by A. S. Tucker
But I ask Quinn about being an actor, and it’s basically the end of the world as we know it.
I let out an exasperated sigh.
Fisher briefly lifts his eyes, his brow furrowing when he sees me not studying my scriptures. “You okay?”
I quickly try to cover my tracks. “Yeah, I’m cool. Just tired. It was a long day. And my head kind of hurts. Think we can call it an early night tonight?”
Fisher scrunches his nose as he considers my request. I know the answer before it leaves his mouth.
“This lesson tomorrow is important. I think it could be a huge turning point for Andy. We need to make sure we’re one hundred percent prepared. I don’t think going to bed early is a good idea tonight.”
He lowers his face back to his scriptures, his monotonous voice reading aloud once more. Well, at least one good thing will come out of this. The sound of his voice as he drones on actually does give me a headache. So, at least I’m not a liar.
“You’re right,” I say, lowering my head back to my book. “This is much more important.”
He nods curtly, his face falling back into an appeased yet smug smile. “You’ll see. Once we get our first baptism, all these long, hard days and nights will seem like nothing in comparison. No amount of hard work is worth more than bringing the Lord into people’s lives.”
I can’t listen to him anymore. I push back from the table where we’re sitting and get to my feet, strolling into the kitchen before he can object. “I need some water. You want any?”
“No, thanks.”
I pull a glass out of the cupboard and fill it at the kitchen sink. I can’t remember the last time I drank water from the tap. And I’m pretty sure I read somewhere that the water in California causes cancer. Or makes you grow a sixth toe. Something like that. But bottled water isn’t exactly in the budget these days. I take a sip of the room temperature water, cringing as the metallic taste washes over my tongue. I’d kill for a Coke right about now. It is my one and only vice. But caffeine is against the Word of Wisdom and all that. So, carcinogenic water, it is.
I drain the glass with a couple of more gulps, setting it on the side of the sink so that I can use it again later. Dropping my chin to my chest, I relish the few moments of quiet solitude I’ve found in the kitchen even if Fisher is only ten feet away. At least there’s a wall between us. But I know, if I don’t get back out there in the next three seconds, he’ll come looking for me.
That’s another thing about Fisher. As missionaries, we’re supposed to be together all the time. I always thought people were being sarcastic when they said they’d have to wake their companions up when they went to the bathroom in the middle of the night. But, apparently, Fisher took that advice to heart. He wakes me up every time he has to pee, making me stand just outside the door. And I swear, he plants things in the bathroom, so he can tell if I got up and didn’t wake him. I’ve done it twice now, and even though Fisher sleeps like the dead, he always seems to know the next morning that I got up to pee at three a.m. I’ve learned it’s easier to just hold it.
Deciding my reprieve has lasted long enough, I take in a deep breath and walk back out to join Fisher. But, just as I step foot inside the living room, a clamor comes from outside, followed by the sound of two deep voices as they try to stifle their laughter.
Walking over to the living room window, I crack open the blinds with two fingers to peer out. Two men are on the sidewalk, their arms slung around the other’s shoulders as they try to straighten their bodies. It’s obvious from their stumbling and not-so-silent laughter that they’re drunk. But that’s not the surprising part. No, the surprising part is that, when they’ve finally righted themselves, the one in the leather jacket pushes the other one against the car parked right outside our front door, his lips coming down hard on the man’s as he pulls at the guy’s shirt.
I stand and watch the two of them, wildly intrigued by what I’m witnessing. I know I should feel disgusted. I know I should look away. But I can’t.
Because, when the man against the car shoves off and spins the other man around, pushing him back against the car door, I realize one of the men is Quinn.
Quinn’s hands leave the work they were doing on the man’s shirt, instead tangling his hands in the other guy’s hair as he pulls the man’s lips to his own neck. Quinn’s head falls back against the roof of the car as the man kisses and licks his way up the smooth flesh.
I wonder what he tastes like.
“What are you looking at?”
I literally jump out of my skin. Okay, maybe not literally. But with the way my skin tingles and heats, my heart beating faster than the Indy 500, it sure feels like it.
“Nothing,” I sputter. “I, um…I was just—”
But Fisher is already pulling open the blinds with his hands. “Are you kidding me? Look at what those two fruits are doing on our car!”
Huh. That is our car. Funny, I didn’t notice. What with the two men pawing at each other on top of it. Plus, it’s not like we use it often. I’ve only seen the inside of it once. It’s not hard to excuse the fact that I didn’t recognize it.
Yeah, we’ll go with that.
“What the heck do they think they’re doing? That car belongs to the church. So, in turn, it belongs to the Lord. They can’t desecrate God’s car that way.”
He’s so completely outraged, and it takes everything in me not to laugh. I mean, really? Desecrate God’s car? He can’t be serious, can he?
But, as I watch him step toward the door, I know that he must be. Is he actually going to go out there and tell them to stop?
“Wait! Look, they’re moving along. Don’t waste your time going out there. They’re drunk. You don’t want to start something with someone who might get violent.”
Elder Fisher returns to my side. “That’s true. Last thing I need is a black eye. But, if they’re not out of here soon, I’m calling the cops. Report them for trespassing.”
I roll my eyes as I look back out the window.
“Is that Quinn?” Fisher all but shrieks. “I knew it. See? I told you about him. I knew I was right. You need to watch yourself with him. You don’t know what weird fantasies he’s making up every time you talk to him.”
Right. Because every gay guy instantly wants to have sex with every man he sees. And, of course, he’s only into weird fetishes. Because why not?
Fisher pushes back from the window, groaning once more in disgust. “Ugh. Let’s just go to bed. I don’t think I’ll be able to feel the spirit again after seeing that. We’ll just have to prep extra in the morning.” He heads toward the bathroom to brush his teeth. He stops halfway across the living room. “You coming?”
I take one last look outside the window. The two men are still out there, having moved from the car to the light pole. Quinn’s back is pressed against it, the man’s lips on his neck once again. The blissful smile on Quinn’s face ignites something deep inside me, a burning deep down in my soul. His mouth falls open in ecstasy, and I can’t help but wonder what noises are coming from his lips. Just the thought kindles the flame blazing within me, and I need to look away before what I’m feeling becomes very evident to my companion.
I take one final look at Quinn’s face, his sculpted features awash with euphoria. But, as I move to turn away, something happens. Quinn’s eyes pop open, his head straightening on his neck, as if he can feel my gaze on him. And, before I can look away, his eyes lock on mine, his fiery stare sending a scorching heat radiating through my veins. He doesn’t look away. He doesn’t look embarrassed that I’ve caught him with his lover. He lets the man continue the work he’s doing on his own neck, the man’s hands now trailing down Quinn’s abdomen in search of more. But Quinn’s eyes don’t leave mine. He stares at me as the man teases and caresses. And I get the odd sensation he’s wishing the exact same thing I am.
He’s wishing the man were me.
CHAPTER TEN
* * *
Quinn
&
nbsp; If there’s one thing that can make a shitty day better, it’s biting into a still-warm chocolate chip cookie.
Add in the fact that they were hand-delivered by one of Hollywood’s most beloved icons, and I’m practically over the moon. Living across the hall from Judy K has turned out to be even better than I ever imagined. In the past few days, she’s dropped off numerous desserts, dispensed invaluable acting advice, taken away some of the sting and loneliness that comes from living alone, and pretty much just become my favorite person ever.
I take another bite of the cookie, savoring the melty chocolate on my tongue, making a mental note to thank Judy for this almost-orgasmic experience disguised as a cookie and figure out a way to convince her I’m going to need a steady supply of these things for the foreseeable future.
Life is so much greater when cookies are involved.
Cookies make you forget things, like your homophobic boss who called an emergency meeting this morning to try to do some damage control from his little outburst the other night. As I predicted, word got out. A few news stations have called, trying to get a statement, but we’ve all been instructed not to open our mouths. So far, no videos have surfaced from that night, which is practically unheard of in the age of smartphones. Everyone is carrying around a camera in their pocket and is usually quick to record anything that might give them their fifteen minutes of fame in the form of YouTube’s next viral video. Rick sees the lack of evidence as a good thing—that the patrons in the club that night were just as disgusted as he was by the men and therefore don’t want to tarnish the reputation of a good man. However, someone had to have caught it on camera. And, if you ask me, they’re just biding their time. Waiting for the perfect moment to destroy the career of a bigot.
And I can’t wait to see it happen.
Working for Rick has gotten harder and harder since his freak-out. It’s hard to stay silent and pretend not to be bothered after something like that. Especially since the one thing he hated about those men is the same thing that defines so much of my character. The character that Rick seems to enjoy being around.
After the meeting this morning, he tried to talk me into grabbing a burger and a few beers with him for lunch. I lied and told him I had to work at the bistro this afternoon. He seemed crestfallen, but as my boss, he couldn’t really encourage me to try to get out of it. What kind of employee would that make me, blowing off work to hang out with a friend? Definitely not one he’d hire, right? Or at least that’s what I told him when he tried to argue the fact that I never wanted to hang out with him.
I came home and crashed for a couple of more hours before the sound of Judy’s knocking woke me. Being roused out of a sound sleep, the vision of a certain missionary’s full lips wrapped around my cock violently torn from me, didn’t exactly make me happy. I was ready to throttle whoever was on the other side of that door. And, if it had been anybody else, I might’ve followed through. Lucky for Judy, I like her. And my mother would murder me if she found out I even gave an old lady a dirty look, let alone took a swing at her.
The thought of my mother makes me realize how long it’s been since I’ve talked to her. The last time I remember calling her was the night Alec booted me. I was so frustrated, I needed to talk to my mom to cool down. She is always good at that. And, fine, maybe I also needed money for a security deposit. But remember what I said about LA being expensive as fuck? Even this shithole I’m currently residing in comes at a pretty penny. Not as pretty as the one Alec and I shared, but there were two of us to cover then. And, even though the place wasn’t really anything special, it was a damn sight better than this dump.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, finding my favorites list and scrolling for my mother’s number. It doesn’t take me long to find it. My mom has always been my number one favorite person.
Though Judy K might be giving her a run for her money. Especially if she keeps bringing me cookies.
As the phone connects, the first ring sounding in my ear, I think about how odd it is that my mother has let it go this long between calls. Normally, if more than a day or two goes by without her hearing from me, she’s on the phone, reminding me all about how she was in labor for twenty-two hours and that she’d be damned if she went through all that just for her son to forget about her.
A small pang of worry develops in my stomach as the phone continues to ring, my thoughts turning to the worst-case scenario, as usual. This has always been a problem for me. Whenever the smallest seed of apprehension plants itself inside me, it’s like I pour ten thousand gallons of Miracle-Gro on top, and within seconds, that small seed blossoms into an entire forest of anxiety.
What if she’s been in an accident? Oh, God, what if she was out jogging at night, like she likes to do, and got hit by a car? What if she’s just lying in a ditch somewhere, out of sight to any passersby, raccoons ravaging her remains, as her good-for-nothing son doesn’t even think to check up on her?
Not that calling her would do her any good if she were lying dead in a ditch. But, still, I could call the police to report her disappearance.
I’m just about to hang up and do exactly that when the line clicks over. I wait for a moment, unsure if someone has picked up or if it’s her voice mail.
A deep chuckle comes across the line, and either my mom has the worst cold in the history of colds, or this is a dude.
Oh my God, has she been kidnapped? Is this guy holding her for ransom?
“Miranda’s phone. Miranda’s sex slave speaking.”
What.
The.
Actual.
Fuck?
A soft feminine giggle, one I easily recognize as my mother’s, sounds in the background.
“Who is it, Jason? Give me my phone!”
There’s a rustling, as if my mom and whomever this Jason person is are wrestling over the phone. A few more innuendos are tossed out as I listen to them, causing my previously anxious stomach to turn to nausea.
Gross, Mom.
After what feels like forever—and if I ever hear my mom say the words give it to me again, I might vomit all over her shoes—it sounds as if she’s finally wrenched the phone free from his grasp.
“Oh my God! You did not answer the phone as ‘Miranda’s sex slave’ when it was my son calling!” she shrieks.
The masculine chuckle sounds again. This Jason guy sure thinks he’s funny, doesn’t he?
“How was I supposed to know that Q-Ball was your son?”
I smile when I hear that, remembering the day I changed my name in her phone. Evidently, even three years later, she still hasn’t figured out how to fix it. Old people and technology shouldn’t mix.
“What am I supposed to say to him?” she whisper-shouts.
Am I crazy, or is she slurring her Ss? I look at my watch. Accounting for the time difference, it’s about seven o’clock there. Is my mother drunk at seven p.m.? On a Wednesday?
The two of them go back and forth for a moment, trying to decide what my mom should say to explain the last five minutes to me. She’s trying to argue the benefit of just hanging up and pretending like I must’ve had the wrong number when Jason’s brain apparently kicks in.
“Randy, he’s been on the line this whole time. He’s heard everything. You really think you’re going to be able to convince him he didn’t?”
Randy? The fuck? This dude has a pet name for her?
She sighs. “You’re right. Might as well face the music.” She chirps into the phone, “Hi, baby!”
“Hi, Randy,” I answer dryly.
“Oh, uh…you heard that, huh? That was Jason. He and I work together, and he stopped by for a few drinks after work.”
A few drinks? From the sounds of it, a few drinks turned into a few bottles.
“I won’t keep you then. Just wanted to call and check in. Call me later.”
She clucks her tongue at me. Now, that’s a sound I’m familiar with.
“Don’t be silly. I’m never too busy for you. Give
me just a second,” she says, more rustling coming over the line.
I can almost picture her climbing to her feet off the couch. At least, I hope that’s what she’s doing. I’ve now heard things no child should ever have to hear from one of their parents. I’m scarred for life.
“Would you excuse me for a moment, Jason? Finish off that bottle while you wait. I’ll bring another one when I’m done.”
I knew it! A few drinks, my ass. My mom is drunk as a skunk.
A door closes in the background, and I know she’s stepped into her bedroom. I listen as she settles herself on her bed. The same bed I ran to in the middle of the night during thunderstorms. The same bed she’d cuddle me in whenever I was sick. The same bed Jason has probably—nope. Not going there.
“Okay. What’s up, kiddo?” she asks once she’s comfortable.
“Who is Jason?”
She sighs. “I told you, he’s a friend from work.”
“That didn’t sound like a friend from work. I’m pretty sure I’ve never called and heard you acting like that with Nancy,” I say, naming the woman she’s worked with for over twenty years and one of her closest friends. I don’t remember a time in my life where Nancy wasn’t present—at least, in the background. After my dad left when I was six, Nancy was my mom’s rock. She has always been there for her.
Sounds to me like she has a new rock now. A rock who, from the noises I heard a few minutes ago, wants to bury himself inside her sandbox.
Ew. That wasn’t even a good one. Apparently, hearing your mother and her boyfriend two seconds away from getting it on destroys your ability to think of creative double entendres.
My mother lets out another deep sigh. “He’s just a friend. For now. I like him though, Quinn. And I think, if you met him, you’d like him, too. He’s good for me. He makes me laugh. Makes me feel special.”
As far as I’m concerned, there is no man on earth good enough for my mother. She’s an angel dipped in fairy dust, topped with a smidge of royalty. You know that saying, They broke the mold when they made her? Whoever coined that term must’ve known my mother. Because I’m pretty sure the mold didn’t just break when she was made. Whoever made her knew the world couldn’t handle two people as amazing as her at once. So, that mold wasn’t just broken. It was torched, shattered, stomped on, and buried in the center of the earth. She’s truly one of a kind.