Candy Boys

by Raven, Jo

  I stare in shock at the image on Christa’s phone. She and Sarah, her office mate, are silent.

  If I hadn’t walked inside, cursing my paranoia all the way, I wouldn’t have seen it. But here I am, looking at a picture of myself with Jet and Candy outside our building, all of us holding hands and smiling, myself in the middle.

  And worse still… it’s posted in the comments of a blog called Candy Boys. The blog my sis told me about. The caption says, “The real Candy Boys—Joel and Jethro.”

  That’s it. But the comments below have exploded, asking who we are, where we live, what we do, if we’re really as kinky as the story describes us. If Jet really tops me. If I like taking it up the ass. If Jet likes spanking. If we like fucking Candy on the kitchen top.

  Jesus Christ.

  “Give me back my phone,” Christa demands, but her voice is unsure.

  I ignore her. All this time I was worried about the old scandal when a new one was brewing. My chest is so tight I can barely breathe.

  Back then, I was naïve. I hadn’t realized anyone could see me with Ellen and her girlfriend from the back well enough to take that picture.

  But I thought I could trust Candy. She never mentioned this blog. I had to find out by chance, and even worse… this picture. And our names.

  Why? I thought we had something good going. I thought she cared for us like we care for her.

  Fucking stupid, Joel.

  “Hey, Joel?” Christa is behind me, and I jerk around, dizzy. “Um, look, I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry.” The blog is open for everyone to see. Anyone. Everyone can see it.

  Fuck.

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Sarah says, and I expect her to start laughing, but she looks quite solemn. “Being with Candy and Jethro.”

  “It’s the twenty-first century,” Christa chimes in, and it all sounds like a bad joke to my ears. “Maybe you wanted to keep it a secret for longer, but so what? As long as it works for you. I’m happy for you.”

  She’s not happy for me. This is all fake, a façade. Who else has she shown this to in the office?

  Hell, I could lose my job over this shit. The boss might have turned a blind eye to the first scandal, but now?

  Jet. Has Jet seen this? What if someone tells him? What if his boss finds out?

  “Have you told anyone else about this?” I demand, shaking the phone at her.

  Christa actually takes a step back. “Calm down, Joel. We haven’t. It’s just a blog. Not many people would recognize you. It’s not even a clear picture of you.”

  The hell it isn’t. I throw the phone on her desk and turn to go.

  “What’s the big deal anyway?” Sarah asks. “You’re not in the closet or something, are you? We’re open-minded, but are you?”

  Her question echoes in my skull as I gather my jacket and my keys from my desk and get the fuck out of here.

  I need to find Jet.

  ***

  I call his cell phone, but he doesn’t answer. Typical. Probably forgot to charge it, or switch it on—or he’s walking. I pass by the store, but the Closed sign is on, so I drive on home, wondering what I’ll do if Candy is there.

  Lose it like a motherfucker, probably.

  Which makes me glad there’s only Jet when I enter the apartment. He’s in the bathroom, hands braced on the sink, shirtless, only clad in his briefs. He meets my gaze in the mirror, and it roots me to the spot.

  Anger. Sadness. Misery. Despair.

  Fuck, he knows. Now it makes sense why Candy isn’t here with him. I can picture it in my head—Jet seeing the picture, the comments, confronting her.

  I have no fucking clue why there’s a heaviness in my chest, or why my eyes ache. I’m so fucking angry, dammit. So fucking mad.

  And horny.

  There’s no conscious thought involved. I grab Jet and turn him around, push him back against the sink and slam my mouth on his.

  He reaches for me, kissing me back like he’s punishing me, and that’s good. I need that. He’s all lips and tongue and teeth and stubble, his hands threatening to break my bones where they’re gripping my biceps.

  I push, and he pushes back. We wrestle in the bathroom, hitting one wall, then the other, until I manage to pin him against the shower stall. I push a knee between his legs, and in return he bites my lower lip so hard I’m pretty sure it’s bleeding. He yanks me to his chest, thrusts his tongue deep inside my mouth.

  Rough and angry and desperate, like me.

  His hands slip down my sides to my pants. They find my zipper and open it. I do the same for him, and we fumble with our underwear until we grip each other’s dick, rough, hot hands on rock-hard cocks.

  But that’s not enough.

  I push his hands away. He struggles against me, and I shove him back so hard his head hits the wall.

  “Fuck,” he whispers.

  I pull down his briefs and kneel at his feet with my hand on his cock.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” He glances down at me, tries to pull back.

  “Stop fighting me, Jet.”

  “You’re the one who’s been fighting this.”

  “Then let me have you.”

  He stills, his eyes wide. “Hell, I’m yours, J. Always was. But—”

  “Good.” I lap at his cock, tasting him for the first time and he jerks in my hold.

  “Fuck…”

  I suck him in, taking him as deep as I can, and he groans, a deep, needy sound. Both his hands land on my head, tangling in my hair.

  So this is what a man tastes like, I think, licking at his salty bitterness. What Jet tastes like. I tried my own cum once, but wasn’t crazy about it.

  Jet, though… Dark, musky, salty, strong like booze. His taste turns my dick to diamond. He jerks on my hair, the sting of pain another jolt straight to my gut, making my balls heavy. I suck him harder, deeper, drawing a long moan from him.

  He’s staring down at me, his eyes round and black with arousal. I curl my fingers around the thick base of his cock, tugging in time to my lips sucking him, and lift my other hand to his balls, wanting to feel them.

  They’re drawn up and heavy. Full.

  His dick twitches, and more saltiness floods my mouth. I drag my tongue on the underside of his cock, and he gasps, his legs trembling.

  Then he’s coming with a shout down my throat, and I barely manage to swallow his load and wipe my mouth before he slides down the stall to land on his ass on the floor.

  “Hell,” he whispers. “Goddamn.”

  And I return to reality, on the bathroom floor, on my knees, with the taste of Jet’s cum in my mouth.

  What the hell am I doing? Have I lost it completely? Didn’t I come here to talk with Jet about that damn blog and Candy? Without Candy, why was I kissing Jet, going down on him?

  “J?”

  I shrug Jet’s arm off me, push to my feet and stagger out of the bathroom, pulling up my pants. Jet is calling my name, but I don’t stop. I stumble into my bedroom, take off my shirt and shrug on a clean Tee, then I grab my jacket, my wallet and my car keys and walk back out.

  When I enter the living room, though, Jethro is leaning against the wall, naked, eyes dark and dangerous, and Jesus fuck, my mouth waters at the sight of him and my heart starts pounding harder.

  This isn’t normal. This is sick, and I have to stop. Stop looking and touching and thinking about him that way, about the three of us.

  There is no “three of us” anymore. Not without Candy.

  Fuck, I need to clear my head.

  “Where are you going, J?” he asks, his voice low and raspy, and I stop at the door. Lean against it, my hand on the handle, my thoughts a jumble.

  “Out.”

  He shakes his head, says nothing more, and I glare at him, although I’m not sure how this is his fault, right before I open the door and bolt.

  ***

  The night air is crisp. I zip up my jacket and thrust my hands in my pockets, walking briskly d
own the street toward my car. My first thought is to run, put my head down against the sharp breeze and race until my lungs give out and my mind falls quiet.

  My chest feels too full. My head aches, too much rattling inside. Shame. Anger. Desire. Sadness.

  Fear.

  I don’t want Jet. It’s not him who turns me on. It’s Candy. He’s just familiar. He’s my friend. I’m comfortable with him.

  Everything’s fine.

  Then why do the same damn feelings keep churning over and over again, making me feel sick? I reach my car, unlock it and slip inside, fighting the urge to bang my head against the steering wheel.

  I think of calling Evie, but decide against it. Not sure what I can tell her. How to explain the problem, or what she can do. Besides, she’ll tell me everything’s fine.

  And it’s fucking not.

  I start the car and head into traffic, driving aimlessly through the night. The urge to run is still there, but I didn’t think to grab my running shoes when I rushed out of the apartment, so that’s out of the question now.

  A thought strikes me. I have an old pair of running shoes at my parents’ apartment. I’ll pass by, say hi, pick the shoes up and then drive somewhere where I can let loose this pressure, this oppressive energy that’s filling me up.

  I’m on autopilot as I drive south, turn onto the familiar street and park, telling myself it’s the cold that has my skin feeling so tight over my bones. I lock up, use the keys I still have to enter the building, and jog up the stairs.

  Dunno why I’m keeping the keys. Dad, who gave them to me back when I was starting college, never asked for them back, but it’s not like I visit often. My folks and I, we don’t exactly see eye to eye. I mean, they’re okay. They never mistreated me or anything. In fact, they’ve always made it clear they’re proud of me and that they’re there for me, but…

  The sound of too loud TV hits me first as I unlock, after ringing the bell a few times for good measure. Baseball. It’s always been either that or the fitness programs Mom watches.

  “Hey, Dad.” I step inside, shut the door behind me. It’s so weird, finding myself back here. It’s as if years start falling off me with every step I take, sliding off me like raindrops. By the time I reach dad’s armchair, I’m a kid again, unsure and clumsy.

  There’s an itch between my shoulder blades—or maybe it’s under my skin. The urge to turn around and leave hits me.

  I plant my feet more firmly on the floor. “Dad.”

  He waves a hand at me. “Look what the cat dragged in. Joel. Come sit down.”

  I hesitate. “You’re busy.” And drunk. He has quite the collection of beer bottles on the coffee table, and his eyes are red and glassy. He always gets drunk when Mom’s not home. Not even Evie knows that, but he used to insist we do this together—watch sports and drink.

  Bonding experience, he called it.

  “Never busy for my only son,” he says and waves me over again.

  I cross the room and take a seat in the armchair across from him. “Where’s Mom?”

  “At the gym, with her friends. Got tired of waiting for you to show up.”

  “Dad—”

  “About time you remembered your family, or did you think to wait until our funeral to come by?” He thumps his fist on the armrest, glowering. “Since that lowlife bastard moved in with you, we never get to see you anymore. Bad enough that your sister chose to move in with a street bum…”

  “Evie’s boyfriend is a good guy.”

  “Bullshit. He’s a good for nothing who used to live on the street.” He sighs, then slides a beer toward me. “Here.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Suit yourself.” He tsks.

  I know what he’s telling me. What he has always told me. A good son, a real man, would watch baseball and get wasted with him. Even though I finished my degree and got a job at a respectable company, a job he wanted me to get, it’s not enough.

  Never enough.

  “Look at them, playing like faggots!” He waves his beer bottle at the TV, his attention riveted back to the game. “Pussies, all of them. I bet they rub each other’s dicks afterward. Goddamn pansies.”

  “What did they do now?”

  “Do? Nothing, that’s what. They’re doing nothing. That’s how faggots are. A fucking disease. Degenerates, good for nothing.”

  “Who says they’re faggots?” The word sticks in my mouth, but I force it out. I suck in a breath.

  “Have to be, to play like that. Look at them, throwing themselves all over one another. Disgusting faggot bitches.”

  My heart is hammering. “That’s just how the game is, Dad.”

  He slams his beer down on the table. “You on the faggot side now, son?”

  “Of course not.” The itch is getting worse. I want to scratch my skin off. Scrape my mind clean. Suddenly that beer sounds good.

  “If my only son turns queer, I’ll throw myself off that fucking balcony.” He points at it with a thick finger, then turns to glare at me.

  My stomach churns.

  “That’s not gonna happen, is it?” he asks.

  “No, Dad. Of course not.”

  “That’s right.” He suddenly grins at me. “That’s my boy. At least you turned out right, got your head on straight.”

  I stand up, my stomach cramping so badly I think I’ll puke. “Gotta go. Tell Mom I said hi, okay?”

  “You just arrived! Sit.”

  “Can’t, dad. Something I need to do.”

  What I need to do is stop running. Feels like I can’t stop.

  I don’t wait for his reply. Forget the running shoes, I just want out. Throwing the door open, I stumble out and take the stairs two at a time, going so fast I’m risking my neck. I jog out of the building, brace one hand on the wall outside and bend over.

  Faggots. Pansies. Throwing themselves all over one another.

  Jet’s chest, his mouth, his dick, his taste, the sounds he makes as he comes…

  Good for nothing. Faggot bitches.

  Jet on his back on the bed, jacking off. In the shower, coming hard as I look on. His dick in my mouth, my dick in his ass, our mouths crushing together in a deep kiss…

  Fucking hell. I retch, but nothing comes up. There’s a hollow ache in my chest when I think of Jet and Candy. No matter how hard I try to convince myself I hate her, that I don’t want him, I know I’m lying to myself.

  Oh God, what am I gonna do?

  Chapter Thirty

  JETHRO

  When it all goes to hell, what will you do?

  Remember those days when everything went according to plan?

  Yeah, neither do I.

  All my life I’ve tried to be strong, to face my problems, to let pain and sorrow flow over me like water and not stop me. To not let fear and panic control me.

  Anger has always been my saving grace, pulling me up from the murk, giving me the strength to go on.

  And in the last years I managed to find meaning in my life. A purpose. Despite the nightmares and the memories that won’t let go, I moved on.

  But Joel was by my side. He was my ally.

  Not in this, though. Not now. Not anymore. And after what Donna told me… I’ll probably lose Candy, too. Lose both of them in one fell swoop.

  I swipe my drawing pad off the sofa, jump to my feet and start to pace.

  I can’t lose them. Maybe Candy won’t shut me out. Even if Donna fired me for not having a school diploma—because I admitted it, dammit, too shocked to lie—maybe Candy won’t mind so much that I’m such a loser.

  Who the hell knows?

  But Joel… Fuck. Getting off can never make up for losing his friendship. Feelings that go further than friendship. Further than brotherhood. And I’ve never been good with feelings—with understanding them, showing them. Getting a fucking response to them.

  What I want doesn’t matter. Never has. I’ll take what he can give and won’t expect anything more. And I should stop fucking pushing
before he goes for good.

  The thought sends cold slithering down my back. If he goes… Fuck, no. No.

  I kick at the wall, my boot leaving a black mark. I kick again, kick the bed, the closet door. I grab the chair and smash it to the floor.

  Hit my fists against the wall. Smash my knuckles into the plaster. Kick the furniture. Welcome the pain.

  I stare at my bleeding knuckles, breathing hard, and the knot in my chest unclenches marginally.

  What I need is more. More pain.

  I ball my hands. If I head out to a bar, I’ll drink, and I’ll fight. I’ve been trying to stop that vicious cycle. Been doing better. Haven’t needed that outlet in a while.

  Since Candy came into our lives, changing everything.

  Fuck. Bullshit. Fuck-all has changed. I’m right back where I used to be—a loser, with no real prospects, with no one who will take me as I am. No one to need me.

  So I grab my jacket and head out. Yeah, I need a drink, and a fight, not necessarily in that order, to set my head straight. And there’s nobody left here to stop me.

  ***

  The bar is packed for a weekday night. Miraculously I find a free stool and park my ass there to drink.

  And I drink. The bartender gives me the side-eye as he slams yet another whiskey shot on the bar in front of me. I look younger than my age, but he knows me. I’ve been here plenty of times, and he doesn’t ask for my ID.

  Good thing, too. I’m itching to punch something, or someone, and he’d do in a pinch. I don’t like him, and he doesn’t like me.

  Suits me just fine. I don’t need anyone to like me, except Candy and Joel. And the thought hits me square in the chest, letting fresh pain well.

  Dammit, I came here to forget. Forget Candy, forget Joel, and forget my paranoid thoughts about dear old dad before I’m shut in a madhouse with pills shoved down my throat.

  I managed to escape the straitjacket the first time. Maybe I can do it again. I just need enough booze to drown out the voices in my head, and the itch in my fists.

  The next shot goes down smooth and warm, relaxing the stiff muscles in my back. The one after that is even better. I grin at the bartender and lift my glass. He scowls, and I salute him with my middle finger.