The Honor Anthology

by Emily Snow

  “Fine with me,” says Brandon as his eyes fall on me, seeking approval. “You?”

  It’s a total illusion, that I think he’s seeking my go-ahead. I know and he knows he’ll just do what he wants and I’ll tag along, devoid of opinion as always. Yes, I have reservations about this. Yes, I feel like perfect-hair is trying to work some sort of angle with Brandon. No, I don’t trust either of these men or what they really are looking to gain from this game.

  I pull a stick from the wall and weigh it in my hands, then face the others. “Let’s play.”

  The game starts simply enough. Brandon breaks, scattering the balls with so much force that he sinks three of them, two solids and a stripe. Brandon and James claim the solids, of course, leaving stripes for perfect-hair and I.

  “So how long have you two been together?”

  The question comes from Justin, and it’s directed to Brandon, who merely reacts with a stoic face and a glance at me.

  If there was any worse circumstance that could have brought my boyfriend-or-not issue smashing into Brandon’s face, I don’t know what it is. I have no idea how to answer the question and from the look on Brandon’s face, he doesn’t either. The idea of “being together” is something of a taboo subject that I’ve learned via tiny social cues that neither of us seem ready to breach.

  And here’s this fruity fucker, putting it all right out on the table.

  “I told you,” I try to say, “it’s been ever since—”

  “About a year,” Brandon answers.

  I look up, startled. Justin seems highly amused by our incongruence, his face creasing with a strange grin that I can’t quite read. That expression doesn’t make him prettier and certainly doesn’t decrease my desire to put a fist into his face.

  “So, we know all about Brandon,” mutters Justin. “What do you do for a living, Jesse?”

  James leans across the table and aims to hit the four ball into the corner pocket. The way his muscles work, wrestling against his tight shirt as he stretches over the chalk-and-scratch-pocked felt, is enough to fill my spank bank for a month. Not that it needs filling while Brandon is in town.

  “I’m a music major,” I answer. “I’m hoping to teach it someday.”

  Justin is about to issue what I take to be a witty (or bitchy) response when Brandon cuts in to say, “He’s really good at it, too.”

  James’ stick cracks against the ball. He hits the four, but misses his destination.

  “Oh, is he?” Justin nods with what I take to be mock appreciation. “Has he taught you his version of the do-re-mi?”

  Brandon wrinkles his face. “Do-re-mi?”

  “I gave him piano lessons last summer,” I explain, not caring to mention the extras that came with said lessons. For some reason, I don’t enjoy the idea of bragging about our time together; last summer feels like our secret, and to spill it would be disrespectful.

  “Your turn.”

  I study the table. I see a clear shot with the eleven ball, since James totally ruined my chances with the ten. I bring my stick to the table and squint, figuring out the geometry.

  “What do you guys do for fun around here?” asks Justin, leaning on his stick and smirking at Brandon.

  I see Brandon shrug in my peripheral. I’m trying not to pay so much attention to them, focusing on the cue ball and desperate for the next few hours to fly by, or else for Brandon to decide he’s bored and wants to go home. Somehow, in the presence of these vexingly hot guys, I doubt that’ll be any time soon.

  “We only live about forty-five minutes away,” Justin goes on. “The four of us should hang out sometime. What do you like to do for fun?”

  I shoot. The cue ball smacks into the eleven ball, rocketing it right into the side pocket. When the ball kicks back, it’s set up perfectly to sink the thirteen, which I patiently prepare to do, lining up my stick and studying the angles once again.

  “Shit. The boy can play.”

  It’s Brandon who makes the remark, surprising me. I look up and can’t help but smile when I see the twist of his eyebrows and his lips pursed in respect. “Just takes geometry and patience,” I say flippantly.

  Justin studies me long and hard from the other end of the table, his eyes narrowing. I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or impressed.

  “If you know what you want,” I go on, unable to help myself, “you just need to make sure that the circumstance is right,” I take aim with the stick, “then apply the right amount of force,” I pull the stick back, squinting one-eyed down the length of it, “and then fuckin’ go for it.”

  I shoot. The cue ball cracks right where I aim it, straight into the thirteen. The pocket swallows it, and the cue ball rolls back, lining itself up for the ten.

  “Daaamn boy,” sings Brandon with half a whistle. “Where the fuck’ve you been hiding this?”

  “Hiding what?” I ask coyly, cueing up for my next shot.

  Brandon comes up behind me as I take aim. Just when I let it fly, his hand cups my ass, and the stick misfires off the cue ball, sending it wobbling over to play knock-knock with a solid. Despite his wicked trickery, the sensation that Brandon’s big hand causes when it cups my derrière is electric. It’s funny, how I’d forgotten we’re both going commando until his big hand plays down my ass like he owns it. And really, he does. He might as well be grabbing my butt nude, the way the material brushes against my cheeks and teases invitingly into my crack. A surge of desire swims down my body like a current, filling my pants with heat. It’s amazing to me how instantly I can be yanked from our presently annoying circumstance and into a lusty, army boy dream.

  Then Brandon goes and ruins it all by letting go of my ass, laughing, and high-fiving James. I don’t know whether to be pissed or totally fucking turned on by the hot pair of them high-fiving. Score one for Team Army. In an instant, I’m the pledge at some military frat I’m trying to join, and the brothers are hazing me with their little tricks and humiliating schemes. The fantasies flood my brain as fast as the heat fills my quick-swelling cock.

  These boys want to play military games with me? They want to push my nerdiness at me, make me feel like the outsider, the square peg, the misfit? I’ve had ample practice at being one my whole life; Brandon ought to know.

  But I’m ten years older now. I’ve learned to fit into just about any peg. I’ll show them.

  “Ooh, I see how it is.” I push down the qualms I had earlier in favor of the playful demons that have found a home in my pants. “You want to play dirty.”

  Brandon gives me one of his signature smirks. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this close to smiling before. Then, after staring at me for a moment with growingly dark, hungry eyes, he moves around the table to figure his shot. I watch as he considers the five ball, then flicks his gaze at the four.

  “Decisions, decisions,” I say tauntingly, drawing myself into view of the ball he’s considering. “Be careful which one you … hit.”

  I lean against the table with my stick positioned between my legs, just a modest six inches of the stick visible. I wrap my hand around the end and slowly stroke it up and down, my eyes on Brandon.

  The gesture doesn’t go unnoticed. He looks up from the table and watches my fist as it runs up and down the end of my stick. I bite my lip and grin, happy to have caught him in my little web. In the corners of my vision, I notice that I have the attention of James and Justin as well. Their reactions, however, pale in comparison to the deliciously distracted look on Brandon’s face. I’m so proud of it, I could defy physics right now and make this pool stick ejaculate sticky boy-juice all over the felt.

  “Nice stick, boy,” he says to me across the green.

  “Turns out I’m quite skilled with it,” I tease back, all this confidence flooding into me I didn’t know I had, despite the audience of these two other dudes.

  And that elderly out-of-place couple just happens to be passing by on their way out during my act of debauchery, prompting a disapproving glower fro
m the woman and an amused snort from the husband, who promptly covers his wife’s eyes as they go.

  Yeah, a room full of homos trying to get all up on my man, and she’s disgusted with me.

  I let go of the stick at once and remove it from between my legs, my face flushing as I return my attention to the table just as Brandon lets his shot fly. The cue smacks into three different balls chaotically, sending one of my stripes into the side pocket, and the one ball ricochets between the lips of the corner pocket, refusing to be sunk.

  I grin at Brandon as he frowns at the table like it betrayed him. Then James comes to his side and slaps a hand on his shoulder—the act of which causes my grin to crumble. He leans in close to him and says, “Better luck next shot, buddy.”

  I can’t help it. I can’t help the fiery, unforgiving, dark knife-wound of jealousy in my chest. Can you blame me? I’ve never had the experience of Brandon being around other … potentials before. And the fact that these “potentials” basically just fell out of a gay man’s military wet dream does not make it an easier pill to swallow.

  Get your fucking hand off of him, I want to scream.

  “Oh, no,” whines Justin as he picks up Brandon’s bottle and gives it a wiggle. “All empty. We need to get you another.”

  Brandon’s words keep circling my head: I don’t drink. I don’t drink. I don’t drink. They sound more and more hollow each trip around my brain. I wonder what other words he’s told me that ought to ring as empty.

  James gives me a nod, as if suddenly aware that I’m standing here. “Mind grabbin’ them a pair? Justin needs another, too.”

  “Oh, that’s so kind of you,” Justin says with a lift of his eyebrows in my direction, “to get those for us. Thanks, Jess.”

  Jess? We’re at nickname-land, now?

  “No prob, Jus,” I say with perhaps a smidge more sass syringed into his name than intended, making it almost sound like pus.

  Deflated and seething, I lean my stick against the table, but I don’t balance it well and the dumb thing slides to the floor. I give zero shits, walking away to the bar to nurse my own wounded feelings. Another of the gays—oh, it’s the lesbian with the glasses—sits four chairs away from me with her face buried in the screen of her phone, ignoring the world. Or maybe just me.

  “What can I get ya?”

  I lift my face to the bartender. “Two beers.”

  “Can I see some ID?”

  I should be flattered, but the question just pisses me off. With a demonstrative sigh, I pull out my wallet and slap it against the counter, taking a full minute to free the fucking thing from that tight-as-fuck plastic prison it’s squeezed into. The bartender smirks as he studies it, then squints dubiously at me like it’s fake. You have to be fucking kidding me.

  “What kind of beers?” he asks finally.

  “Fuck, I don’t know. Whatever they got,” I say with a vague nod at the pool table.

  The bartender hands me my ID back and goes for the beer. I pull out some cash. Isn’t this lovely? Buying beer for my boyfriend and the walking orgasm trying to steal him away. I’m such a doormat. I can sit behind my laptop and play a hulking Orc warrior who can slay mobs of thirty Humans a minute, but in real life, I’m a wimp, an NPC, a meager peasant who runs for his life when the onslaught of enemies are upon me. My enemies: two hunky boyfriend-stealing dudes. Me: a totally fucking unarmed Level One noob who can’t even find his way out of the starting zone.

  “Hey there, Jess,” he says as he slides into the barstool next to mine.

  I lift my sulky face and find Justin’s annoyingly plain and perfect one studying me. “Beers are on the way. Have we won yet?” I ask, trying to be polite.

  “Oh, we’re gonna win big,” Justin promises me with a knowing thin-lipped smirk, though I can’t say I’m comfortable pondering what exactly the sleazy boy is implying with that.

  The bartender slams down two beers and I slide the cash across the counter, claiming them.

  “Hey, so James and I were thinkin’ of bouncing,” Justin says after swiping a beer, his lips pursing in an even deeper smirk. “Want to come back to our place? I know it’s a little bit out of the way.”

  I stare at him, genuinely shocked. Is he serious? I guess I should have seen this coming, but I hadn’t counted on them inviting me along. The notion of being included, as weak and pathetic as it sounds, gives my heart a small burst of delight.

  Still, the mistrust is stronger. What are Justin and James planning? Do they intend to fourth-wheel me and have their way with Brandon? Thus far, their attraction seems intently (and exclusively) aimed at him. How do I play into their little imaginary orgy?

  “Brandon and I were planning on just going back home after.” I give Justin a regrettable tone in my voice. “Sorry. I don’t think—”

  “Laaame,” sings Justin. “And what do you plan to do at home? Throw on a movie? Play Scrabble? Come on, Jess. We have a big house out in the country. I’m a spoiled bitch with money. You will love it.”

  I keep to my ground. “Would love to, really, but I don’t think Brandon’s up for it. He’s—”

  “He just told James and I that he’d love to.”

  The blood drains from my face. They already got to Brandon. They’ve talked him into coming over and having their way with him. What the fuck else are these gorgeous, persuasive, muscled weasels planning to do to my man?

  I grip Brandon’s beer so tight, it might shatter in my palm. “H-He wants to?”

  “Yeah, totally. It would be fun. We’re all getting to know each other,” he goes on while leaning against the counter, the meat in his arms bulging invitingly. “We have a piano at the house. Show off your music prowess. I want to hear how you … play.”

  Suddenly my feelings take a sharp right turn. Is Justin hitting on me now? I meet his eyes and read the unmistakable hunger in them. Maybe I had this whole thing wrong. Maybe Brandon is James’ flavor, and I’m … perfect-hair’s preference.

  My heart suddenly shines white with honesty. For as untrusting as I can be, I’m also so quick to flip around and cling to a potential new friend. “To be honest, I was under the impression that both of you had eyes for Brandon and I was just … in the way.”

  “With a smile like that?” he says, reaching out to tap my chin with his finger.

  Self-consciously, I flinch away, my face burning red. I turn and catch Brandon watching us with a queer look in his eyes. Is he waiting for me to agree to this? Is this really what he wants?

  I turn to Justin. “Is it upright or grand?”

  “Upright,” he answers, then grips his junk. “So, so, so upright.”

  [ 5 ]

  Justin decided that we have so much more to talk about, being as we’re the Civilian Bitches, and Brandon and James seem to share a lot of common ground career-wise, so Justin insists that James drive Brandon in his car while I take Justin in mine.

  “Also, like, it’s way out in the middle of nowhere. Country road a ways off the highway,” Justin went on as we crossed through the parking lot. “I don’t want you guys to get lost.”

  “Sure,” I agree distractedly, my eyes locked on Brandon as he disappears into the shadows of the parking lot with James. Why does this feel all wrong?

  “I’ll lead the way,” Justin insists.

  Ten minutes later, we’re on the road trailing James’ flashy yellow car with Justin talking my ear off about something involving a guy James told him about who fainted during his basic medical training—I forget the reason. Or I’m not even paying attention, because all my worrisome, wiggly thoughts are on what’s happening in that car ahead of us.

  Brandon and I may not officially be boyfriends, but we’re something, aren’t we? He treats me like he cares for me. Despite the way we fuck like he’s drilling me for oil, his every touch of my body is loving and … fuck, I even might daresay it’s sweet. No one sees that side of Brandon. Not even his parents. I’ve always felt special in that regard. We are more than friends
. We’re more than buddies. I don’t feel complete unless I’m around him. The worst days of my life are when he has to go back to Fort Bragg. If the look in his eyes is telling, those days aren’t lovely for him either. “I can’t wait to be back,” he’d tell me. “Save the episodes for that one show for me. Don’t watch it ‘til I’m back, you got it?” The day after he’s gone, I can’t muster the motivation to do fucking anything. Ronnie, my stepbrother, can’t stand me when I’m like that, but he’s built a sort of routine around it, taking me out for ice cream and a movie—like I’m some four-year-old who needs to be coddled. On those days, I totally fucking don’t mind the coddling. I need it.

  I’ve experienced pangs of doubt and hurt so many times tonight that I’ve lost count. Despite the fleeting moments of horniness, I can’t stop my stomach from laundry-machining itself when I think about what might be going through Brandon’s mind. Is he bored of me? In his two-or-three-beers-guzzled brain, is he genuinely considering what it’ll feel like to have his cock in someone else? Not to mention, it would be a very beautiful, very sexy, very built someone else.

  I’ve never felt so fucking inadequate.

  “You look really serious right now.”

  I flinch. “Sorry. I get that way when I drive,” I lie out of the side of my face.

  “I bet you get all serious when you’re composing your songs and stuff,” he says, leaning his head into the cushion of the car seat and staring at me with big, glassy eyes. “Does Brandon ever watch you compose your music?”

  “Not really. I only write when I’m alone.”

  “Do you ever write music naked?”

  I laugh. The question catches me so off-guard, I have no other reaction but laughter. Is he picturing me composing in the nude? Does that do it for him? Is he a closet romantic?

  “No. I sweat too much when I write.” He moans in response to that. “It isn’t as hot as it sounds. I get all intense. Summertime gets so fucking hot, man. My AC bill goes through the roof.”