by Kelly Jensen
An angry pout pinched his nephew’s small mouth. “Why don’t you just go out and do your thing?”
Because he was trying to accomplish something here, even if it didn’t make sense. He and Mal weren’t together or anything, so heading out to the Frog or the Pig (and why were so many bars in Morristown named after animals? Must be a farm thing) wouldn’t be cheating. So why did it feel like it might be?
Going to the Colonial tonight would be cheating, though—on his deal with Mal. Why was that important?
Then there was Josh. Between New Year’s and getting him into Morristown High, they’d spent a lot of time together and it hadn’t been terrible. And he couldn’t help feeling that being here for Josh was more important than anything else he had going on right now.
“The only plans I have for tonight are watching whatever this is with you. So can we—”
“Why?”
Brian pushed his fingers into his hair. “Because—”
“You don’t need to watch me. I’m not going to run away.”
Brian peeked up at his nephew, dropped his hands, and sighed. “I figured if we spent more time together, you’d be more comfortable here.” Would now be the right time to bring up the GSA? “What other things do you like to do? Have you thought about joining any of the clubs at school?”
“I dunno.”
“Help me out here, Josh. I’m trying.”
“I like art.”
An idea materialized out of the tattered remnants of their Friday night. “How about if we head up to Newark for the day tomorrow?”
“I do not want to visit my mom.”
“We won’t go near your neighborhood.” Though maybe a drive-by could be worked into the schedule. “I’ve got a friend living up there and she’s an artist. Really talented. We could check out her stuff, hang around her studio. She’s putting together a new exhibit, so we could be the first ones to see some of her new paintings.”
“What’s her name?”
“Vanessa Smart.”
“You know Vanessa Smart?”
“You’ve heard of her?”
“She’s, like, amazing.” Josh’s face animated, making him look not so much alive as actually engaged with the act of living. “Her work is so intricate. It’s, like, deconstructed but not. Like putting a microscope to reality.”
What? “You mean that series where she painted the inner workings of mechanical things?”
“All her work is like that. It’s all inner workings.”
“Huh.”
“Do you even like art?” Josh asked, his tone full of teenage skepticism.
“I don’t know a lot about it, to be honest. But I really like Vanessa’s stuff. So, listen, ah, how about if we get away around ten? I’ll text Ness, make sure she’ll be around. We can do lunch and visit with her.”
Josh’s expression brightened, and Brian decided that even if it was more due to the mention of Vanessa than the prospect of spending a day with his uncle, he’d take it.
Tension shot down Brian’s legs, pointing his toes as he fisted his cock and squeezed, pausing in the lazy stroke he’d been idling with for some time—from sleepiness to wakefulness. He’d brought himself off last night, trying not to think about Mal. This morning’s session would likely feature the same blend of non-thought and restraint that often made things . . . harder.
Since when was denial his kink?
Loosening his grip, he stroked the length of his shaft before running his fingers over the tip, letting skin drag against damp skin—enjoying the tease. Collecting a bead of pre-come, he slicked his fingers and glided back down, squeezed, and stroked back up. Down, squeeze, up, pull, twist, drag, down, squeeze. He established a rhythm, thought about how he hadn’t had Mal yet—had yet to feel Mal’s lips around his cock, though he could imagine them. There was something sensual about Mal. The way he enjoyed cream in his coffee and rich, dark beers. He’d savor a blowjob. Lick and suck and make a meal of it.
Oh God.
Positioning might be difficult. Mal could hardly get to his knees. He’d have to lie on his back, as Brian currently was, propped up on a couple of pillows, face at the right height for Brian to straddle his torso. To thrust forward and meet Mal’s mouth. To fuck his face—gently and sweetly at first, teasing Mal’s lips with his cockhead, painting them with desire. Then to press forward, easing himself inside that envelope of warmth. Feeling the touch of Mal’s teeth as he tucked them out of the way. Filling his mouth, touching the back of his throat. Nudging that constriction and gasping at the flutter and close.
Forgoing the twist at the top, Brian opted for a simple squeeze, imitating the imagined pressure of Mal’s throat. The suction of his mouth and lips. The quick slide in and out. His balls tightened, his legs strained again. His toes curled. Then his hips rose up off the bed, and he came, jetting through the crosshatch of his fingers, his yell muffled by the press of his forearm. He bit his arm, sucking at sleep-warm flesh until several quakes had moved through him. Until his hips stopped jerking and the delicious torpor of a good orgasm stilled his legs.
He hoped his date with Mal led to sex. If it didn’t, he was going to wear the skin off his cock with twice-daily pulls.
Half an hour later, showered, dressed, and nibbling on a slice of toast, he greeted a sleepy Josh, who gave him a side-eye as he leaned into the fridge to grab a prepackaged soy something.
“You sure jerk off a lot,” Josh said. Might have said to the interior of the refrigerator.
“What?”
“You could bring someone back, you know. I wouldn’t freak out.”
“I . . .” Too embarrassed to blush, Brian furrowed his brow. “Do you— Has someone talked to you about sex?”
“Yeah.”
“Listen, what you said at school on Monday, when you walked in on me and Mal?” How to phrase this? “That’s not what being gay is about. I’m not a walking hit machine.”
“A what?” Josh closed the fridge, soy smoothie in hand.
“A testosterone factory.”
“Uh—”
“I know everyone thinks gay men are always having sex, but this gay man is not, okay?”
“You’re making me uncomfortable.”
“I’m sorry. I just . . . I want to answer questions if you have them.” And to talk you into going to this GSA thing with me.
“Okay.”
“Okay.” Subject closed. “So, when will you be ready to leave?”
Another half hour saw them on the road, along with the rest of New Jersey. Where the heck was everyone going on a cold Saturday morning in January? Brian had a mental list of topics to discuss on the drive, which could take up to an hour if everyone kept slowing down to rubberneck at accidents on the other side of the interstate. He might try 280 on the way home.
“So . . .” God, he’d become one of those people who started every sentence with so. Clearing his throat, Brian continued, “So, how was your first week at Morristown High?” He stopped short of asking if Josh had made any friends because he remembered how such questions felt. Even asking about Josh’s week might border on intrusive.
When Josh didn’t answer, Brian glanced over to find him plugged into his new cell phone. Above the sound of traffic, he could hear the thin beat of whatever Josh was listening to. Sighing, Brian indicated a lane change and navigated around another slowdown.
“I was chatting with Mal—Mr. Montgomery. Do you call him Mr. M. or something? I wonder if he ever compares himself to M in the Bond movies? Though, his profession is completely different, so that’d be stupid. Jesus, my brain is weird. So, anyway, he’s heading up this club for gay kids. And straight kids. And I sort of volunteered to help out. You want to come along? It’s Monday afternoon.”
As Brian had supposed, Josh heard none of what he’d said. Josh did glance over once, frowned at Brian’s moving lips, and turned back to his phone.
Great. Terrific. Why did people have kids?
The urge to call Simon w
as short-lived, even if his ex did currently have the experience of living with a teenager. Charlie had a daughter, and their house often harbored a cluster of young people. Brian liked Charlie’s daughter. She had a lot of personality. She also made him feel somewhat inadequate, however, and because he couldn’t explain that, he pretty much avoided thinking about it. And if he did call Simon, Simon would probably tell him to google it. Or link him to articles he could have found himself.
Maybe he could ask Mal. Mal spent all day, every day with kids Josh’s age.
Duh. Why didn’t you think of that before?
Brian banged his hands on the wheel.
“What?”
He glanced over at Josh. “Now you listen?”
“You’re banging the wheel.”
“I was struck with inspiration.”
“Okay.”
“We’ll be there in a few minutes.” Don’t ask if he’s excited. “So . . .” Jesus fucking Christ. “Have you been to one of Vanessa’s shows before? How did you hear about her?”
“She visited our school a couple years ago.” In went the earbuds.
“Nice chat.”
Ten minutes later, Vanessa opened the door and greeted Brian with her customary smile and smacking kiss to his lips. Brian hugged her tight, inhaling the familiar scent of perfume and Vanessa, his oldest friend. He loved this woman. Would marry her if she wasn’t always getting married to someone else. Also, he’d suck as a husband. He had no interest in sex with Vanessa and a lot of interest in sex with other people. Men. Mal, currently.
“You must be Josh,” Vanessa was saying to his pink-cheeked nephew. “The color of your hair is fantastic! How long ago did you dye it?”
Josh did a little gaping.
“And I cannot get over how much like Brian you are. It’s like being transported back a hundred years.”
“Which would make you as old as I am,” Brian put in.
Vanessa, of course, looked amazing and ten years younger than he did.
Putting her hand around Josh’s shoulder, she guided him up the stairs and into her studio, a light-filled space that encompassed nearly the entire top floor of the house. Brian followed.
They were across Elizabeth Avenue from Weequahic Park, light-years from where he’d grown up, but only a few miles in actual fact. Brian didn’t visit Vanessa often—he found the reminder of where he’d come from both nostalgic and painful. Mostly painful. After he’d been kicked out, he’d lived in this house with Vanessa and her uncle Tristan for a handful of years before college. They’d been good years, despite the fact that Tristan had been slowly dying the whole time. But Tristan had done his best to convince Brian that life was worth living, and now, some thirty years later, Brian had to agree. Still, returning to Elizabeth Avenue was always hard—even more so than simply being in Newark—and Brian often wondered why Vanessa had remained. Of course, she hadn’t had his start. And she’d always had Tristan. Maybe she’d dulled pain of his loss by continuing to live here, even after Tristan’s death.
Brian was unaware he’d made a sound until Vanessa touched his arm. Had he sighed? Hopefully it had only been a sigh. As though she sensed his thoughts, she squeezed his arm and gave him the special smile that had made and kept their friendship. “Wait here.”
Vanessa abandoned them in the middle of the large attic room, where two couches faced each other over a coffee table piled high with books and magazines. All of the walls were hung with her paintings. One also had a row of low counters and cabinets, which was where she stored her tools. Adjacent to her work space were the windows overlooking the park, and the source of most of the light. Large skylights opened up the sloping ceiling so that even on the darkest days, Vanessa barely needed to turn on a light. She had lights, though, clustered over the half of the attic devoted to her easels and tables.
She’d disappeared into one of the two rooms at the back that she used to store her work.
While Brian worked to steady his breathing—no more sighing!—Josh wandered toward the half-finished painting on the closest easel. “I can’t believe I’m actually here. Do you think she’d let me take a couple of pictures?” He had his phone in his hand.
“Probably. Maybe not the unfinished stuff, but I don’t know. I’ve never asked.”
“How come you don’t have any of her paintings at your place if you’re such good friends?”
“I do. I just haven’t hung them up. I’ve only been in that house for . . .” Two years. “I had them hanging in my old place.”
“My art is in a box? For shame, Brian.” Vanessa popped out of the storage room, carrying two small canvases.
Brian recognized the frames. “Oh, no. Ness. Don’t show him those.”
Grinning evilly, Vanessa held out the two portraits for Josh to see. “Me and Brian, age . . .” She glanced over her shoulder. “God, were we seventeen? Eighteen?”
Brian reached out to snatch the portrait he’d done, the crime against art he’d painted so long ago. “I cannot believe you kept these.”
“I kept all your art.”
“What do you mean ‘all’?”
“I have your sketchbooks too.”
“You are no longer my best friend.”
Vanessa laughed. “So you keep trying to tell me. Find someone else who will put up with you for as long as I have and we’ll visit that topic again.” She hadn’t let go of his painting, and Josh was studying it and comparing it to Vanessa’s portrait of Brian, which even then showed what would become her style: messy blocks of color that could look like nothing so much as a cut-up picture pasted back together again. Badly. But also showed exactly what it was meant to be: a face. An impossibly young face framed by dark-purple hair and big blue eyes.
“You had purple hair?” Josh asked, glancing up at Brian.
Cheeks heating, Brian reached for his picture again. “For a while.”
“And green and blue, something like yours. Orange. Black. Do you remember your black phase?” Vanessa asked.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Josh turned his attention back to Brian’s painting. Brian’s style was much more realistic than Vanessa’s—something he’d struggled with and probably the reason he’d given up on art. He’d never been able to get anything to look exactly as it should and had never grasped why you would paint a scene other than realistically, even though he could appreciate Vanessa’s style for what it was. But he’d never had any real talent. His lines were timid and his perspective off. He had an easier time with buildings. Plans. Square things.
Josh’s lips pressed together and apart. Then he glanced up. “You were good.”
Snorting, Brian pointed toward Vanessa’s latest canvas. “If you want good, check out Vanessa’s stuff.”
An hour passed with Vanessa allowing Josh to take pictures of whatever he wanted. Apparently she posted regular updates of her works in progress online. They chatted art and music and food while Brian made affirmative noises when called upon. He envied the ease with which Vanessa bonded with his nephew, and was grateful for it at the same time. Josh was obviously having a good day, and that meant Brian was having a good day.
When Josh excused himself to use the bathroom, Vanessa sidled up next to Brian and put her arm around his waist, snuggling in close as she always did. “He’s adorable.”
“Today he is.”
“Have you stopped looking for somewhere to send him?” Vanessa arched her eyebrows in question, while eyes dared him to say no.
Brian shrugged and she smiled.
“I like seeing you like this,” she said.
“Like what?”
“With family. With Josh. He likes you.”
“I’m sure he does.”
“No. He . . . Be nice to him, Bri. I get the feeling you’re the only thing standing between him and you know what.”
Brian grimaced lightly. “That’s because I am.”
“So you know how important what you’re doing is.”
�
��That’s why I brought him here today.”
Her smile widened. “I’m glad you did. You don’t visit me often enough.”
“Yeah, well.”
Sobering slightly, Vanessa gave him another hug. “It’s okay to let go, Brian. You know that, right? You can’t hold on to everything forever.”
He wanted to tell her he had let go—of a lot. This house, for instance. But as quickly as the thought occurred, a second replaced it. He’d never encouraged a friendship between Vanessa and Simon, and this was why. Just as he’d always kept one condo empty, he liked to keep spaces between the compartments of his life. Vanessa here, with his past, Simon . . . There was no Simon. Not anymore. Was it because of this . . . this feeling welling up inside him now? The memory of himself at Josh’s age? A younger version of himself. The self he had only ever shared with one person, the woman hugging him so tightly right now?
And if he was going to be doing all this thinking—it must be Vanessa’s perfume. She always smelled like a fresh spring morning after the rain . . . If he was going to keep thinking along these lines, examining the rights and wrongs, then which part of himself was he going to share with Mal?
Or was that something else he should let go of?
Once again sensing his thoughts, Vanessa pressed a kiss to his cheek. Brian sighed—purposefully this time—and rested his forehead against hers.
Mal surveyed the nearly empty classroom and wondered again, for the fifty-seventh time, if he and Ethan would be the only people attending the GSA meeting that afternoon.
“Maybe they didn’t get the room change,” Ethan suggested.
Where is your mom? Mal wanted to ask, but didn’t. Brian would be here. Brian was late, but he struck Mal as the sort of guy who didn’t leave someone hanging. Not intentionally, anyway.
The door opened and a familiar blond head poked through. Mal let out a sigh of relief. So they’d have a GSA meeting with one straight kid. At least Brian hadn’t let him down.
Brian lifted a hand. “Hey.” He surveyed the room, one eyebrow arching more elegantly than the lack of people required, and stepped inside. He was dressed in a gray suit, cut to fit Brian Kenway and only Brian Kenway, complimented by a teal shirt that nearly matched Josh’s hair. Fluttering from one lapel was the visitor badge required by the school office, after school hours included, and that small imperfection in an otherwise flawless picture made Mal smile.