I tilted my head and kissed him. Sweeping my tongue across his bottom lip, I silently warned him before I kissed him harder, deeper. My tongue found his.
He spun us. My back rested against his truck. No longer were his hands still on my torso. He moved one to the back of my head and angled me how he wanted. My fingers sought warm skin above his jeans, underneath his shirt. His back was smooth and tight with muscle.
My moan echoed his. I wanted to touch more of his smooth back, shoving my hands under the cotton, lifting it out of the way.
I barely registered the sound of tires on the gravel or the car doors opening behind us.
“We should take this someplace else,” he whispered against my lips.
I froze as footsteps, heavy boots, crunched on the gravel. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I stepped away.
“Faggots,” a voice yelled across the parking area.
We both cringed at the slur. He leaned against the car next to his and lit up another cigarette before flipping the bird at the asshole’s back.
The futility of the gesture made me laugh. Not exactly running scared, but also not fighting back. We waited until the guy went inside before we left.
“Let’s get out of here.” I opened his passenger door. Once inside, I reached over and unlocked his door.
He joined me and started the engine. When we drove past the asshole’s truck, he rolled down his window and flicked his lit cigarette out. It sailed over the side of the bed.
In terms of retaliation for the slur, it was pretty lame, but we high-fived each other in solidarity.
Driving in silence, he headed east through town. After a series of right turns, I realized we were going in circles, and suggested Lucky’s. Chances were I’d know someone there, but it wasn’t a gay bar. I didn’t know how out Warren was. Or wanted to be.
Inside my favorite dive bar most of the tables were full, but a couple of familiar faces occupied our regular booth.
Before I could suggest joining my friends, Warren walked over to them. “Hey, Ben.”
“Hey, bro.” Ben did a weird white guy high five-hand clasp with Warren.
“You two know each other?” I took a seat across from Ben and gestured for Warren to sit next to me.
“Warren makes the most beautiful bongs and pipes.”
Warren beamed. “They’re not much.”
“Dude, I don’t know a lot about art, but those things are beautiful.” Ever since he saw Point Break, Ben’s accent had gone from vague Northeastern to Keanu Reeve’s surfer. Everything he said ended with dude and bro.
“Wait, you made Gandalf? Ben’s right. That bong was gorgeous.” Gil poured us both beers from the pitcher.
“Was?” Warren frowned. “Did it break?”
“I gave it away.” He looked sad at the thought. “Jo wasn’t really into it.”
“I’ve heard that before, man. You get with a chick and she trades access to her body for your balls.” Warren nodded.
“That’s not happening.” Ben took a long swig of beer.
Warren snorted. “Sure. Of course not.”
“I think Ben happily handed over his balls to Jo. Probably served them up on a sterling silver platter with a specially designed spoon.” I laughed at the thought of such a thing.
Instead of getting pissed, Ben surprised me by shrugging off Warren’s insults. He must have really loved Jo not to get mad. Or his lack of balls had gelded him, removing all testosterone and the urge to fight. Poor guy.
Warren’s arm stretched behind me along the booth. Noticing our position, Gil lifted an eyebrow while nodding in approval.
Ben prattled on about Point Break and the epic Halloween costumes we wore to a campus party before Castro. “Quinn found us a source for the president masks. I had enough blazers and ties for everyone already. The whole thing was a piece of cake.” He snapped his fingers like some sort of Rat Pack cool guy.
“Genius.” Warren gave him a high-five.
Really? Suits and masks were genius? Clearly the man had never been to the Castro.
“Man, I love that movie. Swayze going out in the monster wave was the bomb. He did life his own way.”
The three of them fell into a discussion about robbing banks and the FBI.
I interrupted their animated conversation. “Listen, Johnny Utahs, we’re out of beer.”
“Okay. I’ll come with you.” Warren stood up to let me out.
While we stood in line for the bartender, his hand crept into my back pocket. I flinched at first then tried to cover it up by pressing back against him.
I wasn’t used to PDA in front of my friends. I didn’t have anything to hide. Hell, freshman year I’d practically run around screaming I was queer from the sheer joy of coming out and the weight it lifted off of my shoulders.
People waiting to order crowded the bar area. Warren leaned closer, pressing his front against my back. I felt his breath on my neck before he spoke. “I like your friends.”
I turned to reply and realized his mouth, the lips which had been on mine an hour ago, was only a couple of inches from mine. He could kiss me with the tiniest movement.
Panicking, I backed away with a jolt.
I didn’t know if he wanted to go in for a kiss. From his expression, my reaction surprised him. He quickly recovered and stepped to my side. When I reached for his hand, he avoided me by placing it on the bar.
We returned with a full pitcher and resumed our seats in the booth. Warren played with his glass, no more arm resting on the booth. I pressed my leg against his and knocked twice with my knee. A small smile appeared on his lips, and he returned the pressure with his own leg.
I hoped it meant he understood my reaction at the bar and everything was okay between us.
Ben and Gil offered to bring me back to the house with them, politely saving Warren the extra trip and essentially cockblocking me. Thanks, friends.
Outside Lucky’s, Warren and I awkwardly stared at each other while the guys shuffled around.
“I’m driving up to Pilchuck for a weekend session. You should come with me.” Warren brushed the back of his hand against mine.
I grinned at him. “Are you inviting me to see your glory hole?”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” I stepped toward him and he coughed, his focus over my shoulder.
Right.
Our audience.
Something about kissing Warren in front of Ben felt incredibly awkward. I didn’t think Ben would freak out, but he acted pretty conservative about most things. Two guys kissing in front of him might have been the thing to push him over into full Anita Bryant mode. I told myself I respected him too much to throw my sexuality in his face. The truth was, I didn’t want to see his judgment.
“I’ll call you tomorrow to get your address.” Warren took a step away.
I waved as I walked backward to Ben’s car.
No goodnight kiss for us.
“How Will I Know” ~ Whitney Houston
“I FEEL LIKE we’re reenacting the clay scene in Ghost.” My hands were wrapped around a hard blow-pipe. The heat from the furnace sizzled my exposed skin.
Warren chuckled behind me, his hands holding the end of the rod and helping me to spin it in the furnace as we gathered the molten glass onto the tip.
Just the tip. I chuckled as the glowing liquid clung to the end of the rod.
“Okay, pullout, and we’ll start shaping this bad boy.” He placed his gloved hand on my hip.
I carefully lifted the molten liquid-covered rod out of the furnace and slowly carried it over to the steel table.
The open air space held multiple furnaces and work benches filled with other students, but I felt like Warren and I were alone.
He showed me how to roll the ball on the cool steel to form a skin over the molten glass.
“Now put your lips together and blow.” He demonstrated the action.
I licked my lips and mir
rored him
“Now do it to the pipe.” His smirk told me his mind had gone to the same place mine had.
As I blew, the blob expanded. “That’s amazing.”
“Do it again.”
I did and a bubble formed at the end of the pipe.
Other than a fear of being scalded and deformed for life by million degree glass, the whole experience of glassblowing had been pretty amazing.
At the end of the day, my slightly off-kilter vase sat on a rack with other novice blowers similarly wonky pieces.
I assisted Warren as he took over and created his own work—a beautifully swirled bowl. The man had talent. He reacted fearlessly and the glass responded as an extension of his breath.
I was in awe.
I wanted to make out with him and didn’t care who saw.
The things he could do with a pipe in his mouth and his hands on a rod may have had something to do with it.
I spent weeks of near sleepless nights finalizing my senior project. Warren helped by continuing to teach me simple glass blowing techniques. Good enough I could make the glass eyes for my Sammy Davis, Jr. collectible.
Everything in my senior show had a pop culture reference, but had been crafted out of classic materials. Puffy-heart-shaped gilt wood jewelry boxes contained tiny, spinning Liza Minellis inside instead of ballerinas. Porcelain doll heads resembled Cabbage Patch Kids. Thankfully, Gil’s job had a huge screen-printing set-up for my Warhol inspired dead celebrity posters, and I cut a deal with the owner.
Maggie, Lizzy, and Selah brought me food in the evenings, even hanging out in the cluttered space of my studio studying as I worked. We listened to random cassettes we found at the thrift store or old eight-tracks I played on the ancient stereo from the seventies Gil dragged up here with me.
One Wednesday night, it stormed outside while we had a dance party to Donny & Marie.
An idea burned bright in my mind. “Do either of you knit?”
“No, but my grandmother does.” Maggie flopped in the old armchair covered with a drop cloth.
“Can she make socks?”
“Are your feet cold?”
“I want to do Donny’s purple socks. My sister had the doll and it came with little purple socks.”
“I bet she can, but are you allowed to outsource?”
I pursed my lips. “Probably. I’ll post something in the CAB or the Art Annex. Somewhere around here someone must know how to work a needle not involving heroin.”
“You should work that upbeat image into a project, Q.” Selah moved a pile of screens from my workbench and jumped up.
I scratched my goatee. “I do have the whole section on tragic deaths.”
“Everything is so bright and cheerful, but utterly morbid and depressing.” Selah pointed at the poster of Jean Michel Basquiat on the wall.
“Too soon?” He’d been dead for a couple of years. The latest member of the twenty-seven club, morbid but the coolest. In addition to Jean Michel, my posters included members Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, and Jimi Hendrix. Apparently, your name also had to begin with the letter “J” to join.
“Maybe.” Selah kicked her legs against the cabinets, her boots leaving behind more scuff marks.
“It’s all kind of like celebrity and life?” I wanted feedback from them. This show would be the biggest thing I’d ever done and I felt nervous.
“You’re an evil genius, Q.” Maggie beamed at me, always my biggest supporter.
“Do you think it’s too late for me to join a punk band?” Selah said out of nowhere. “I think I should be in an all-girl punk band.”
“Do you play any instruments?” Lizzy asked.
“No, but I think I’d be great at screaming angry lyrics.” Selah tapped an uncapped marker against her lips, unintentionally giving herself semi-permanent black lipstick.
“You’d be perfect as an angry front girl. Do it.” I glanced at the clock. “I’m late to meet Warren.”
Giggling and teasing me about a date, the girls gathered their things.
“When are Lizzy and I going to meet this alleged boyfriend of yours?” Selah paused by the door, waiting for my answer.
Boyfriend? “Who said I had a boyfriend?”
“Oh, please. We’re not going into the whole ‘he’s a boy and a friend explanation’ again, are we?” Lizzy crossed her arms and puckered her lips.
I kissed her cheek.
“We haven’t really declared anything.”
Sure Warren and I kissed, and “hung out” a few times. But it had never really gone any further. He spent most weekends up at Pilchuck or at the bakery. I could barely remember to stuff Ramen in my mouth most nights when I finally crawled home from my studio.
“Invite him to your opening. It’s only a few weeks away.” Maggie pulled her Blossom-style hat over her hair. I wasn’t a fan. At least hers didn’t have the big flower on it.
“Splendid idea,” Lizzy said.
“Sounds good to me.” Selah pushed the others ahead of her out the door. “No excuses this time, Dayton!”
I assumed Warren would come to the opening, but it hadn’t occurred to me to invite him as my official date. Felt like a serious step.
“Say Hello, Wave Goodbye” ~ Soft Cell
MY SHOULDER ACHED from all the slapping and patting people felt I deserved for a show well done. The chicest of Olympia’s chic and the cool people of Evergreen filled the white gallery space. Professors asked where I planned to study for my MFA and if I wanted gallery representation. Red dots spotted the walls and objects like a beautiful rash. Almost everything had sold.
I should’ve been on top of the world. Instead, my head kept turning to the glass doors.
Warren was a no show.
He’d left a message on my answering machine promising he’d come tonight.
I hated how his absence clouded the glory of the spotlight tonight.
I’d worked for four years for this moment.
Everything had led up to this night.
Every stupid prank and stunt like the lettuce boycott sophomore year had taught me something about making a statement.
This was my moment to shine.
Instead, I kept an eye on the entrance, and listened for his voice over the din of chatter.
Talk around me included references to Warhol, Haring, and other Pop Art icons. An older couple dressed all in black cornered me. His mustache reminded me of Burt Reynolds and her hair had been dyed so black it looked blue.
“What are you doing next? Will you do a commission? Have you thought about studying in Los Angeles?” Their questions hit me like a barrage of BBs.
“Grad school. I don’t know. I’ve never done one before. I’m set on New York.” I sounded like a well-rehearsed toddler, providing the right words, but not really listening to the questions because I studied the doors, willing them to open.
When they did open, an unfamiliar group of people walked through them. Not Warren.
Exhaling in frustration, I excused myself from the Edward Gorey couple, and headed to the crowd lining up at the bar.
“Quinn!” The girls greeted me with open arms and mostly empty plastic glasses of the cheap white wine, a must for a legitimate art opening.
“We’re very proud of you.” Maggie kissed both my cheeks. So French.
“I bought the heart thing with the spikes.” Selah pointed to my Be Still, My Beetlejuice Heart.
“I would have gifted you one, Selah.”
“I know, but I want everything to have a red dot. I think I sold one of Sammy’s eyeballs, too.”
“You need wine.” Lizzy handed me her glass. “Drink up, buttercup. You’re a star!”
“Where are Ben and Jo?” I didn’t bother asking about Gil. I’d already spoken to him before he left with some woman who looked like Maggie’s dark haired twin. Not as pretty as our Magpie, but if you can’t be with the one you love, date her doppelganger.
Lizzy pointed over my shoulder. “Ben’s talking
to some long haired guy over by the beanbags.”
I recognized Ben’s shoes and legs, but couldn’t see the rest of him or the other guy. Hope took flight in my chest.
“Be right back.”
“You stole my wine,” Lizzy huffed.
“You’re already in line for the bar. Get us both another one.” I lifted the glass above my head as I shuffled through the crowd.
It took me ten minutes to cross the room. People stopped me, touching my arms and shoulders, praising the show. As much of an ego stroke as it was, the rest of me wanted the night to be over. Or at least this part of it. A few rounds and hanging out with the gang at Lucky’s sounded like heaven after hours of schmoozing.
When I finally reached the beanbags I’d requested for lounging, two girls sat in them. Ben was nowhere to be seen.
I sank down into an empty chair and drank my wine as I observed people looking at my creations. The girls next to me chatted about nothing related to the art. There seemed to be some guy named Roger who had apparently dated both of them. At the same time, they’d figured out, during junior year. They gossiped about his enormous talent while I eavesdropped.
The crowd thinned around us. My view no longer consisted of legs and shoes with glimpses of bright colors on the walls and pedestals.
Staring at the 27 Club posters, I stroked the goatee I’d grown in the past few weeks. Gil had one and I liked the musketeer look it gave him. I wasn’t convinced about the look for me. As much as I loved the nickname Aslan, with the goatee I looked more like the Cowardly Lion than ever.
The girls helped each other out of their chairs and wandered away. Clumps of people gathered near the glass doors, putting on coats and making plans for later.
Tilting my glass, I realized it was empty. The bar sat far, far away across the room. It might as well be a galaxy away. I sighed and rested my head back on the faux yellow fur. I visualized someone bringing over a bottle of wine. Didn’t matter who.
Squeaking from rubber soles and the clicking of heels came closer to me.
Selah and Maggie towered above me, a wine bottle held by each of them.
“My angels!”
Maggie shuffled the other beanbags closer to mine and plopped down in one.
We Were Here: A New Adult Romance Prequel to Geoducks Are for Lovers (Modern Love Stories Book 1) Page 26