by Lynn VanDorn
At first, Ryan didn't seem to show any improvement in algebra despite all of Josh's efforts. As much as he didn't want to disappoint his father for failing to help his boss’s son or to end his excuse to see Ryan on a near daily basis, Josh didn't think that Ryan was ever going to be able to keep up with the workload.
“I think you should drop the honors class and take regular algebra instead. You’re not doing your GPA any favors,” he'd advised.
But Ryan refused to drop the class, insisting that he'd get it eventually, he just needed to try harder, and that he needed Josh, as well.
Josh, despite his misgivings, agreed to continue to try and tutor Ryan. He thought it was only a matter of time until Ryan did poorly enough that he'd be kicked out of the class, but he decided that if Ryan wanted him to keep on, he'd help as much as he could for as long as he could, just to be able to spend time with him.
Josh was caught totally off guard a few weeks later when Ryan proudly showed off his algebra test with a B- grade on it, which for him was a substantial improvement from the previous test. “It's all because of you!” he’d said and hugged Josh hard, then punched him on the shoulder.
Josh had punched him back, and soon they were rolling around on the floor of Ryan’s room, pretending to fight and laughing their asses off. They ended up with Ryan pinning Josh down. “I am a math God! You’re my bitch now.” He grinned.
“Am not!” Josh struggled, but he was a head shorter than Ryan and at least twenty pounds lighter. He was good and pinned. “You weigh a ton. Get off.”
Ryan leaned down so his face was about an inch from Josh’s. “Admit it. You're my bitch. My own personal math bitch.”
Josh popped a boner and, mortified, prayed Ryan wouldn't notice. “Get the fuck off me, asshole. One B- and you think you’re king of the freaking universe.”
“Admit it and I will.”
“Fuck you.”
Ryan shifted his weight. He had to notice Josh’s erection. How could he not? “Say it.”
Josh started to panic and reflexively lashed out. He bit Ryan’s lip.
“Ow, dammit! What’d you do that for?”
Josh bucked upward. “Let me go, Ryan. I'm serious.”
Ryan leaned even closer, his nose brushing against Josh’s. “Are you going to bite me again, or kiss it and make it better?” He moved closer, his lips only a breath away from Josh’s.
Josh groaned and pushed his mouth onto Ryan’s. He had no idea what was going on. It was like he was suddenly living out a wet dream and he didn't know how to cope with that.
Ryan pulled his lips away from Josh after only a few seconds. “Say you're my bitch,” he said, then licked at the place on his lip Josh had bitten.
“You're my bitch.” Josh wished Ryan would stop licking his lip like that. It wasn't helping his erection at all. “Now get the fuck off me.”
Ryan stared at him, then started laughing. He rolled off of Josh and laid on his back, gasping for breath between fits of laughter. “Okay, you win that one. You wanna play some Doom?”
Josh felt like he’d been run over by a large truck. “Um, sure.”
And, just like that, Josh became Ryan’s bitch. Ryan said jump and Josh asked if that meant he wanted a hand job. Or a blow job. Or anything, really. Irrevocable as day following night. He could see that now, with the clarity of age and time and too much whiskey. Now he needed to figure out how to stop that reaction in himself every time he thought of Ryan.
It would help if he knew why. Why did you make me want you? Why didn't you just leave me alone? He'd never asked Ryan for an explanation. He'd been too afraid to disturb the fragile balance between them. He'd accepted that Ryan would have a string of girlfriends but that Josh would be the one constant. Forever in the shadows, but always there. He’d told himself it was enough.
After high school Ryan went to Stanford, like his father and grandfather had before him, and Josh of course followed, glued as he was to Ryan’s side no matter what girl he was with that week, but resentment roiled beneath the surface of their perfect friendship. Josh had become tired of pretending he wasn't in love, tired of pretending he wasn't gay, and tired of pretending he wasn't having sex with Ryan. Eventually, in his junior year, Josh had snapped and given Ryan an ultimatum: give up all the women, or give up Josh. Ryan had looked puzzled and said he had no idea what Josh was talking about. They were not a couple. They had never been a couple. They were friends and nothing more. Ryan had said Josh was his best friend, and always would be, but that was all. Never mind that Josh had just sucked him off.
“Friends don't give friends blow jobs,” Josh had said, among other, more embarrassing things, like “I love you” and “I've always loved you” and “why don't you love me, too?”
Ryan had looked irritated and refused to discuss it. There was no breakup, but it felt that way to Josh. He was heartbroken, and no one knew except his sister and his therapist. He and Ryan didn't stop being friends, but they grew apart. It made sense, anyway. Ryan started law school and Josh medical school. Ryan stayed at Stanford, and Josh fled Ryan and returned home after he was accepted at the University of Chicago. Then there hadn't even been any shadows for Josh. There had been nothing, just one guy after another who was never Ryan enough for him.
Back in high school Ryan had made out with girls in the hallways, but it had been Josh he'd kissed first, in secret, so that they could practice “for the real thing,” as Ryan had put it. Although to Josh, kissing Ryan was as real as it got. It would have been better, he reflected, to have never kissed Ryan in the first place. That had been a huge mistake, and he wished he could go back and turn his head. To pretend disgust. To have never shown what he desperately wanted but knew he could never have. Better to have nothing and not realize what you're missing than to get part of what you want but never, ever enough because you, yourself, are not enough.
With that depressing thought, Josh decided to go inside and drink until he passed out, preferably in one of the bedrooms. Tomorrow he would face the day, probably with a hangover, and start to finally deal with all this shit, but not tonight. As Josh stood, he saw a light on in one of the nearby houses. It looked like he wouldn't be alone this week. Unusual for late September, but not impossible. After all, he was there. People probably came up to see the leaves start to change, or to close up their homes before winter. Except… he counted the docks. That had to be the Chadwicks’ place, and it was supposed to be empty.
Who’s in there?
It wasn’t any of his business.
But checking would be the right thing to do. The neighborly thing. Right. Because it might be Ryan in there.
It wouldn't be him.
But it might, and either way, I should check it out.
Josh walked unsteadily up the dock, the contents of the bottle he held sloshing as he swung his arm. He remembered how he and Ryan had stolen whiskey from the liquor cabinet and gotten wasted one night while sitting on the dock. Predictably, they'd fallen into the lake, first Ryan, and then Josh, for solidarity’s sake. They'd somehow ended up under the dock. Josh had pushed Ryan against a piling and kissed him, the liquor making him bolder than usual. Nothing had mattered, not clinging lake weed or that he was trying to make out in tepid water up to his chest with his feet buried in silty muck. Touching and kissing Ryan with impunity had been enough.
Josh wondered what he'd do if it was Ryan over there. Probably make a complete fool of himself, especially considering he was already half hard from his trip down memory lane. Not that it mattered. It wouldn't be him.
But it might be.
That refrain (it might be him it won't be him but it could be but it won't and even if it is he's engaged and won't be alone yes true but he might be) pounded through Josh’s head as he walked over the grass through the first neighbor’s lawn, which needed to be mowed, to the next neighbor's lawn, which didn't. He was about to head towards the Chadwicks’ back door when he noticed a hunched figure squatting at the end of their do
ck, and it wasn't Ryan. Too thin, too small, and the hair was entirely wrong.
Well, hell.
He didn't recognize the person, but it, presumably he, had unusually dyed hair. It was hard to tell in the twilight, but he thought it might be green or blue. The figure was bent over, doing something, but it was too dark to see what.
“Hey,” Josh shouted, “whaddaya think you’re doing?” That came out far louder than he'd planned, and rather slurred as well.
The figure jumped, then cursed. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck!” He, it was obvious now the figure was male, grasped his arm and shot to his feet. “Oh, Jesus, oh fuck.”
Josh hurried over, his sluggish brain grasping that something was not right but unable to ascertain what. Then he saw the blood. So much blood, coursing down the young man’s arm from the bend of his elbow. He looked up at Josh, his eyes large dark holes that bore through him.
“Can you help…” the young man managed to get out before he passed out, slipping sideways off the dock into the lake.
Chapter 3
Tyler Does Not Die Buried in Beaver Shit
Friday, September 16th, 7:00 p.m.
In the lake
Blue Lake, WI
I am going to die here, Tyler thought, sinking down through murky lake water, and they are going to find my body buried in beaver shit.
He considered trying to swim to the surface, but it seemed like too much effort. Each of his limbs felt as if it weighed about a million pounds, and none of them were interested in coordinating with each other or his brain. Brad is going to say I told you so and Ryan is going to wish I wasn't dead so he could kill me himself and Oliver, what will happen to Oliver? That last thought made him flail harder, for all the good it did.
Then he was yanked upward and his head broke the surface of the water. A voice panted in his ear, “Breathe, damn you. Goddammit, breathe!”
Tyler tried, but all he could seem to do was make shallow liquidy gasps. He'd sucked half the lake into his lungs when he'd fallen in. He didn't quite remember how that had happened. The last thing he remembered was watching the sunset while carefully cutting his left arm in the bend where the slice would be fairly easy to hide. Yes, he had promised not to, but the last few days had been particularly shitty and he just needed one tiny, insignificant cut, or so he'd told himself, crouched on the dock. He'd had two seconds of peace, of lovely uncoiling within, then some asshole had scared the everlasting fuck out of him and he'd cut too deep. Way, way too deep and far too long. His little slice had ended up going halfway down his arm. The next thing he knew, he was immersed in icy-cold water. Presumably he'd passed out and had fallen off the dock. At least the asshole who'd scared the piss out of him had had the decency to fish him out of the lake.
“It’s pretty shallow here. Can you stand? I need to get us out of the water, but you're going to have to help me.”
When he wasn't shouting and scaring the living daylights out of him, the stranger had a great voice. Deep and resonate. A voice you could trust. Tyler shivered.
“I know, it's cold, but I've got to get this bleeding stopped before I can warm you up. Come on, let's get you out of this water.”
With much splashing and cursing, his mysterious killer/savior got both of them out of the lake and onto the grassy bank. The guy pulled his soaked t-shirt over his head, displaying what appeared to be a drool worthy chest, although the dim light might be helping to hide a multitude of sins. Besides, he probably shouldn't be having carnal thoughts about his rescuer. Inappropriate. Oblivious to Tyler’s mental drooling, the man wrung the water out of his t-shirt, then bound it tightly around Tyler’s now sluggishly bleeding arm.
“My phone’s somewhere in the lake. What about yours? Did you have it on you or is it back in the house?”
Tyler tried to speak but could only cough wetly. He tried to stop but ended up vomiting lake water and the remains of his dinner—tuna salad he now deeply regretted eating—onto the grass. What had the guy said? Something about his phone, maybe.
“Are you okay?”
Tyler gave the other man an incredulous look.
“I meant other than nearly drowning and bleeding to death. Never mind. I need to find a phone.”
Tyler reached in his pocket and pulled his out. Water sheeted off it. “I think,” he said, then coughed some more, “mine’s fubar.”
“Well, fuck. So much for calling an ambulance.”
“No!” Tyler shook his head vehemently. “No hospital.”
“Dude, you need more than Neosporin and a Band-Aid for that. This is ER worthy. My first aid kit is not gonna cut it.” He stood up and hauled Tyler with him as if he weighed nothing. It made a treacherous part of Tyler’s heart flutter. Dammit. He ordered himself to stop having inappropriate thoughts about his rescuer, even if he did have that gorgeous voice. And that chest. There was something familiar about him, too.
“I need a phone. Is there one in your house? There should be, but—” and there the guy broke off. “Fuck it. I'll just take you to my place. It's not that far.”
“No,” Tyler rasped. He wanted to lie down on the grass and nap, not hike who knew how far to some stranger’s cabin. He spoke, his words interspersed with wheezy coughs. “There’s. A phone. In the. House. Call. My brother. Not. 911. Promise me.”
The guy cocked his head to the side, was silent for a few seconds, then nodded. “Okay, fine. That arm of yours is bad, but I think I can stop the bleeding. You’re going to need a tetanus shot, but we can worry about that in the morning.”
“We” and “in the morning.” Huh. His rescuer was taking his role of savior pretty seriously. In the grand scheme of things, that was hilarious. “I'm not due. For that shot. Yet. Next year.”
The guy gave him a skeptical look. “You sure?”
“Positive,” Tyler said, and coughed some more.
He was beginning to think he knew that face. Although it felt like too big a coincidence, it was probably him and besides, Ryan had warned him. This was how Tyler’s luck went—spectacularly good or bad and very little in between. It was him. It had to be.
It wasn't far up the lawn to the house, but it felt like a million miles to Tyler. After a few steps, the stranger—who am I kidding, I know who he is—put an arm around his back and half-carried him the rest of the way. He pushed the back door open and sat Tyler down at the kitchen table.
“Keep your arm on the table. It needs to be elevated. Is there a first aid kit, or anything I can use to stop the bleeding that's not my shirt?”
Tyler’s brain felt like it wasn't firing on all cylinders, and his rescuer wasn't helping much. Tyler’s suspicions had been confirmed by the bright kitchen light and in a heart-stopping manner. The other man was familiar, but not. He was a stranger, if a known one, and he was perfect, except for one detail.
“You should have glasses,” Tyler blurted.
“Yeah, I should, but they're in the lake with my phone. I lost them at some point while retrieving you, but I'm only half-blind without them. I'll get by for now. Anyway, first aid kit? Bandages?”
He had dark hair that was starting to curl as it dried, thick eyebrows with a slight arch, dark eyes, and strong cheekbones. His lips were elegant and his nose was a bit of a beak, but it fit his face. He had scruff that was more than a five-o’clock shadow but less than a beard, and Tyler wanted to lick it and feel the texture of it on his tongue.
Then there was the guy’s chest. In the bright kitchen light Tyler could see that his savior had a trim runner’s look to him. He was lean and muscled and looked like he could knock out a marathon with ease. His pectorals were lightly covered in dark hair with tan nipples that were currently erect, presumably with cold. There was a bead of water clinging to one of them. Tyler watched as the water droplet trembled then ran down in an uneven path to his navel, where a trail of more dark hair disappeared into his soaking jeans.
Despite being cold, wet, desperately tired, and in pain, all Tyler wanted to do was eat
this guy with a spoon. This was a complication he did not need.
“Don't faint on me again. You still with me?” asked Josh fucking Rosen. Nine years older since Tyler had last seen him but still super yummy, and intoxicated to boot, based on the smell of his breath. And the absolute best part was that while he recognized and remembered Josh, it was clear Josh had no clue who Tyler was. There was some irony for you. Or maybe not. Josh had never really noticed him before. No wonder he didn't recognize him now, looking as he did like a blue-haired drowned rat.
“I'm… yeah. Sorry. Zoned out.”
“That’s not surprising. So. First aid kit. Is there one?”
A shudder racked Tyler and his teeth began to chatter. He hadn't thought he'd cranked up the A/C before going out to the dock, but he must have because he was freezing. How a wet, shirtless, inebriated Josh wasn't dying of hypothermia was a mystery.
Josh glanced at Tyler’s injured arm. “Okay, one thing at a time. That arm’ll have to keep for another minute. My shirt seems to be doing the job for now, anyway. Let's get you warmed up, then I'll see what I can do for that arm and I'll call—”
“My brother,” Tyler insisted.
“Yeah, not 911. I got it, I got it.”
He walked off down the hallway toward the bedrooms like he owned the place. In a short amount of time Josh came back with an armful of blankets, towels, and a pillow, which he shoved under Tyler’s injured arm, elevating it.
“You need to take your clothes off.”
Tyler blinked at him. “What?” He couldn't have heard that correctly.
“You’re going into shock. Blood loss. The chill from the lake. Normally I'd call 911 and have them haul you to the hospital, but I promised not to. Hell, I would drive you to the ER myself, but I'm nearsighted and a little intoxicated, so that's out because I don't want to kill us both. Besides, considering how far we are from the nearest hospital, it's possible you'd keel over on me from shock before we got you there if I don't triage you. So that's what we're doing. Triage. Which means wet clothes off and warm blankets on. I've already turned the heat on. I'm Josh, by the way, and I'll be your rescuer this evening.” He flashed Tyler a brilliant, toothy smile. “First course tonight is me getting you undressed and dry. If it makes you feel any better about this, I'm a doctor.”