Roman led him to a door and opened it. Lee had been expecting an actual room, and again his expectations were challenged. It wasn’t a room. It was a closet. Literally. He could tell by the old coat hooks in the wall. But it had been inset with a lofted bed above a desk. “Don’t worry, we’ll fit,” Roman said. There was a bookshelf inset on the side of the desk. He climbed it like a ladder, then turned himself around and offered Lee a hand.
They did fit. Barely. If they kept their knees slightly bent. In other circumstances, Lee might have wanted to close the door for privacy, but he was worried they’d both suffocate.
They lay facing one another, Roman on the outside where, hopefully, he wouldn’t fall out. He tucked his forearm under his head and said, “You can still bail, y’know. I wouldn’t blame you.”
“Why would I?”
“Now you’ve had a good look at me. A Tax Rat’s not half as threatening when he’s out of his element. But here….”
“Don’t say that!”
“Why not? Everyone else does.”
“Not in my house,” Lee insisted. When Emma was eight, she’d picked up the slur at school and showed it off at the dinner table. Mom parked her in the corner for the rest of the night. And Dad didn’t even sneak her a dessert.
Roman probably thought Lee’s family was like Howard’s, a bunch of arrogant, ostentatious blowhards. And, really, why wouldn’t he? Compared with this apartment, their modest composite home was a mansion. Lee suspected he couldn’t really convey what he felt with words, especially since he couldn’t quite find a word for his emotions—fear and shame and exuberance and longing all mingled together—so instead he pulled his shirt over his head.
Vintage. There were usually a few odds and ends for sale at Cat and Canary other than books. Bits of clothing. Knick knacks. Flowers. He told his mother it was the purple and blue paisley that had caught his eye, but really, wearing it was nothing more than a silly attempt to blend in.
“You almost passed for District in that shirt,” Roman said.
“But I didn’t.” He’d never realized he had an accent.
“Doesn’t matter. You’re here.” Roman peeled off his own top, then skimmed his fingertips over Lee’s bare arm. Lee shivered. “I was serious about that shower offer, y’know. Real sex isn’t nearly as antiseptic as what you’re used to.”
“No. I don’t want some sanitized version of reality.” For once.
Roman traced a path down Lee’s chest, kindly ignoring his squirming, and said, “I like the smell of woodsmoke, actually.” He pressed his mouth to Lee’s ear, inhaled deeply, and sighed. The tickle of breath against his earlobe caused a shockwave to ripple through Lee, from his scalp to his clenched toes. “Scent is linked to memory—and I always have a good time at the Bonfires.”
Lee pressed his nose to Roman’s hair. It did smell like woodsmoke, and so much more. It smelled like a real person under there, someone who wanted to be together for whatever complex human reasons he had, and not because he was obligated to teach Lee about the ins and outs—literally—of sexuality. Lee had been lectured, drilled and quizzed on touch, yet now it felt overwhelming to decide where to begin. He slipped his hand around Roman’s bare waist, not with any real strategy, but simply because that was where his hand naturally fell. It brought them closer, chest to chest and thigh to thigh. Lee walked his fingers across the flat hard plane just above the tailbone, and Roman moaned against his cheek. It was nothing at all like the calm feedback his teacher would have uttered. He dragged his fingers higher. Sinew, muscle, bone—scent, touch and sound—all of it was strange. Nothing like his sex ed teacher. Nothing like the woman waiting for him to trigger the Algorithm.
Roman arched against him, and the bulges in their pants butted together. He asked Lee, “You’re still into this, right?”
“Yes.”
“You’re so quiet, it’s hard to tell.”
That was probably for the best. The only thing Lee could think to say was that he was sorry—and according to Ms. Carmichael, apologies should be kept to a minimum in the bedroom. “I’m into it.”
Roman caught his wrist. He shoved Lee’s hand down the front of his tattered black jeans. “You sure?”
The only thing Lee was sure of was that he really, really wanted Roman to stop grilling him about what they were doing—and that he had no idea what his hand was encountering, just that things were fleshy and hot and surprisingly hairy behind that zipper.
Of course they were. This wasn’t sex ed. It was reality.
“Lee?”
“Don’t second-guess me. I’m into it.” Lee worked his fingers around the base of Roman’s erect penis and straightened it inside the jeans so it pointed toward his waistband. Roman gasped. His breath was hot against Lee’s neck. Lee took a deep breath, then wriggled and wrenched his way down to the lower half of the bed while Roman uttered small sounds of approval. Lee only hit his head once. Maybe twice. When he looked up, Roman cupped his cheek.
From the low angle, Roman’s expression was unreadable, but Lee was fairly sure he couldn’t have done anything wrong yet. He unzipped Roman’s fly and tugged the jeans open. Sparse light leaking through the warren of living room boxes lit the contour of a vein starkly against the hard shaft. Roman reached down, grasped himself, and swiped his thumb over the slit. “Before you go down, check for wayward pubes, like this. The back of your throat will thank you.”
An image of the naked squab sprang to mind. Lee shoved it aside. He sized up the glans and wet his lips.
“Take your time. Don’t gag yourself.”
“Could you…stop talking to me like a teacher?”
“Oh. Okay.” Roman gave himself a few more strokes while the corners of his eyes creased in a subtle smile. “Then get to it, prettyboy, and suck my big, hard dick.”
The most important sex organ is the brain. Lee had never understood the overused phrase until that very moment. But when Roman spoke to him like that—prodding an erection toward his face—a giddy sensation swept over him in a wave so intense it felt more like a tumble from the top bunk, than arousal. Roman grabbed him by the hair and shoved in. It took a few strokes before Lee realized that Roman wasn’t actually holding his head very hard…and that he should probably start sucking.
“Mm, yeah,” Roman breathed. Lee felt his own testicles shift. “Sweet mouth. So damn hot….” Roman set the pace and the depth—not terribly deep, nowhere near as deep as his female classmates had boasted about taking it—but between the writhing and the hair-tugging, the charred bonfire scent and the dirty phrases uttered in that taboo District accent, Lee realized precisely what he should have been fantasizing about all those times he struggled to the point of rawness to finish.
He allowed himself to steal a caress, fingers creeping over the planes of Roman’s heaving belly and the smattering of wiry chest hair. He went deeper, sucked harder, and Roman’s back arched off the thin mattress. “Yeah…like that….” The words weren’t dirty in themselves, but the way they rode the broken edge of desire was everything. “I’m so close.”
Already? Lee grunted his encouragement.
“Fuck, oh fuck…where should I come—your pretty face? Your hot mouth?”
Lee had no idea. His head was spinning and his mouth had a salty, hard penis jammed in deep. His reply wasn’t even a word, but he supposed it didn’t matter. Roman’s ejaculate not only spurted against his soft palate and the back of his tongue, it christened him from eyelash to chin to chest. Roman sagged, mouth open, arm dangling over the side of the bunk while his chest heaved and his spent penis softened on his belly. Lee felt a bead of semen roll sluggishly over his collarbone to the hollow of his throat.
After several deep, deliberate breaths, Roman opened his eyes. He looked a lot less threatening with his face flushed and his jeans around his knees. He thumbed some tackiness from Lee’s cheek and said, “That was amazing.”
Thank you was no more appropriate between the sheets than I’m sorry, at le
ast according to Ms. Carmichael. Lee shrugged.
“C’mon back up here, it’s my turn to make your toes curl.”
One way to ensure your wife is not faking her orgasm is to check for the flexion of her toes. Lee swallowed. And swallowed again.
“Lee?”
A mutually satisfying experience is critical to the success of your marriage.
“Hey…Lee. You okay?”
“Yes,” Lee replied, too quickly.
“Y’know, if you stay all scrunched down at the foot of the mattress, I can’t reach your dick.”
Lee tried to focus on the playful lilt of Roman’s voice, but all he could hear was Ms. Carmichael. Factual. Unassuming. And excruciatingly patient.
Communication is the key to building marital trust.
Lee’s heart was pounding, not with some illicit thrill anymore, but with panic and dread.
Roman threaded his fingers through Lee’s hair, fingertips grazing his scalp, tracing small circles. They stayed that way several long moments, nothing moving but Roman’s fingers. When he finally spoke, his voice was so low and gentle, Lee had to strain to hear it. “D’you wanna talk about it?”
“It’s the Orange Malt. It’s not sitting well.”
“Yeah, I probably should’ve warned you about that. There’s a plastic bag in the corner, up by those paperbacks.” Roman’s eyelids drooped and fluttered, as his hand fell away from Lee’s hair. “Try not to hurl on the sheets.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE NAUSEA EXCUSE was so flimsy, there was no way it would have flown if Roman hadn’t been half asleep. And yet it was the taste of rotten orange homebrew that woke Lee—and the lingering funk was significantly worse the morning after than it had been the night before. His first panicky thought was that if Roman caught a whiff of his breath, he’d be flung into the street. But then he realized he had an awful lot of mattress all to himself.
Normally, Lee could just avoid breathing on people if he needed to divert his morning breath. Now, though, it was entirely possible he’d have a chance to kiss Roman goodbye…and him without a toothbrush. How sad, if the last thing he remembered from this encounter was the fact that his mouth was too vile to coax out one fleeting, final moment of connection. As he pondered the fact that it was just as well he’d left his comb in that bucket since he’d probably just hurt himself trying to brush his teeth with it, an unfamiliar male voice carried through the shelves and stacks and hanging bicycles where the living room should have been. “…it’s about time. ’Sall I can say.”
And then a woman. “But you could at least close your door. I mean, you fought me tooth and nail for that private bedroom and then you don’t close the door.”
A laugh. Roman’s. “I wasn’t that loud.”
“You could hear a mouse fart in this place,” the man observed.
“Shut the hell up,” Roman said affably. “You couldn’t hear shit.”
The man pitched his voice high and mocking, “Ooh, baby, smoke my salami.”
“Damn it, Troy, shut up,” the woman said. “You’ll make me hurl.”
Troy pitched his voice even higher. “La-di-da, I’m Spike. I act like such a badass but I toss my cookies at the mere mention of dick.”
“I hate you both,” she said, matter-of-fact.
The sound of footsteps, and a few jibes Lee didn’t quite catch over the sound of clattering plates and shifting furniture, or maybe because his cheeks were blazing so hard they’d diverted the working bloodflow from his eardrums. He located his underwear, his jeans, and slipped into them as quietly as he could.
Out in the apartment, movement settled, and in the pause that followed, Troy said, “But seriously…did I detect an accent?”
“Oh God,” said the woman, Spike, especially loud. “You didn’t.”
Troy said, “Know how you can spot a Boomer? They hammer their plosives like they’re building another shopping mall.”
“Do you enjoy getting hurt?” Spike demanded.
Laughter. Just the men. Then Troy said, “If Roman’s kinks were that common, he could shop a little closer to home. But lighten up, this is the only one he actually bagged. So tell me, studly, are they as good in the sack as everyone claims?” More laughter. But only Troy’s. “Ruined for normal District guys now?”
“Asshole.”
“Hey, hey. Don’t be so graphic—I wasn’t fishing for specifics.”
Spike said, “You know that Boomer’s just slumming, right? Using you ’cos he’s bored with his perfect Algorithm wife.”
“You have no clue what you’re talking about. You haven’t even met him.”
Lee pulled on his shirt. He was dressed now, except for his shoes, which he’d left on the floor outside the closet. He crawled down the bookcase ladder, expecting it to creak and announce his presence. It didn’t. He supposed that was for the best. It saved him from having to figure out what he had to say for himself. Funny. When he’d first woken, he thought his problems were as simple as morning breath. Now he was mortified by the sheer fact of his existence. He stepped into his shoes and crept around a bookshelf, glancing in the direction of the voices. A stack of filing cabinets hid the room beyond—a kitchen, judging by the gurgle of running water and the scent of slightly burnt toast.
Home free. Lee planned to slip out while Roman and his friends were occupied with breakfast so no one would be any the wiser. He turned toward the door, and froze. A couch blocked his way. And on the couch, a thin, blue-haired woman with a neck tattoo was curled against the far end, staring up at him in horror. They both froze, eyes locked. In the kitchen, dishes clattered. Lee took a tentative step toward the front door. The woman didn’t leap up and stop him, so he took another. And another. He reached for the doorknob.
“So that’s how it is?” the woman snapped. Spike. “Not even a goodbye?”
Lee’s hand dropped to his side.
Footsteps, then Roman’s voice. “Lee, hold on.”
Lee couldn’t bring himself to look. He remained facing the door, shutting his eyes too. It didn’t help. He still wished he was anywhere but there.
Troy said, “Told ya. Sound carries.”
“Shut up,” Roman snapped. “Both of you.” He dropped a hand to Lee’s shoulder. Lee flinched. Roman pitched his voice low and gentle, and said, “Don’t leave like this.”
But Lee wasn’t nearly strong enough to stay, brazen and defiant, in a place where he clearly didn’t belong. “I’m sorry. I need to go.”
“At least have a coffee.” Roman saw Lee hesitate, and pressed on. “I already poured it. You don’t want it to go to waste.”
How was it that someone whose life was as different from his as it could possibly be would know the exact button to push? In Lee’s family, waste was almost as taboo an utterance as Tax Rat. His shoulders sagged in resignation. He could endure his shame for the amount of time it took to drink a single coffee. He had to. He turned and met Roman’s gaze, and saw a tenderness there he hadn’t noticed back in the banquet hall, or out by the Bonfires. Or maybe it was just that Roman’s cynicism paled in comparison to his roommates’ cheerful bitterness. He forced a smile and tugged Lee back through the storage warren, past Spike, still gawking from the couch, and into the kitchen.
It hadn’t been designed as an eat-in kitchen, but half the shelves were crammed precariously full and the other half had been replaced with a narrow table and three mismatched chairs. A stout, broad-faced man with freckles and multiple lip piercings glanced up from the table as he took a loud slurp of coffee. He blinked, then looked down at his mug. “Oh. Wait a sec. This wasn’t for me?”
Roman sighed.
Lee took it as a sign. He wasn’t meant to be there. He should never have come. He strode back through the storage room—back past Spike, who was still staring—with Roman right at his heels. “C’mon, Lee, wait a sec. At least let me treat you to breakfast.”
Lee paused. It was some sort of test, it had to be. To see if he would insist on pay
ing the bill? To see if he’d try to pay the check with a comb? Joke’s on them. My comb is somewhere in a bucket full of sugar packets and pocket lint.
Roman wadded the back of Lee’s shirt in his hand, pulled himself close, and pressed his lips to the nape of Lee’s neck. “C’mon,” he murmured, and a shiver coursed down Lee’s spine, almost tantalizing enough to cut through his mortification. “I don’t want you to remember our date like this.”
Well. That sealed it. Maybe the housemates thought he was a jerk. But if he insisted on storming off in hurt indignation now, after what Roman said, he would actually be one. “Okay.”
“Two minutes,” Roman said, and disappeared into the maze of shelves and boxes, heading for his lofted closet.
Lee stood in the single clear spot—and the only reason there weren’t piles of stuff there was so people could open the door. He could have sat on the couch, he supposed, if the other person on it wasn’t staring at him like he was covered in buboes and coughing up blood.
Spike was crammed in the corner, cross-legged, with a full basket in her lap. At first Lee thought she was doing something with berries, cleaning them in preparation for whatever arcane process turned fruit into alcohol. But then she dipped her hand in and the tiny round things in the basket clattered together. Beads. She picked up a handful and scrubbed them with a wire brush.
Lee offered an attempt at civil conversation. “What are you doing?”
“Distressing.” She scrubbed harder. “Vintage items sell better than brand new ones, but there’s only so many antique necklaces that can be pulled apart so crafty Boomers can feel self-important about stringing them back together.”
Distressing was right. Lee hoped his mother never found out her quilt scraps weren’t recycled after all, just made to look that way.
He stood there awkwardly while Spike scrubbed, and eventually said, “I’m not married.”
She scowled and scrubbed more intently.
“I’m not,” he insisted. “I’m still in school.”
“Studying what?”
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