
And I guess she’s right. These kids are all here to be honest about who they are. And they’re kids. I’m a grown man and I can’t even say it out loud to a bunch of teenagers. Pathetic.
“Hey, man,” Carlos says, and his voice is gentle, like he’s sensed that he upset me. “It’s cool. You don’t have to talk about it either way.” Nice kid, giving me an out. “It’s not like I’d think you were gay if I saw you walking down the street or anything,”
“Definitely not,” Dorothy scoffs after looking me up and down, somehow managing to make it sound like a bad thing.
“Yeah, but, I mean, you wouldn’t think that about Rafe either, right?” adds Mikal.
He’s certainly right about that.
“So, then, why…?” I start again, but stop, unsure if I want to know the answer.
“It’s how Rafe looks at you,” Carlos says, sounding serious now. “How, like, in tune you guys are.” The rest of the kids all nod, even DeShawn, who stops himself the moment he notices he’s doing it.
I can feel my chest heat up and hope that it doesn’t show above my collar. I want to know how exactly Rafe looks at me, but I can’t ask.
“Totally,” says Mischa. “It’s like he’s completely focused on you. Protective.”
“Possessive,” says Mikal, and he mock swoons against Mischa’s shoulder.
“And Rafe would never go for a straight guy,” Carlos says.
“How do you know?”
I could kick myself the second the words are out of my mouth. I can’t believe I’m pumping a bunch of kids for information about Rafe’s love life. Ugh. My stomach tightens at just the thought of Rafe loving someone else. Like Javier—perfect, revered Javier: the ghost I could never hope to compete with. I shake my head in disgust.