by KD Ellis
“I don’t want to shower.” She resisted his attempts to help her out of her piss-soaked pajamas, swatting at his hands.
“Let me take them off or you’re wearing them in the shower,” Teddy finally snapped, losing his patience with the fight. If he searched the living room, he’d find Johnnie Red somewhere—likely nearly empty and shoved beneath a cushion.
She quieted down long enough for him to unstick her clothes and drop them in the sink. He helped her into the shower, closing the curtain partway for privacy. She pouted quietly beneath the water for the first few minutes then started belting the lyrics to Singing in the Rain.
“Come on, Teddy,” Mom broke off the tuneless belting for a second, “Sing with me.”
“Did you wash your hair?” he asked instead, tracing a small crack in the countertop.
“I can’t. I’ll get soap in my eyes.”
“So close them.”
A few seconds later, “It’s too dark.”
Teddy closed his eyes and rubbed them. “Fine.” He tugged open the shower curtain and was immediately pelted by stray drops of water. “Turn around.”
She turned away from the spray and started humming again. He poured a dollop of soap into his palm and carefully worked it through her hair, trying to untangle as many knots as possible. “Maybe we should take a clipper to your hair, instead,” he muttered.
“We could be twins.” She smiled and started swaying to inaudible music as he worked the lather around. He grimaced. She wasn’t even joking. His mother had only been sixteen when she’d had him, a whole year younger than he was now. At thirty-three, she looked too young to have a kid his age. The alcohol had added wrinkles, but not enough to stop people from calling her his sister—or enough to stop the dicks at school from making crass jokes.
She reached out to touch his hair again. He cringed away from the wet fingers. “Mom, stop.”
She pouted but refrained from wetting his scalp further. He helped her rinse the soap clean then grabbed a towel. She stumbled slightly climbing over the side of the tub but managed to steady herself before falling.
He got her into a pair of clean pajamas and tucked her into bed. “I’ll make you something to eat.”
“It’s too early to eat. I’m not hungry.” Mom tugged the blanket up to her chin. Her eyes slid from his, darting surreptitiously to the nightstand and away. Habit made Teddy want to snag the hidden bottle and take it to the sink to empty. He ignored the urge. He was tired of making the effort when she wouldn’t, and besides, she’d just use money that should be spent on groceries to replace it.
Instead, he set her alarm and headed to the kitchen, making her a sandwich and bringing it back to her room. Maybe the bread would sponge up the liquor.
She shoved a bottle under the covers like she thought he wouldn’t see it—or smell it, since she’d sloshed a good few swallows on the pillow.
“Here.” He passed her the sandwich.
She took a bite then crinkled her nose and threw the sandwich, plate and all, on the floor. “Not hungry.”
Teddy clenched his fists, not bothering to clean the scattered bread. “Fine.”
So much for sobering her up.
Chapter Two
The next morning, Teddy banged on his mother’s bedroom door. “You’re going to be late.” He grabbed the knob and twisted, not honestly expecting it to turn this time when it hadn’t the last three, and he was, sadly, correct. “Mom!”
He had to leave to get to his janitorial job at the local community college in twenty minutes. If she wasn’t up and dressed by then, she wouldn’t make it to her shift at the hospital, and she was already on thin ice with her boss.
The door flung open just as Teddy was about to start banging on it again, but it wasn’t his mom on the other side. Instead, Teddy was face-to-face with a rotund, red-faced man in a stained white tank top and sweats. His bare feet ended in thick, yellowing toenails. Teddy was going to have to steam clean the carpets. Twice.
“Who the fuck are you?” The stranger grunted, scratching the patch of hairy skin peeking out the bottom of his shirt.
“When the fuck did you get here?” Teddy asked instead of answering. When he’d crashed last night after finishing his English essay, his mother had been dead to the world in her bed…alone.
The fat man frowned and looked back into the darkened bedroom, where Teddy could just barely see the sprawled form of his slumbering mother. “Libby—”
“It’s Livy, dumbass. Short for Olivia,” Teddy corrected. He leaned around, crouching to see beneath the man’s wobbly, out-flung arm, which was currently propping up the doorframe. “Mom, you gotta get up or you’ll be late.”
She just groaned and tugged her pillow over her head.
“Damn. You’ve got a kid?” The man turned to eye the mound of covers, then scanned Teddy. “Thought she was younger.”
“Pervert.” Teddy scowled and gave his mother a final look, hoping to see her stirring. He didn’t, so he crossed his arms and straightened to his full, barely over five-foot height. “Time to go, John.”
The man started to say, “It’s Jack—”
Teddy swallowed a laugh, and muttered, “Ironic.” Louder, he added, “Whatever, Jack. You gotta go. I have to get to work.”
“I wanted to make her breakfast…”
Teddy didn’t know why. It wasn’t like he was ever going to see Mom again. She had more men in her bed than a Motel 6.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re a real gentleman. Leave your number on the fridge with the others. I’m sure you’ll be the one she calls back.” Teddy ushered the man out of the house and shut the door in his face. He opened it a second later to toss a pair of cowboy boots he didn’t recognize onto the porch. He slammed it shut again and pulled the deadbolt.
When he got back to his mother’s room, the door was locked again. Teddy kicked it. “Fuck!” He cursed, rubbing his bruised toe.
He’d have to deal with the fallout later. He grabbed his sneakers and tugged on his sweater. He left the house, grateful that John, or Jack, or whatever his name was, had finally left. Shoving his useless phone in his pocket, just in case he had to call the police—the only number it would let him dial out—he started down the sidewalk for the college.
He couldn’t help glancing up to stare at the house next door. Twenty years before, it had probably been identical to his. They were both two-story Craftmans, both with the same off-gray siding and covered porch. But the Romeros had added a white picket fence that separated their yard from Teddy’s, with a neat row of well-kept hedges alongside it. It was clear from the sparkling windows and stone garden by the steps that the Romeros lovingly cared for their home. Teddy glanced back at his own house.
The porch sloped slightly to the right and the small front lawn was overgrown. Spring had come, but there were no flowers to show it, just patchy dirt and a single, overgrown shrub. Their recycle bin overflowed with glass bottles. Teddy’s lips tightened and he turned back to the Romeros.
Mama R was probably cleaning up from breakfast, and he heard the sound of a saw from the workshop out back. Despite telling himself not to, despite knowing he shouldn’t, Teddy’s gaze darted over to the open garage, where a beat-up red Chevy truck sat, its hood open. A pair of legs, jeans stretched over firm thighs, was the only thing he could see of the man lying underneath the truck. Faintly, he heard the tinging of a wrench on metal.
Teddy’s heart thumped faster in his chest. He should walk away before he got caught staring—he knew it—but his feet were glued to the sidewalk.
Ian Romero was four years older than he was. At twenty-two, his body had filled out in all the right places, but when he smiled, his eyes still held the laughter of youth.
Teddy had been coming to the Romeros’ house since they had moved in when Teddy had been five—first for play dates with Lucas, the Romeros’ middle child, back when Teddy’s asshole of a dad was still alive and his mother wanted him out of the house, away from the screamin
g and swinging fists. Later, after his father had died, he’d come over nightly after Mama R heard he was home alone while his mother went to work.
He remembered the first time he’d seen Ian as more than just his friend’s annoying older brother. He and Lucas had been twelve, Ian sixteen, and they’d been playing tag in the back yard. He remembered Ian had been chasing them and laughing so hard that Teddy had tripped over a clump of loose dirt, crashing to the ground with Ian in a tangle of limbs and laughter. Then, he’d felt it—the way his heart thud-thudded harder at the feel of Ian’s hands pinning him down, the heat in his groin as he’d straddled him.
Not that Ian had noticed. Ian had just laughed, apologizing as he stood and helped Teddy up, looking him over to make sure he wasn’t hurt. Teddy had felt both childish and cared for as he let Ian smooth a Band-Aid over his knee. He’d been in love—with a capital L—with Ian ever since. It was a pity Ian would never see him as anything but his younger brother’s friend.
One of Ian’s cowboy boots shifted against the pavement, digging his heel in to drag himself out from under the car, and Teddy yelped, scrambling down the sidewalk before he could get caught staring.
* * * *
Later that night, sore from hours of mopping and sweeping and cleaning whiteboards, faintly nauseous from the strong odor of bleach and antiseptic, Teddy closed the door to his room behind him and gathered his kit from the dresser. He cleared off the small desk in the corner of his room and flipped on the desk lamp.
He went through the routine of setting up with the ease of practice. He’d been doing it on his own for nearly two years—ever since he’d turned sixteen and gotten off puberty blockers and onto Delatestryl. His mother had sobered up enough to help for the first month, but, like all the other times, the sobriety hadn’t lasted.
Washing his hands, checking the date on the vial, examining the contents for discoloration… The rubber stopper on the vial had to be cleaned with an alcohol swab, the packaging on the needle checked for tampering. He did it daily, though he’d never found a problem, because his hormones were too important to risk screwing up over something stupid. Satisfied that everything was clean and prepped, he plunged the 18-gauge needle into the rubber stopper and cleared the syringe of air.
Holding the vial tightly, he turned it upside down and positioned the needle, slowly depressing the plunger until he’d pulled the correct dose. With the needle still safely in the vial, he tapped the side of the syringe and removed the last few air bubbles. It used to make him cringe, watching the bubbles float to the top so he could push them back into the vial. He’d been afraid he’d miss one and end up hemorrhaging on the floor, like in those detective shows on TV. It had never happened, and now the step was simple.
He pulled the needle out of the vial, setting the little bottle back on the desk far enough from the edge that he wouldn’t knock it off by accident, then disassembled the needle, dropping it into the little red home sharps kit on the floor beside his desk. He attached the injection needle in its place.
It was easy now to find the injection spot. At first, he’d had to mentally plot a grid on his thigh, three squares by three, to find the outer middle that marked the best spot. A new alcohol swab sanitized the skin, then he took a deep breath before pinching the muscle. Careful to keep the syringe at the right angle, he quickly injected it into his thigh before he could tense too much. He hated needles with a fiery passion—just not nearly as much as he hated who he’d be without the testosterone.
After checking the syringe for blood—there wasn’t any—he finished the injection and removed the needle. He cleaned up the injection site, the alcohol stinging his skin, all while trying to avoid looking. After he disposed of the needle in the sharps container, he breathed a sigh of relief. He was done with the chore for the next two weeks.
He was even more glad that he turned eighteen in a few days. He’d already talked to his gender therapist and had received her letter of recommendation for medical transition.
The house phone started ringing in the living room. Teddy ignored it. Nobody but Shiloh called him anyway, and Shiloh only called him on his cell. When the phone stopped then started again then stopped and rang a third time, Teddy sighed and headed downstairs to snatch it up, his thigh burning.
“De Luca residence.”
A familiar voice spoke through the phone, “Teddy? It’s Maria. Olivia didn’t show up for her shift today.”
Teddy’s shoulders tensed immediately. “Oh, I meant to call. She’s…sick. She’s got the flu, hasn’t been able to get out of bed.” He crossed his fingers at his side.
Maria was silent on the other end of the line. Maria was his mother’s supervisor at the hospital and the closest thing she had to a friend. If Maria didn’t know or at least strongly suspect that he was lying, he’d be shocked. Already this month, he’d fielded her call three times.
“Teddy, dear, have you seen my red dress?”
Teddy closed his eyes as his mother yelled from upstairs, doubting it was quiet enough not to be heard through the phone. He covered the base to avoid screaming in Maria’s ear. “You threw up on it this morning. Remember? It’s in the wash.”
“Oh. Are you sure? I don’t remember…”
“Teddy. Tell your mother to see me in my office tomorrow morning,” Maria sighed. “I can’t keep covering for her.”
“I’ll let her know. I gotta go.” Teddy hung up and slammed the receiver down. He glared at the ceiling and counted.
He waited until he was calmed down a bit, then headed back upstairs to his mom’s room. She was standing in her underwear in front of the floor-length mirror, a towel swaddled around her hair, still damp from a shower.
“Why do you need your red dress?” Teddy asked from the doorway. “You’re not leaving, are you?”
“I have a date. A nice man from the coffee shop.” Mom lifted a blue dress and held it against her body, then a pink one. “What do you think?”
“I think you have to work at eight tomorrow and should stay home,” Teddy answered, rather than pick a dress.
“Oh, Teddy, it’ll be fine. Stop worrying.”
“Maria called.” Teddy crossed his arms over his chest. “She wants to see you first thing.”
It was almost enough to get through. He could see her waver, the hesitation that flickered over her face before she buried it with a smile. “I’m sure it’s nothing important.”
“It will be if you’re late. Please stay home.” They couldn’t afford for her to lose her job again. She’d only been working there for a year, after teetering between unemployment and part-time work and back again. He’d seen the stack of bills growing steadily on the counter, the red stamps on the envelopes. It was only recently that they’d stopped coming—and only because Teddy had picked up a job.
His mom reached out and patted his cheek. “Boo Bear, you worry too much. Come out with me. I’m sure you’d like Mike.” She winked. “I’ll slip you a beer.”
Teddy gave up. “I’ve got homework.” He turned to head back to his room.
“Teddy,” his mom called after him. He paused, shifting his eyes to the ceiling for a moment before he turned around. She lifted the two dresses. “Which one?”
“Blue,” Teddy conceded, then headed to his room.
Chapter Three
Ian considered himself an equal opportunity lover. Pansexual and proud, he didn’t give a fuck what was between someone’s legs as long as they had a good personality and a dirty mouth. The man sitting across the bar from him had too much of one and an unfortunate lack of the other. Ian had, of course, noticed the man when he’d entered. Seeing his lithe body and sculpted cheekbones, Ian would have had to have been blind not to. It also meant, unfortunately, that he’d seen the man who’d entered on his arm, his hand possessively planted on the smaller man’s ass—the one who was temporarily ensconced in the bathroom.
Which apparently meant to the pretty boy who had introduced himself as Sam that he had f
ree rein to flirt with the bartender. Ian didn’t know if Sam was angling for a hookup or just discounted drinks, and he didn’t really care. He didn’t dip his dick in taken holes. It was his rule numero uno.
Silently, he slid a cosmo across the bar to the man, then resolutely ignored any further attempts at conversation, pointedly turning his back to start wiping down the many glass bottles stretched along the bar-back.
“Have you worked here long?” Sam said, not taking the hint, his voice loud and whiny to be heard over the pounding bass line. Ian glanced at the mirror, watching the man’s lips thin when he realized Ian was ignoring him. “Fine. Fuck this, I got better things to do. Don’t expect a tip next time.”
Ian just tugged the single dollar bill the man had tossed on the bar out of his pocket and dropped it in front of him. “No problem.”
Sam slid off the stool with a dramatic huff that was ruined when he had to tug his glittery silver Spanx out of his ass crack. Ian’s lips quirked up in a smile that made the man glare before storming back to his date.
“And good riddance,” Ian muttered to the man’s back.
His buddy Zak, the other bartender, laughed as he stepped up beside him. “Letting the boys down hard again?” Zak was even taller than Ian, his shoulders small mountains over a well-built chest. Ian preferred his men smaller than himself, but even he couldn’t help but take a second look the first time he’d seen Beast, as the patrons called him, behind the bar.
“You know me. I don’t do anything the easy way,” Ian took the good-natured ribbing for what it was and grinned. He tucked the towel back into his apron strings, letting it dangle over his hip, and stepped aside to let Zak take his place.
Prism was busy, even for a Friday night, and Ian felt guilty for leaving the other two bartenders on their own. “Want me to wait a bit?”