by Max Walker
“I’m sorry,” I said, surprised that my voice cracked. Was I about to cry?
A knot tangled in my throat. I felt dumb, pathetic. Logically, I knew none of this could be controlled. There was an expectation that guys could control their dicks, as if it was another appendage. But there was no button to press or lever to turn to go from soft to hard. Dicks were as elusive and as misunderstood as the female orgasm was to a gaggle of hetero fraternity guys.
If things weren’t happening, they weren’t happening.
That still didn’t ease the feeling of guilt and shame I had. Mix that with the anxiety and fear still percolating in my chest, and you’ve got a concoction similar to that of lava.
“Not a worry,” he said. His eyes told me he meant it.
“It’s just… I’m a little shaken. I just need a minute.”
“You take as much time as you need. More water?”
“No, that’s okay. I’m okay.” I was saying it more for myself than anyone else.
“We don’t have to…”
“I want to.” My voice was steady, even though my hands were shaking.
I took a deep breath. I leaned in, and once again, I moved to kiss him. His taste was addictive, and the feel of his lips on mine was literally all I wanted for the rest of my entire life.
It still wasn’t enough to keep the worry and the darkness at bay. I tried to push the thoughts out of my head. I was safe, and I was comfortable. Beckham wanted me as bad as I wanted him, and the rest of the night was ours and ours alone. No more drunken intrusions, no more dark thoughts. I didn’t have to think about Derrick. About how I watched his life—
“I can’t.” My head felt like it was about to explode. Even my eyes hurt. I stood up, trying to control the breaths that were slamming into my lungs. I tried not to think about how far away I was from home. How oceans crossed the distance between my family and me. How I was currently having a breakdown in front of one of the hottest guys I’d ever crossed paths with.
“Don’t worry, we don’t have to.” Beckham stood up, and what he did next was exactly what I needed without knowing it.
He reached out and put a hand on my elbow. Then, without even thinking, I moved forward and pressed my head onto his chest, feeling the soft hair against the side of my face. I could hear his heartbeat.
Lub dub, lub dub, lub dub.
His arms came around me, and Beckham, who I had just met hours before, held me against him in his living room until my pounding pulse slowed and my whirlwind of thoughts subsided.
And even when it all did calm down, I didn’t move.
I could have stayed in Beckham’s arms for the rest of my life and been perfectly fine.
Happy, even.
How batshit crazy was that?
5 Beckham Noble
My heart hurt for this guy. Seeing his pain and his fear did something to me. A protective flare shot up through my chest. I wanted to find whatever twatface had hurt him and then hurt them in return. That was impossible, so I settled for holding him in my arms, letting him know it would be okay, whatever the hell “it” was.
“I’m good, I’m okay.” He separated from me, wiped at his eyes. I hadn’t noticed him crying, but my chest did feel a little wet.
“Come, let’s go get some fresh air on the balcony.”
“Let’s.”
I led the way, heading toward the sliding glass door. I opened it and was greeted with the kiss of a fresh breeze. The balcony looked out to the River Thames, dark and dancing with the moonlight above it. There were a pair of midnight joggers running down the pavement.
“Want to talk about it?” I asked as we sat down. I learned through my years of investigating that normally, if someone wasn’t asked, then normally they’d stay quiet about whatever was bothering them. But if I was direct, then the chances were higher that I’d get them to open up.
“Not really.”
Well, there went that strategy.
“My name’s not Jamison,” he continued, stating the obvious.
“I know.”
“You do?”
I nodded. “Besides, you don’t look like a Jamison.”
“Oh? Who do I look like, then?”
“I dunno, mate. A Reginald? Maybe a Morgano?”
Not-Jamison laughed at that, his face cracking into a big smile. It was refreshing, and much more preferred than the look of fear he wore moments earlier.
“Are those even real names?” he asked.
“You tell me… Morgano.”
More laughing, more smiling. I leaned back in my chair, the red fabric scratching against my back. My legs stretched out in front of me, my bare feet feeling the night chill. Soon, though, the chill was replaced by more warmth when my feet were joined by another pair.
“My name’s Olly.”
“Olly. I like that. Suits you.”
“Thanks.” He let out a breath. “God, that feels good. I thought it’d be so fun and cute to be an entirely different person, but who would have guessed that even a different continent can’t fundamentally change who you are?”
“Never would have guessed,” I said, throwing him a smirk.
“Have you ever wanted to be someone else?”
The question caught me off guard. “I think everyone has. But, like you found out, it’s very difficult to run from who you are. And why should you? There’s only one of you.” I looked into Olly’s eyes, deep, through the brightness that shielded him and down into the tender soul underneath. “Only one. And I’m glad to have met the one and only Jamison-Olly, the exotic Bengal tiger vet who’s still a student and who has one of the biggest and warmest smiles I’ve ever seen.”
He flashed me that smile of his. It was like a superpower, burning away any lingering worries and anxiety in the air. His smile was an antidote to whatever complete bollocks was going on in my life. It was almost enough to get me to stand up, walk over to the table I’d left the letter on, tear it open, and release whatever can of worms was inside.
Almost.
“Thank you for tonight, Beckham. Seriously. I… I don’t know what happened…” He looked out to the river. “Well, I do know what happened. I just… Thank you.”
If only he knew I should be the one thanking him. He’d turned my night completely around.
“How much longer are you in London for?”
“I leave tomorrow.”
The words settled in my chest like radioactive dust from a nuclear fallout. I wanted him to say a couple more days, I wanted him to say he was leaving on the same day I was. Then I’d have someone here, someone to make this trip one to remember, not one to try and forget.
That was wishful thinking. Verged on crazy as well. I was beginning to feel like I was twenty-two again, falling hard for the first guy who paid me attention. And back then, there hadn’t been any apps to help forget about the one who got away. There had been some not-so-pleasant cruising spots, but it hadn’t been my scene. I would talk to someone who I had an idea was gay and then end up getting incredibly attached with no remedy when things went south.
I thought I’d grown out of that. Once I hit my midthirties, I let go of any dreams having to do with eternal love. Plus, I downloaded Grindr and found it much easier to forget about the ones that didn’t work. It sucked, of course, but I wasn’t letting myself fall too deeply, too quickly.
Tonight, though, was interesting. Very interesting. Olly, a name that suited him much more than Jamison, had kept me engaged all night. It was a night that, on paper, was set to be a blur of nothing but me in my bed going to sleep to trashy TV. And then Olly stopped me in my tracks and turned the night completely around.
“Maybe we can meet up over there. In Florida.”
Olly said the words I hadn’t realized I wanted to hear so bad.
“Let’s do that.” We traded numbers, and suddenly oceans didn’t seem to separate us. Still, I wasn’t letting myself drift too far from shore.
We talked for what felt like a
lifetime but ended up being only another hour. Both of our yawns gave away the time.
“I should get a cab back to my hotel.”
I wasn’t going to ask if he wanted to sleep over. I felt like that would be way too much pressure, and after the great time we’d had together, I didn’t want to do anything to remotely ruin it. Instead, I stood with him and walked back into the living room, putting on our shirts and walking him to the door of my flat.
“Thank you for tonight,” I told him. He stood in the hallway, those captivating eyes tilted up to mine. His smile stretched from cheek to cheek.
“Please, I should be thanking you, Beckham. I totally freaked out on the hottest hookup of my life. I completely ruined the night.”
“Ruined it? You’re kidding? Olly, you saved the night. I needed this.”
More than you’d ever know.
“Well, hopefully we can meet up back in America.”
“I’m counting on it.”
Olly’s phone buzzed, meaning his cab must have arrived. Before he could turn and leave, before he could walk away into the unknown, I grabbed his head in my hands and held him for a kiss to seal the night.
It did so much more than that. This kiss unraveled me. The tiny moan he gave me, the tickle of his tongue against mine, the taste of his lips.
And then we parted, and my lips tasted nothing but air, my tongue no longer dancing with his.
“Have a good trip back,” said Olly. He put a thumb to his lips, the smile on his face looking like he’d been hit by Cupid’s arrow ten times over.
“Same to you.”
Another buzz from his phone. He took a few steps backward, still smiling, still looking at me. Then he turned and left down the stairwell, leaving me thinking I’d also been hit by the same arrows.
Back inside the flat, I locked the door (double-checked this time) and walked to the table where the envelope from earlier tonight was lying. The edges were a tad crinkled, and the middle section was bent, but the letter was still intact and readable, still not bursting into flames as I had expected it would.
Why? What could he possibly have to tell me? After everything that man did to me, what in the bloody hell would he have written to me?
My fingers traced the envelope. The handwriting was clearly his, my name written in the same bold way he’d always written since I was a kid. There was a shake to it, most likely from his old age, but it was him, I was sure of it.
And then who was that woman? His new wife? Secret lover?
“Not tonight.”
No, tonight had ended far too well for me to ruin it by opening whatever gate to hell was inside that letterbox-sized paper cage.
Instead I went to bed, the TV on and my thoughts still swirling around Olly and the way all my problems seemed to have disappeared when he entered my orbit.
6 Oliver Brightly
Three weeks later.
“Mason, stop.” I rolled over on the bed, trying to avoid the wet kisses being planted on my cheek by a sandpaper tongue. “Please, stop.” I groaned and rolled over, feeling very overwhelmed by the sudden morning onslaught. I was used to it by now, especially since Mason had been extra affectionate after I’d gotten back from my Eurotrip, but it still didn’t make it a pleasant experience.
“Ow!” I screeched and threw the covers off me. Mason let out a surprised “meow” and leaped off the bed, sauntering over to the open door where his brother, Jar, was sitting, staring at me with big orange eyes that said “feed us or die.” It was cute. What wasn’t cute was the small red scratches on my forearm from where Mason had kneaded his claws into me. They were growing redder and larger by the second, my cat allergies not just contained to sneezing.
I rolled off the bed and had a good stretch, scratching my already itching arm. Once my feet touched the ground, both Mason and Jar came over, purring and bumping into each other before winding through my feet. Mason, the larger of the two with a big body of lush orange-and-white fur, tried to get the most leg action. Jar kind of gave up and stepped back, his black tail tipped in white flicking back and forth. I stood, making sure not to trip over either of them, and went through my morning routine, trying not to think too much about the day ahead.
I had to relax, take it easy, because the second I started to freak out, I knew I would back out.
And I couldn’t do that. Not this time.
Today I was going to hire someone to hunt down whoever killed my boyfriend.
I was going to work toward closure, because after six long, exhausting, painful years, I still didn’t feel whole. I went to sleep and woke up knowing, each and every day, that Derrick’s killers were still out there, living their life to the damned fullest while my best friend, my other half, was now lying flat on his back under six feet of cold, hard dirt.
It made me nauseous. I splashed my face with cold water in my bathroom. The pale yellow walls reflected in the mirror had a calming effect, and the cool water dripping down my face was refreshing.
I finished getting ready, deciding to throw on a cute light-pink button-up shirt and short white shorts. It was getting hotter and hotter in Miami, and I wasn’t about to turn into a puddle before I even made it to the detective agency.
My phone buzzed loudly across the kitchen counter. My apartment was a small one-bedroom place, so it took me only seconds to run and grab it. It was excitement that made me run. Excitement mixed with hope.
“We want to notify you your power bill… ugh.”
The phone found itself back on the counter. I headed back to my room, shoulders slumped, Mason and Jar watching me from their cat tree. I wondered if they could sense the disappointment rolling off me in waves. And it wasn’t because I was strongly opposed to paying bills (which, I mean, who isn’t?). The disappointment came from the fact that I was a dumb klutz who couldn’t get his life together if he tried.
I was on the way to the airport when it happened. We were waiting for our cab when Will asked to see something on my phone. A photo I had taken the day before. I handed him my phone, and he checked out whatever photo he was looking for. When he handed it back, the phone slipped through my hands, falling down to the floor and bouncing across the pavement, where a conveniently placed sewage grate was waiting for possibly eons to swallow my phone whole. With its sole mission in life accomplished, I’m sure the sewage grate was one happy clam.
Me, on the other hand? I was a mess. That’s where I had so many memories, not to mention all the photos and videos I had just taken on the trip, none of which were backed up to the cloud because I was honestly a little suspect.
Weeks later, without any of my photos and (most importantly) contacts, I was ready to beam my own consciousness up to the cloud just to keep it safe. Take whatever damn thing you need, so long as I could always access the things I needed to.
One of those things? Beckham’s phone number. When my phone fell and died a terribly disgusting death drowning in sewage, I too died a horrible and brutal death.
The only way I knew how to contact my handsome British knight in shining armor was through that phone.
Well, why couldn’t he call on a replacement phone, I’m sure you’re asking.
Funny story. Being overseas, I had a different phone number, and I got that one confused with my actual number, therefore giving him a Frankenstein of a number by accident.
He couldn’t reach me. I couldn’t reach him.
It was tragic to the nth degree. Not even a storyline on the original seasons of The Real World would have this much drama. It royally sucked seeing as how I had never felt more comfortable with someone before, and I had never been so attracted to someone before either. Even with my dick going on temporary strike that night, I knew that the chemistry between us was unmatched.
“Ughhhh.” I dragged my feet and finished getting ready. All I could do was focus on today and work on tomorrow; there was no point in dwelling on the past. I couldn’t. If I did, then I’d be in much worse shape than I was. It wouldn’t
just be dark streets that scared me, but lingering glances from strangers, a stronger breeze than normal, a loud sound that could be anything. Thankfully, years of good therapy got me to a place where I wasn’t an anxiety-riddled mess for twenty-four hours of every day. I had a couple of triggers, hence my freak-out overseas, but for the most part, I was able to keep things under control.
I couldn’t focus on the past, and that meant I couldn’t think about the way my heart danced a full choreographed routine at the mere thought of Beckham and those breathtaking hazel eyes of his.
Florida was blazing hot, even with it being late into October. I expected it would be even hotter when I got into Miami. It was a short drive from where I lived in Ft. Lauderdale, but I was ready to make it. I had a date with destiny today.
“All right, Mason, Jar, you two behave yourselves, okay? No ragers or cat orgies or whatever the hell you two furballs get up to while I’m gone.”
My two babies looked at me like I was a freak before both plopped onto the ground for some belly scratches. I knew it was a trap, though, so I scratched each with one finger, avoiding their sharp claws that were at the ready for the second my hand landed on a belly.
I got my keys and locked up. There was a feeling settling over me, like I was doing the right thing. After my freak-out with Beckham, I realized I needed more than just therapy. I needed closure. And one of the ways I could get that was… well, figuring out who killed Derrick. The police had spent a couple of months investigating but ultimately found nothing, and at times were even hostile toward me when I started asking questions. It put me off digging any further at the time. I was young and scared and so, so terribly hurt.
Not today. There was a fire in me, and I was going to keep it burning for Derrick.
My car was a mess of receipts and textbooks, random binders of all different colors on the floor. I wasn’t the most organized, that was for sure, and for some reason my car was ground zero for all my junk. Only one more year, I reminded myself, and then I could put all the notes and textbooks into a big box and sink it down to the middle of the ocean. On top of the mess, I set a well-kept binder holding all the documents I had from the assault and murder.