by Willa Okati
He tried to struggle for words, but none would come. He’d slipped. God help him, he’d lost his footing. And he couldn’t even go to Melissa with advice on this. If she so much as suspected he’d once again harbored lewd thoughts about a man, she’d lash him with words and then leave him high and dry.
“Please,” he said, fighting against a flood of emotion. “Don’t. Just don’t. Dr. Jennings, I can’t go on like this.”
“It’s Billy. And you’re Quentin. Q. Q-man. Oh, wait. Maybe Quinn?”
“Quentin.”
“Quinn,” Billy crooned. “I bet you were Quinn somewhere in your life.” Billy stood. Before Quentin could react, he’d crossed the small kitchen in a few steps and invaded Quentin’s personal space, almost touching him.
Quentin felt his throat constricting with terror. Quinn. His now-hated nickname. What he’d been called in the bad old days. Oh, God. Was this some sort of divine punishment, to be taunted by such a reminder of his past? Were his convictions failing or his barriers falling?
“Go on,” Billy urged. “Tell me what you want to do with me.”
Lie on my stomach while you smooth oil down my back and dip between the…
Oh, God.
“I don’t want anything to do with you,” Quentin protested.
“See, that’s where I think you’re wrong. I think you want to have a lot to do with me.” Billy reached up and traced a line down Quentin’s cheek. “I’m not new at this. I can see the hunger in a man’s eyes. The need. You say you have a girlfriend, but you’re burning up inside. Burning and drowning. You know what you want, even if you won’t admit it to yourself.”
Quentin felt himself losing ground. “Billy…I…”
“Shh. Hush, baby, hush. Just let me make you feel good.”
“Billy…”
“I like it when you say my name like that. Makes me feel like I’ve got a hope here.” Billy’s gaze had turned warm. He tossed his cigarette into the sink. “Stand still for just a second, Quinn.”
Quentin made one last effort. “Why should I?”
“Because I’m about to do this.” Billy moved in quickly and pressed his lips to Quentin’s for the second time in as many days. He tasted of salt and smoke and coffee. His lips were the softest Quentin had ever felt, even more so than Melissa’s. There was no tang of lipstick to get past. Just honest, male flavor and bitter ash.
Quentin moaned and sagged against the kitchen counter. Billy seemed to take this as a sign of interest and nestled in tighter, putting one hand on Quentin’s hip and pressing the other to his back. He increased the pressure on Quentin’s mouth, flicking his tongue at the seam of Quentin’s lips.
With a whimper of despair, Quentin opened up to let Billy inside. The man’s tongue was nimble and quick, darting inside like a firefly that left a glow in its wake. He traced the line of Quentin’s own tongue, then tangled them together. Slowly, he tilted their heads for better, deeper access.
Quentin felt his own hands itching to cradle Billy. He couldn’t seem to help or stop himself. All the old urges, the desires, the needs, every one of them were flooding back in. He couldn’t stop the pull. All he could do was surrender to the tide.
When Billy shifted back, Quentin, God help him, almost tugged the man close again. “There,” Billy said, licking his lips. “I think that’s what you want to do with me. Hypothesis confirmed.”
Quentin’s hand flew to his mouth. He could hear the water running, his heart beating and the sound of his own breath coming in quick gasps. A buzzing began and started to take over his head. “No,” he protested. “No. I don’t do this anymore. I’m straight now. I can’t. So many people would be disappointed—”
“What matters more? Them, or being true to yourself?”
“I can’t. Don’t make me do this.” Quentin tore away from Billy’s arms. Ignoring his dish in the sink, pushing past Billy, he headed for the front door. “Leave me alone, please,” he said, knowing it was begging, but not caring. “Billy, I can’t do this.”
“You could if you’d let yourself. What’s so wrong about being this way?”
“It’s not my path anymore. It’s wrong. I won’t. I swore.” Quentin wrenched the door open. “Goodbye, Dr. Jennings.”
With that, he fled out onto the porch, clattering down the stairs and onto the track. By the time he hit the trail, he was running fast as he could, not caring about how he might ruin his outfit with sweat.
The biggest problem was that he knew no matter how hard he ran, he’d never be able to leave this behind. It would haunt him all day wherever he turned.
And worst of all, it was his own fault, wasn’t it?
Chapter Five
“No, no. It’s far too early to be worrying about the midterm.” Quentin attempted a reassuring smile. He had a distinct feeling that it came out more like a twisted grimace. The look of doubt on the student’s face confirmed his hypothesis. He tried again, with mixed results. “The results on this quiz are disappointing, but simply because I know you can do better.”
The student frowned. “You don’t even know my name.”
“Of course I do. Eleanor, isn’t it?”
“Alisha.”
“Oh. Oh, I see. My apologies, Alisha.” Quentin fumbled through his seating chart for the girl’s class, the paper kept close at hand so he could sneak peeks whenever students came by. His mind was so often jammed full of lesson plans and mental notes he couldn’t always put a name to a face, and it wouldn’t do if Ten Hawks found out he was so uninformed about his students. Running his finger down the rows, he frowned. Blonde hair, mostly in a ponytail, frequently seen in a hoodie…
The girl seemed amused by his confusion. “Take it easy. You were right. It’s Eleanor. I was just testing you. Seeing if you were on your toes.”
“Unless you want your professor to have a heart attack while he’s counseling you, I suggest you don’t test me again,” Quentin said dryly. “Now, Eleanor—”
“Elly, actually. And come on, lighten up a little.” The student grinned in a way that reminded Quentin of Billy. Teasing, mischievous. A little too daring for her own good. Quentin starred her name in the seating chart, a designation that meant “possible trouble”.
Ten Hawks hadn’t been joking about how Sweetwater was under funded. He had an office, to be sure, but it was hardly larger than a broom closet. His work computer was refurbished, and the chairs had definitely seen hard use. The one he sat in squeaked if he moved too quickly. Eleanor’s seat had scarred wooden arms.
Eleanor lifted her hands in surrender. “Okay, that was pushing. I’m sorry. But look, about that quiz. I wasn’t prepared that day.”
“That is more or less the point of a pop quiz.”
“Yeah, but if you’d mentioned that we should study the Victorian era in general, I might have boned up on it a little. Hey, you okay?”
Quentin broke the lead off his pencil.
Eleanor eyed him warily as if wondering about Quentin’s own potential for snapping. “I’m just saying you could have given us some hints about the material on the quiz, that’s all.”
“I see. Would you prefer no surprise tests of any kind, then? Do you know if the rest of the class feels the same way?” From the quiz scores, none above a B minus, Quentin suspected that would be the case. But honestly, if they’d been paying attention at all, they should have picked up on his not-so-subtle cues that they would have impromptu checks on their progress. He’d even put it in the syllabus.
“For sure.” Eleanor seemed to relax. She sat back a little in her chair with the boneless grace of the young and slim. “Give us some time to prepare. We’ve got lives outside your class, you know? I’m in American Lit with Dr. Jennings, and he always warns us the night before.”
“I see,” Quentin said tightly. “That surprises me. I’d have thought Dr. Jennings would be more spontaneous.”
“Oh, he’s a hella hoot in class. Oops, sorry about the language. He throws out questions, and if
you answer them right you get a point. Ten points gets you one grade up on the next quiz. It’s fun. Maybe you should try it.”
Quentin’s grip tightened on his pencil. “If I were exactly like Dr. Jennings, there would hardly be a difference between the two classes, now would there?”
“Outside of the continent and the historical era? But oh, yeah, Dr. Jennings. He’s so cool.” Eleanor winked and wound a strand of honey-blonde hair around one finger. “Half the girls have a crush on him. Some of the guys, too.”
“Eleanor, that’s hardly appropriate. What Dr. Jennings does or does not do, or the number of lovesick students he has, has no influence on this meeting whatsoever. We met to discuss a grade you believed was unfair.” Quentin picked up Eleanor’s paper with the neat C minus written in red ink on the upper left-hand corner. “You claim that with preparation you can do better?”
“Absolutely. So you’ll warn us next time?”
Quentin gave up. “Yes, I will. Now, did you need anything else?”
“Nope. I gotta get to Dr. Jennings’ office next. He’s helping me out with some early Twain. Did you know MT was friends with Emperor Norton?”
“I had no idea.” The pencil began to creak in protest under Quentin’s punishing grip. “Is this the sort of thing Dr. Jennings teaches you?”
“Oh, yeah. He throws in all sorts of fun stuff.” Eleanor stood and shrugged on her backpack. “Thanks for the meeting. I’ll see you in class.”
“Eleanor…”
“Yeah?” She cocked one hip as she looked at him. God, all the child needed was a wad of bubble gum to chew on and she’d be back in high school again. When did undergraduates get so young? “Is there something else?”
“I think that would be my question. And I simply wanted to let you know that I don’t enjoy being so informal. I would like for my students to respect me as well.”
Eleanor raised an eyebrow, but nodded. “Okay. Sorry. Can I go now? Dr. Jennings is gonna be waiting.”
“Yes, yes. Go.” Quentin waved her off with his pencil.
“Thanks. You live with him, right? I’m pushing again, but I gotta know. Is he as much fun when he’s off the clock?”
Quentin’s pencil snapped in half in his hand. “I said you could go, Eleanor. Or do you want an impromptu essay assigned on the Victorian era?”
“Whoa, whoa, no. I’m out of here.” Eleanor backed out of his office. “See you in class, Prof.”
“Don’t address me as—”
But she was gone.
Quentin looked at the ragged halves of his pencil and heaved a sigh. He threw them down on his desk, where one fragment rolled off onto the floor and the other seated itself in the middle of his desk chart. Leaning forward, he put his head into his hands and closed his eyes.
“Problems?”
The voice startled Quentin into sitting back up again, searching for the source of the question. If anyone caught him in a moment of despair it could be disastrous. He relaxed, but only a little, when he saw that it was just Andy, leaning against the frame of his door with both hands stuffed in his pockets.
“Andy. Hello.” Quentin tried for another smile, but felt that this one came out distinctly pale. “Come in if you have the time.” Truth be told, he felt like being alone, but it wouldn’t do to alienate one of the few professors who had shown him some degree of friendship. This wouldn’t be the first time Andy had stopped by for a chat. Ever so slowly, Quentin was developing a feeling that he could trust the man. He was even beginning to like him. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything to offer you.”
“And here I was hoping to steal the apple from teacher’s desk.” Andy winked as he sauntered in. Instead of taking a seat, however, he stood at Quentin’s side and put a hand on his shoulder. Quentin stiffened as the man’s fingers began to massage taut muscles. “I couldn’t help overhearing, just a little, about the way you were talking to that student.”
“Eavesdropping, you mean,” Quentin said without thinking. “Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. I meant to say—”
Andy laughed without malice. “Maybe eavesdropping a little. You might want to go easier on the students. Ten Hawks likes his professors to be relaxed, easy to approach.”
“I was hardly an ogre,” Quentin protested.
“No. Just a stuffed shirt.” Andy kept on massaging Quentin’s shoulders. The warmth of his hand seeped through the thin cotton of Quentin’s shirt and felt as if it were leaving a mark on his skin. Quentin closed his eyes, struggling hard against the sensations that threatened to overwhelm him.
“God, you’re tense,” Andy remarked in mild disapproval. “Hard as a board.”
“I’m quite all right, thank you.”
“Well, there’s a lie.” Andy removed his hand at last. “You know what a man like you needs?”
Quentin dreaded the answer. “What?”
“A little bit of R & R, that’s what. How about you and I go down into the town and hit a bar? A good local beer would go a long way toward calming you down.”
The request was nothing new. Andy had been trying to coax Quentin out of his office for weeks. “It’s barely past noon.”
“Ah, hell, it’s five o’clock somewhere.” Andy ran his finger down the curve of Quentin’s shoulder, leaving a heat trail in his wake. “Come on, what do you say? You and me, off to have a quiet drink someplace. You can tell me about what’s bothering you.”
A sudden suspicion blossomed. “Did Ten Hawks put you up to this?”
“Ben? Hell, no. He’s been buried in a stack of letters to students for a few days now. He likes to send out notes of encouragement. Adds a five-dollar gift certificate to the student café, too.” Andy tilted his head to one side. “Now there’s a thought. If you don’t feel like a bar, how about a coffee shop? I know a great place in the town. Not exactly a tearoom, what with the abstract art and all, but it should be mostly empty around this time of day.”
“Hardly surprising, given that morning and the proper time for coffee are well past.”
“Jeez, you only drink java in the morning? I couldn’t live without at least one cup an hour.”
“That,” Quentin remarked dryly, “explains a lot about your perpetually wired personality. Thank you, Andy, but truly, I couldn’t. I still have a stack of papers to grade.”
“They’ll be here when we get back. And from what I hear, you’re not too crazy about going home these days.”
Quentin snapped his head up so fast his neck twinged in protest, staring at Andy. “Who—I—where did you hear this rumor?”
Andy shrugged. “Well, you’re living with Billy, right? He’s not exactly one to keep his mouth shut about things. Come on, a nice walk and a cup of coffee will do you a world of good.”
Quentin’s thoughts raced. If he didn’t go with Andy, what could happen? Would word get out that he was unfriendly and didn’t enjoy socializing with his peers? That would no doubt bring Ten Hawks down to his office for a good-natured scolding. Between the prospect of such a visit and the prospect of missed work time, it seemed like the devil’s choice. But could he afford not to go?
“Very well,” he relented, closing his grade book and standing. “We’ll go and have a cup of coffee. Just one, though, if you don’t mind.”
“And decaf, right?” Andy chuckled. “You might want to take that overshirt off. It’s warm enough outside to start sweating.”
Quentin hesitated. Unless he was jogging, he hated to get overheated. Sweatiness led to smelliness, and then he’d need a shower before he could get back to work. “On second thought, Andy…”
“Say no more. I’ve got an illicit coffeemaker in my office. I’ll just go and grab a couple of mugs, and I’ll be right back. We can take our break in here.” He patted the back of Quentin’s chair. “To be frank, my friend, you look like a man with more than a few troubles. You need a listening ear, and I swear I won’t tell a soul. You can trust me.”
Trust. The key word. Quentin felt something click inside him,
like tumblers working inside a lock. His chest tightened at the same time that his heart relaxed. “You do promise?”
“On my life.” Andy lifted his hand. “Just a few seconds for that coffee to come right up. You sit tight.”
Quentin didn’t think he could sit any other way. His hands felt for the armrests to his chair, one of them patched up with black duct tape, and gripped hard. He heard Andy leave, rather than watching him go, and waited for the man to return with his pulse thudding in his throat. Trust. Did he really dare trust Andy with the whole of what was bothering him? The man had proved himself to be a reliable sort so far…
“Here we are.” Andy reappeared with two mugs in hand. He offered Quentin one with a plain Sweetwater logo, and kept one decorated with Einstein’s equation for himself. He shut the door behind himself, and sat in the empty guest chair. “Now. Drink up, and tell me what’s on your mind. Confession’s good for the soul.”
Father Andrew had said much the same thing. If he dared in the here and now…
Quentin swallowed uneasily, then took a sip of his coffee. It tasted burned, as if it had been cooking for a while, but cream and sugar went a good ways toward disguising the bitterness. “Thank you,” he said as he took another sip. The brew warmed his insides as it went down, much better than any beer would have. “Confessions. Well, now…”
Andy leaned forward. “Come on, man, out with it. I’m not the only one who’s noticed how tense you are. Let it all go, and then maybe you’ll feel better.”
“You’re so sure of that?”
“Well.” Andy shrugged. “We won’t know until you try, will we?”
His attitude of patient waiting reminded Quentin so strongly of meetings with Father Andrew that the inclination to talk became almost too tempting to resist. He took a third sip of coffee and put his mug down, afraid his fingers would begin shaking. “Do you promise that you won’t repeat this to anyone?” he asked, not looking at Andy. Eye contact would make this ordeal all the more uncomfortable.