by Amy Fecteau
All in all, it sucked. Pun unintended.
According to everything pop culture told him, he should be beating women off with a stick. They should swarm, Beatles-style, whenever he left the house. One brooding, smoldering glance from Matheus, and women would hurtle toward him like steel to an electromagnet.
Lies. Horrible, horrible lies.
“I think focusing on a single style would be better,” said Bianca. “Once he has the basics of one, then he can move on to others.”
“I disagree,” said Juliet. “A more rounded approach is required.”
Matheus raised his head enough to see two red-soled heels and a pair of Converse All-Stars face off. He groaned and returned to his original dirt-eating position.
“I’m not talking about years of dedication. Mat’s not going to be winning any MMA titles. I’ve seen more graceful amputees. I just think focusing on one thing at a time would give him more of a chance to succeed and build confidence. Confidence is very important.”
“So is flexibility. One has to adjust to the situation.”
“Excuse me,” said Quin. “I’m the one training him.”
“You’re doing a terrible job,” said Juliet. “Look at Pet just lying there. It’s pathetic.” She clucked her tongue, kneeling low enough to pat Matheus on the back of the head, but not so low that the hem of her skirt touched the ground.
“Like watching a kitten trying to fight a walrus. No, that would be adorable. Mat, do you have Internet here? I need to look something up on YouTube,” Bianca said.
“Go home, both of you,” Quin said. “You aren’t helping.”
“Quin, darling—”
“I’m trying to help—”
Juliet let out a loud oh at the same moment Bianca gave a startled squeak. Matheus lifted his head enough to see the heels and the sneakers dragged out of sight. The gate to the street opened, accompanied by feminine cursing. Juliet used language a Hell’s Angel might think twice about. Bianca kept repeating she was trying to help. The gate slammed shut and a new pair of shoes appeared in Matheus’ line of sight.
“Are they gone?” Matheus asked.
“For now,” said Quin. “Are you planning on getting up anytime soon?”
“It’s comfy here.”
“Do you know how many feral cats have pissed in this yard?”
Matheus shot to his feet so fast he got whiplash. “You’re disgusting,” he said. He beat at the damp earth clinging to his clothes.
“Got you up. Ready to try again?”
“No. My knee hurts. I’m going to go lie down.” Matheus stomped toward the house.
Quin grabbed the back of Matheus’ shirt, and dragged him down the porch steps. A slick of ice coated the wood.
Matheus hit the edge of the last step wrong, landing flat on his back with Quin standing over him.
“Sunshine, you’re just a little awkward,” Quin said, barely trying to conceal his grin. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Matheus rolled over, pushing himself up with jerky movements. The muscles around his mouth ached; his lips pressed down into a constant glower. The temperature had dropped again, bringing the snows even closer. Frost edged the puddles from last night’s rain in lace. Matheus shivered in his long-sleeved shirt. At least he didn’t have to worry about sweat freezing to his skin. On the downside, none of this exercise did him any good, body heat-wise. Matheus wondered if people had ever really considered the disadvantages to being dead.
“People don’t instinctively know how to move,” Quin continued. “They have to practice, over and over, until it feels natural. It’s going to feel weird at first. You have to work past that part.”
“Thanks, coach,” said Matheus. “I feel so inspired. Why don’t you play some Eye of the Tiger and complete the picture. Maybe do a montage of me running up and down some stairs.”
“You can either learn to defend yourself or get used to having a permanent stalker. Those are your options.”
“What about my third option? This is America. Why can’t I buy myself a big frigging gun?”
“Guns don’t work on the undead,” said Quin.
“I don’t want to kill people. I just want them to leave me alone.”
“You’d shoot your foot off.”
“Would not,” said Matheus. His father started taking him hunting after his sixth birthday. Learning to shoot had been involuntary. Of course, it’d been fifteen years since he’d held a gun, and a .30-06 rifle didn’t have a lot in common with a Desert Eagle handgun, but he did have the sense not to aim for his own appendages.
“I’ll make you a deal,” said Quin. “If you can knock me down, I’ll stop pestering you and buy you the biggest penis substitute available.”
“I do not need a penis substitute.” The frost appeared balmy next to Matheus’ voice.
“It’s okay. You’re not that much below average.”
“I’m not below average at all! I’m above average! Way, way above average!”
Quin shrugged. “Maybe you’re a grower, not a shower,” he said.
“I’m going to throttle you,” said Matheus.
“Such big words from such a tiny, tiny man.” Quin grinned, holding his thumb and index finger an inch apart.
Matheus dove at him. He managed not to trip, an unexpected bonus, but things went south after that. Quin pinned him, kneeling on Matheus’ legs and both arms in a tight grip, within thirty seconds. That Quin did the whole thing with the air of a man out for an evening stroll only heightened the embarrassment factor. But both of those paled in comparison to the true horror, which popped into Matheus’ mind in relaxed moments, the liquid rush of ice drowning out any other thought.
Squirming in the mud, Quin’s immovable weight holding him in place, Matheus felt a tiny twist spring open, then warmth spreading out of his gut to prickle at his fingers and cheeks. He bit down on the sudden gasp at the realization, thanking every god in the universe that Quin decided to pin him face down. Matheus pushed his hips into the earth, fighting the urge to rock back and forth. The friction wound him tighter, a rubber band about to snap.
“You lose,” said Quin, his mouth next to Matheus’ ear. The words tickled like feathers. An inch closer and Quin could suck the delicate spot just behind—
“Get off!” Matheus screamed. A full-grown battlefield had sprung up in his brain.
“Are you going to cooperate?”
“Yes! Yes! Just get off!”
Quin stood up.
Drawing his knees underneath his body, Matheus tried to think of least appealing thing possible.
Bill Clinton in a bra and panties…Newt Gingrich blowing Rush Limbaugh…Carrot Top….
“Are you okay?” Quin asked.
“I do not have a small penis,” Matheus said. A second later, he smacked his head into the ground. He hadn’t planned to say that. He planned to say, ‘hey, can we get naked and try that again,’ but thankfully, a small portion of sanity survived long enough to strong-arm his malfunctioning hormones into a lockbox. This left a void. Matheus latched onto the first thought that passed by and hurled it into the gap. The situation could have gone better, but for someone in the middle of a sexual identity crisis, Matheus thought he did pretty damn well.
“God, Sunshine, I don’t know how big your cock is,” said Quin.
Matheus inched his knees forward. He squeezed his thighs together, feeling like every thirteen-year-old boy ever.
“You washed me,” he said. He sounded normal. A bit of tension slid away, and Matheus sat up, his legs folded underneath. His shirt extended an inch beyond his waist, but his pants were baggy and the problem had abated somewhat.
“You were dying. It was clinical. I didn’t get out a ruler and measure the damn thing.”
“You still saw it.”
“What do you want me to say? It looked like a cock looks when it’s soft. A floppy bit of meat flapping against another lumpier bit of meat. You aren’t circumcised, but really, that’s
the total amount of detail I have.”
Quin stood behind Matheus, out of sight, but Matheus pictured the hand-motions that accompanied his speech. They didn’t help.
“It gets bigger,” Matheus said. He rose, making an adjustment before turning around.
“Obviously,” said Quin. “It’s what they’re designed to do. It gets bigger, then you stick it in a nice warm hole and wiggle it around for a bit until something goes pop and then you fall asleep.”
Matheus gaped. He tried to think of a more horrifying way to describe sex and failed.
“Sex with you must be a roller coaster of fun,” he said.
“I’m oversimplifying for the benefit of the intelligence-impaired. What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing. Let’s get this over with.” Matheus walked to the center of the yard. He raised his eyebrows at Quin, still standing by the porch. The light snuck out around the back door, hitting just right for Matheus to catch the red highlights in Quin’s hair. Quin looked like a man trying to read a book that had been translated into seven consecutive languages before reaching his own.
At least I’m not the only one, Matheus thought.
“It’s going to take more than one night,” Quin said.
“I am aware of that. I meant this session or whatever you want to call it.”
“Fine.” Quin crossed to Matheus. He kicked Matheus’ legs wider and tugged on his arms, bending Matheus like his own personal action figure. “Pay attention this time.”
Matheus spent the next two hours learning how to fall, although he didn’t know why. On a list of his skills, falling on his ass occupied the number one slot. Matheus didn’t see the point in practicing something he already did on a daily basis. He managed enough bruising on his own; he didn’t need Quin cheering him on. After the three-hundredth shoulder roll, Matheus lay in the dirt, aching, beaten, and covered in mud.
“Are we done?” he asked. “Because I need a shower and a gallon of Bengay.”
“Yeah, we’re done,” said Quin. “Tomorrow, you learn how to block.”
“Gosh, how will I sleep? My nerves will be all atwitter.”
“Go clean up. You reek of cat piss.”
Matheus bent his head into the rush of water and tried to pretend nothing had changed. Water sluiced through his hair, pelted against his temples. He poured a glob of shampoo into his palm. The scent of lilacs drifted up through the steam. Matheus sighed.
He had known his tastes in bed were a little…left of center. Matheus had assumed it was part of the reason sex never interested him much. He was six feet tall and a hundred-eighty pounds. Most women didn’t have the strength to hold him down. On two occasions, Matheus had felt reckless enough to suggest something. The first reacted with disgust, the second with interest—if she could be the one tied down. So Matheus learned to squash those desires, although now they had returned with a whole new issue attached. He thumped his head on the tiled wall. Head trauma failed to make things any clearer.
Matheus shut off the water. He climbed out of shower, shaking out his hair. He’d planned to get a haircut before his unexpected death. Matheus pinched a blond lock between his thumb and index finger, crossing his eyes to look at it. Doomed to have hair in his face for all eternity. Might as well add that to the list of Quin’s sins. Killed me, kidnapped me, forced me to live with hair three centimeters too long. Matheus wrapped a towel around his waist, making a note to inform Quin of his latest atrocity. He walked downstairs, his dirty clothes tucked under one arm.
“Hello.”
Matheus jumped, dislodging his towel. He scrambled for the makeshift knot, avoiding involuntary exhibitionism by a hair. An unfamiliar man stood in the doorway to the living room. Several duffel bags lay at his feet. Seven or eight boxes of various sizes lay in haphazard piles by the door. The man waited, a laptop bag slung over one shoulder. He looked about thirty, with blue-black skin and a mass of tightly wound curls. The silver frame of his glasses shone against his dark skin.
“Hey.” Matheus strangled the towel in a death grip. “Are you waiting for Quin?”
“Yes.”
The man met Matheus’ eyes when he spoke. Matheus had never realized how few people did that. It made him feel naked, but then again, he was naked, so Matheus tried not to read too much into it. In fact, the nakedness probably caused the aggressive eye contact. Matheus shifted, adjusting his bundle of clothes. He was unsure of his position. Was he a host? A fellow guest? These questions would be easier to answer with pants on.
“Um,” he said.
“Milo Carpenter,” said the man. He held out his hand.
Matheus heard the choir of angels sing.
“Matheus Taylor,” he said, tucking his bundle under the arm holding his towel. Milo’s hand felt cool after the warmth of the shower. He released Matheus after one firm pump, then stepped back, wrapping his fingers around the strap of his bag. A puddle formed around Matheus. Water dripped from his hair, down the lines of his back, over his calves.
Milo cleared his throat. He pushed up his glasses with his pinky finger.
“Well,” said Matheus. “I’m going to go put clothes.”
“That would be wise,” said Milo.
Matheus walked toward the basement stairs with the decorum of a man in a three-piece suit, the towel flapping around his thighs. He met Quin coming up, carrying a stack of blankets.
“I met Milo,” said Matheus and waited.
Quin looked up at him, then smiled. “He makes everyone feel like that,” he said. “It’s the eye thing.”
“Oh, good.” Matheus relaxed. “I thought it was because I’m naked.”
“You are naked,” said Quin. His gaze fixed on Matheus’ navel.
“Excellent observational skills you have there.” Matheus wondered if Quin had a thing for belly buttons, then trampled the thought with the big boots of denial. He didn’t care what Quin had a thing for. He was not making a list—blond hair, backs, belly buttons—for future reference because he did not care and nothing would make him care because he was straight and this was all some weird aberration brought on by the bonding. So there.
“Go put on clothes,” Quin said.
“Oh, thank you,” said Matheus in a sweeping falsetto. “I never would have thought of that. Do you want to come with me and make sure I don’t put my pants on my head? I mean, I’ve only been dressing myself for twenty-five years. I might get confused.”
Quin shook his head and pushed past Matheus.
“Wait! Do my socks go on my ears or my knees? I can’t remember.”
“Fuck off!”
Matheus returned to an empty living room. Someone, either Quin or Milo, had moved the boxes from the hallway. He walked upstairs, pausing at the foot of the third-floor staircase. A mess of footprints disturbed the dust. Matheus had been the last person to go up there, on his way to the attic; his prints should be the only ones. Matheus took the first step, and Quin appeared, as though summoned by a hidden alarm. He clattered down the stairs, then grabbed Matheus by the shoulder, forcing him away.
“What’s he doing up there?” Matheus asked. His heels dragged over the rug.
“He’s working,” said Quin. He opened the door to his study and pushed Matheus inside.
“On what?” Matheus asked.
“Sit.” Quin pointed to the loveseat.
Matheus looked at him.
Quin sighed. “Sit, please?”
“Why?” Matheus asked.
“So I can keep an eye on you.”
“I’m not a toddler,” Matheus snapped. He spun toward the door. Quin spread his arms, slapping his palms against the doorframe.
“This doesn’t concern you, Sunshine. Don’t bother him.”
“Doesn’t concern me? I live here!”
“Sit.” The word split the air. Matheus felt his knees buckle. He dipped two inches before he caught himself. He folded his arms over his chest, tilting up his chin and glaring at Quin.
Quin rolled
his eyes. “Please,” he said.
“I’m going to find him eventually,” said Matheus.
“But not tonight.”
Matheus tapped his fingers against his arm. With an air of infinite patience, he selected a paperback off Quin’s bookshelves, then stretched out lengthwise on the loveseat, his back to Quin.
“You do realize telling me not to do something is the best way to get me to do it?” Matheus asked, flipped to the first page of the book. He heard Quin shift behind him.
“I’m hoping you’ll grow out of it,” Quin said.
“Not likely,” said Matheus.
Matheus crawled to his room. The hallway seemed as though a long-angle lens had been installed in his brain. The marrow of his bones ached, his flesh had turned to pulp hours ago. Dawn crept closer, the night swallowed by a torture session disguised by the laughable euphuism of ‘training.’ Television had given Matheus the idea that self-defense lessons involved a lot of fit women in headbands doing judo throws after two classes. Matheus hadn’t gotten anywhere near a throw, judo or otherwise. Quin’s preferred teaching method seemed to be a hands-on demonstration of how to cause maximum pain with minimal effort. At least, the effort appeared minimal until Matheus tried, then the amount required tripled, and tripled again, the whole endeavor ending with Matheus’ face crammed into the ground. Matheus ate enough dirt to grow a sapling out of his ass. He didn’t know how many more nights he’d last before he went full Norman Bates on Quin.
“Do you want some help?” Quin asked.
“No.” Matheus choked back a whimper. He leaned on the wall, closing his eyes until the spasm subsided. Miles stretched between Matheus and his room.
“Stop being so melodramatic. It wasn’t that bad.”
“My hair hurts,” Matheus said. “Sadist.”
“It’s only been a few days. What are you going to do when we get to the hard stuff?”
“That was the easy stuff?” Matheus yelled. He flopped forward into the ancient carpet. “Mother of God, just kill me already.”
“You’re pathetic.” A hand wrapped around Matheus’ ankle, remaining firm even as Matheus kicked.
The carpet scoured Matheus’ face. He propped his chin up onto folded arms and watched the staircase shrink. His foot hit the floor with a bang.