Losing My Religion

by A. S. Tucker

  But, instead of chatting him up and convincing him that we needed to get to know each other on a more personal level, I’m sitting here, listening to Elder Dumb-Ass drone on about how, if I’m good enough and I repent for all my many sins, I can be his neighbor up there in the Celestial Kingdom. That’s right. According to this guy, there are several different levels of heaven. Sort of like the high school lunchroom of the afterlife. And everyone spends their life trying to get a seat at the cool-kids table.

  Unfortunately for Fishy, I’ve never been one to try to fit in where I don’t belong. High school wasn’t exactly a walk in the park, but I got by. Helps when you don’t give a fuck about the football player who calls you a fag as you walk down the hall. Deep down, he knew he just wanted to fuck me.

  And, after several months of name-calling, taunting, and all the other lame tricks high school bullies try to pull, they finally gave up. You see, when your intended target can’t be bothered to even respond to your insults, it’s not as fun trying to make their life a living hell. They quickly moved on to someone else, and I became a sort of…accepted anomaly in their everyday lives. I’d even go as far to say that some of my former tormentors became friends of sorts. People who liked having me around, just as long as I didn’t cramp their style with that little gay tendency I had.

  Sort of like Rick. Only not quite as douchey.

  Thinking of Rick brings me back to the present, and I glance at the clock. I need to wrap this up soon, so I have time to grab a quick shower and a bite to eat before I go in tonight. I can’t tell you how excited it makes me to have to go from listening to Fisher’s incessant babbling to Rick’s bigoted bullshit. But, alas, the rent isn’t going to pay itself.

  I turn my attention back to the two men in front of me, my eyes glazing over almost instantly as I watch Fisher’s mouth open and close, open and close. I start to wonder if he’d even notice if I keeled over, off this chair, or if he’d just keep right on talking, hypnotized by the sound of his own voice.

  When he turns and roots around in his bag for God knows what, I’m shocked out of my stupor by a soft caress against my leg. It lasts less than a second. And, for a moment, I’m not even sure if it really happened or if I really did fall asleep and start dreaming.

  But, no, when my eyes flick up to meet Barker’s, his shy smile tells me all I need to know. While his partner’s eyes were turned, my little missionary initiated contact. His dress-shoe-clad foot might have only grazed the denim on my calf, but combine that with the hooded look he’s currently giving me, and it’s practically the most erotic touch of my life. Knowing Barker took a chance, even with Fisher in the room, does things to me I can’t even begin to explain.

  I did something similar during our first lesson, throwing him flirty looks and managing quick touches when his companion’s back was turned. I even executed a brief finger graze when Fisher dropped his lesson manual and had to bend down to get it. Barker smiled each time my fingers touched him, but never once did he try to reciprocate.

  Looks like he’s making up for it.

  The lesson gets a whole lot more interesting after that. I still don’t hear a damn word Fisher says because I’m locked in my own private universe with Barker. My eyes never leave his, and aside from a few cursory glances he throws his partner when asked a question, Barker’s eyes don’t leave mine either. It’s as if we’re the only two people in the room. Hell, as far as I’m concerned, we are. Fisher hardly counts as a person. More like a lemming. Or a sheep.

  The lesson ends before I want it to, Fisher standing and packing his shit up, forcing Barker to follow suit or risk blowing the little slice of heaven we were experiencing. I’d be fine with that. The sooner Fisher knows something is up, the better, if you ask me. But I know Barker isn’t ready. I know this without even having to ask, his reluctance etched into his every move. Barker is more interested in the lessons I could teach him than what he and his companion are trying to teach me. But not just yet.

  It’s a good thing I’m a patient man.

  Barker and Fisher leave me with a handshake, and I lean against the door after closing it behind them. Knocking my head back against the wood, I close my eyes and relive the moment when Barker touched me.

  It was nothing. The quickest brush of the toe of his shoe against the leg of my pants. There was no skin-to-skin contact. No intimacy whatsoever. But it stirred something in me faster than as if he’d reached out and grabbed me by the junk. Okay, maybe that’s pushing it. If he’d done that, I probably would have died of a heart attack and gone straight to hell for corrupting someone so pure and innocent. But there’s something about the subtle way he tried to touch me that has me reeling.

  So, I could be his dirty little secret. As long as I’m the only one he sees, I’m willing to wait however long it takes.

  My eyes open, and I look up at the clock on the wall.

  Fuck.

  I’m going to be late for work.

  “Where have you been, man? Seems like it’s been ages since I saw you.”

  Rick’s annoyed voice cuts through the music in the club, sending a shiver down my spine and forcing a tense smile to my lips.

  Since the meeting a few weeks ago, I managed to avoid coming into direct contact with Rick. It wasn’t easy. One time, I turned and ran in the opposite direction when I saw him approaching. But it was two weeks of beautiful, sweet reprieve.

  I knew that would be coming to an end tonight, however. Last night, there was a last-minute change to the schedule, and I found myself paired with Rick at the bar for the night. I’m not stupid. I knew he had done it on purpose, and I know I’m about to get the third degree. I just hope the last two weeks will make whatever torture I’m about to endure worth it.

  “Hey, dude. How’ve you been? Long time no chat,” I say casually, trying to shrug off his obvious attitude.

  Maybe, if I’m convincing enough, he’ll think whatever story he’s concocted is exactly that, just a simple invention of his overactive mind. I haven’t been avoiding him. We simply had a couple of busy weeks, and there was no time for idle chatter.

  Right. And I want to fuck Jennifer Aniston.

  Rick’s eyes narrow as he looks at me. “What the fuck, man? You been avoiding me? We’ve been scheduled on the same shift multiple times now, and each time, you’re like fucking Casper. I can never find you.”

  Rick likes to pretend he’s in touch with his employees, so he regularly adds himself onto the schedule. He shifts around to all the different positions, trying to get to know each of us individually. If he wasn’t such a douche bag, I might respect the guy for it. First boss I’ve had who seems to want to like the people he employs. But then again, that’s only if they fit his mold of what’s socially acceptable.

  “I’ve been here. It’s been chaotic these last few weeks, am I right? I tried to find you the other day, just to say what’s up. But you were always busy.”

  He lifts an eyebrow in response, and I can tell he doesn’t believe me.

  “So, you’re not avoiding me?”

  “Of course not,” I say with a laugh. “We’re bros. Why would I avoid my bro?”

  The words taste bitter while rolling off my tongue, but they’re a necessary evil. If this asshole realizes I actually was avoiding him, then shit is going to hit the fan. I like not being homeless. I’d rather not have to give that up.

  “If you’re not avoiding me, then would you mind telling me why, when I went past the bistro after our meeting a few weeks ago, I was told you weren’t working that day?”

  Fuck. Me.

  “I, uh…” I stumble, momentarily caught off guard. “I called in sick that day. Got home and couldn’t get off the shitter. I think it was the sushi I had the night before. That shit always does it to me.”

  I grin and slug him in the arm, like we’re frat boys and one of us just finished a keg stand. He’s still looking at me like he’s not sure if he should believe me, his head cocked to the side as he looks me up a
nd down.

  “I sure hope so. Because, if there’s one thing I hate, it’s a fucking liar. You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Quinn?” There’s a certain intensity behind his words, as if he just lit a flame inside his belly and the smoldering blaze was starving for the oxygen it needed to become a raging inferno.

  “No way, Rick. I’d never lie to you. Bros don’t lie to each other.”

  Jesus. If I say the word bro one more time, I might start crushing beer cans on my forehead while playing Ultimate Frisbee, all while managing to disrespect every woman within a five-mile radius. I need to get the hell away from this guy.

  “Bros don’t lie to each other,” he repeats, clapping me on the shoulder. “Let’s hope, for your sake, that’s true. Because, bro, I really don’t like liars. You don’t want to know what happens when I find out someone has lied to me.”

  He walks away, leaving me to ponder his not-so-subtle threat.

  If this dude only knew just how many things I’ve lied to him about.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  * * *

  Quinn

  “Fuck you,” I slur at the chair that so brazenly jumped in my way, causing me to stumble off-balance.

  It takes me a few steps, but I manage to right myself and stay on my feet. The chair, however, is not so lucky. I kick that bastard right in the junk, sending it flying against the wall across from me.

  I’m in the lobby of my building—if that’s what you really want to call it. In a dump like this, I’d say it’s more of a rathole than a lobby. The overhead light flickers ominously, and I’m half-convinced there’s a serial killer hiding behind the dead ficus in the corner, just waiting for his opportunity to strike. I’ve seen Dexter. I know how it works.

  Sadly, being slaughtered by a psychopath doesn’t sound like the worst thing in the world right now. Despite all of Judy K’s reassurances that I was going to blow those casting directors out of the water on my last two auditions, I was rejected once again.

  I’d felt so good about those performances. I’d channeled into places of myself I’d only grazed the surface of before. And, when I’d gotten the call a few days ago that I’d been passed by for one role, I’d told myself it was because I’d for sure gotten the other part. I’d felt it deep down in my bones. I had nailed that audition. Directors talked. Everyone knew that. So, instead of being disappointed when I’d received that call, I’d gone out and celebrated with my friends.

  But tonight…tonight, I’m alone. And the call I’d been so sure I was going to get wasn’t at all what I’d expected.

  “Quinn Owens?” he asked as soon as I picked up the phone.

  “Yes,” I replied, already feeling the excitement rising in my chest. I’d programmed this number into my phone the second I stepped out of the studio, so I would know exactly who was on the other end of the line. But, deciding to play it cool, I asked who was calling.

  “Gentry Fowler. We spoke earlier this week after your audition.”

  “Oh, yes, how are you, Mr. Fowler?” I opted for the more formal title, knowing he’d correct me and tell me to call him Gentry. We were going to be working closely together after all.

  “I’m well. Thank you for asking. Look, I’ll get straight to the point. We were very impressed by your audition.”

  Yes. Yes, yes, yes!

  “It’s evident you have a lot of talent and passion for what you do. Unfortunately, we don’t feel you fit the part we’re looking for. We’ve decided to go with someone else, but we wish you luck in your future endeavors.”

  My entire world stopped. I don’t remember what he said after that or if I even had the dignity to respond and thank him for the opportunity. My mind had shut down, and it wasn’t until I was halfway through a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, slouched over the bar at Ascent, that I even realized I’d moved from the spot where I stood when my phone rang.

  Lucky for me, Rick wasn’t around tonight. The only thing that could’ve made this excruciating day any worse would have been listening to his dumb ass. Instead, I was able to drown my sorrows in peace, my friend and fellow bartender Chuck giving me a ride home after closing. Good thing, too; otherwise, I’d probably be facedown in the alley behind the club right about now.

  I stumble into the elevator, and it takes me three tries to hit the button for the third floor. There’s a solid chance I’ll end up stuck in this damn thing. It doesn’t work right, even on a good day. But there’s no way in hell I could navigate the stairs right now. I can’t even push a damn button, for God’s sake. The idea of trying to put one foot in front of the other while also trying to climb is more than I can comprehend at the moment.

  The doors open when the lift reaches my floor, my drunk body spilling out onto the carpet. Did I actually doze off against the door in the three seconds it took to get up here? I look back into the empty elevator and shrug. At least I arrived and won’t have to spend the night in a pool of vomit on the elevator floor.

  Things are sure looking up for Quinn Owens.

  I give a halfhearted chuckle from where I lie, letting my head roll back on my neck until it falls to the floor with a thump. As soon as my skull hits the hard boards under the threadbare carpet, I feel the tears start to well in my eyes. Not from pain. Well, at least not from the pain of hitting my head. The pain of rejection, however…that’s an entirely different story.

  I was so sure I had this one. I’d put every single part of me on the line, putting myself out there in ways I hadn’t even thought I was capable of. If I can’t get a job after all that, then maybe everyone back home was right. Maybe I’m fooling myself out here. Maybe it’s time I man up and realize it’s just not going to happen for me. Maybe it’s time I face the cold, hard truth. I’ve failed.

  I lie here a few minutes longer, allowing myself to wallow in self-pity, with my eyes squeezed tight as the tears roll down the sides of my face and fall onto the dingy carpet beneath me. When I’m finally cried out—at least for the moment—I blow out a heavy breath, lifting my hand to wipe the wetness from my cheeks before opening my eyes. My gaze shifts to a blurry object to my right. It takes a few blinks, but when my vision clears, I find two beady eyes staring back at me.

  The fucking rat!

  I scramble to my feet, my heartache temporarily replaced by determination to catch the little asshole and put him out, where he belongs. I seriously thought I was losing my mind, always hearing the scratching behind the walls but never being able to locate where it was coming from, catching glimpses of the rat bastard but never being able to find where he went. Fucking rat must be Houdini reincarnated or some shit.

  “Come here, you little cocksucker!” I shout, springing off the balls of my feet and lunging at him.

  And, instead of dirty fur and shrieking squeals, I’m met with a solid thunk against the plaster on the wall.

  Jaden

  With my fingers laced behind my head, I’m staring at the ceiling above my bed, trying to count the cracks in the dark, when there’s a loud crash from out in the hall. I bolt upright, turning to look at Elder Fisher to see if the sound woke him. He snorts loudly, as if in response, rolling over and settling right back to sleep.

  Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I sit in silence, waiting to hear if there will be any other commotion outside our door. Last week, there was a break-in at the building across the street. Last I heard, they haven’t caught the people who did it. Could they be back for more, hoping to have more luck with our building? I heard they hadn’t gotten away with much.

  A voice sounds from the hallway, and I’m about to reach over and wake up Fisher, so we can be prepared to run if it comes to it when something gives me pause. I climb to my feet instead, walking across the living room and pressing my ear against the door.

  “You won’t get away from me this time. I’m sick of your shit,” an obviously drunk voice says from out in the hallway.

  I think I might be hearing the start of a domestic dispute and wonder if I should be calli
ng the cops when he speaks again, “Get back here, you fucker. And your diseased ass had better not give me the plague.”

  The words are slurred—like three-sheets-to-the-wind slurred—but I’d recognize that voice anywhere.

  The question is, what is he doing on my floor at four in the morning?

  I look down at my attire, deciding the wrinkled shirt and flannel pants will just have to do since I don’t have time to change. From the sounds of it, Quinn won’t remember any of this tomorrow anyway. So, he definitely won’t care about seeing me in my PJs.

  I open the door as slowly as I can, hoping doing so will lessen the creak of the hinges. It works to a degree, but just before the opening is big enough for me to squeeze through, a soft groan rings through the room. I’m sure I’m caught, my eyes flashing back to Fisher as I try to come up with a logical explanation for my opening the door in the middle of the night.

  But he’s still sound asleep, as I probably should’ve guessed. The man just slept through Quinn trying to crash through the wall. A squeaky hinge wouldn’t even be a blip on his radar.

  I step out into the hall, immediately finding Quinn, as he stalks toward the corner, his hands outstretched in front of him, as if reaching for something. With as much noise as he’s made, I’m surprised to see I’m the only one out here. But then again, this is LA, and like I said, break-ins aren’t exactly a rare occurrence around here. Why open the door and invite them in? Besides, this probably doesn’t even rate on the top ten weirdest things the other tenants have heard in these halls.