Chapter 13
Kyle
Now
As I cut the engine, I question my motives for the one hundredth time since leaving the house. What the hell am I doing?
It’s been three days since I caught up with Bren. Three days since I experienced the best night I’ve had in years. Sure, we behaved like teenagers hustling those guys, but I’d felt alive again. And seeing Bren so comfortable with his sexuality that he would happily act femme in public… Damn, I enjoyed that.
He's really matured into the best version of himself, becoming the man I always knew was inside of him, even when no one else could see it. Sure, he’s still the same in so many ways; but seeing him calm and in control when those assholes tried to pick a fight and seeing the successful, decent man he’s become makes me so proud of him.
The night plays on repeat in my mind, my thoughts stopping on those special moments when Brenreallylooked at me and the sexual tension sparked between us. Because that blinding, unstoppable, physical attraction is still there, crackling between us like a live wire. I felt it, and I know Bren did, too.
Getting out of the car, I pull my baseball cap down low and walk slowly along the opposite side of the street until the business comes into sight. It’s almost 12:30 and I hope I’ve timed it well. Coming to a stop, I lean against a brick wall, my eyes focused on the front door of Waterstone Financial Services. And I wait.
A few minutes after 1:00 PM, when my legs are numb from standing still too long, Chris Walker finally exits the building with who I can only assume is a work colleague.
The two men stand on the footpath and chat for a while, and I watch, my eyes narrowing at the sight of Bren’s husband in the flesh. I don’t plan on approaching him, I just need to see him, need to know what sort of man Bren has committed himself to. What sort of man he claims to love.
Jealousy rears up, pumping through my veins with unyielding determination; but this is what happens when you covet what is not yours.
The two men wrap up their conversation and head off in opposite directions. I follow from the other side of the road, observing Chris—his walk, his gestures, his demeanour. When he enters a café, I cross the road to get a closer look. There’s a separate take-out line which he’s joined, so I sit at an empty table and pretend to read the menu.
Chris turns and speaks to the person behind him in the line, and it’s almost shocking to hear his voice—upbeat and cheerful and a little too perfect for my taste. But, even though I don’t want to admit it, he seems like a nice guy. He smiles at everyone and appears relaxed and confident. I’ve always thought that people who had normal childhoods carry themselves differently to those of us who had fucked up ones. For me and Bren, it doesn’t matter how much we rise above our shitty pasts, the shadow of it hovers over us. And Chris, well, he carries himself like his childhood was filled with privilege and love and support. He’s easy-going, relaxed, and stupidly carefree.
When Chris reaches the front of the line, the staff member addresses him by name and passes him a take-out bag. It’s obvious he comes here often and pre-orders his lunch. Heisan accountant, so it’s not surprising that he’s organised and predictable.
Boring, is my take.
After he leaves, I wait a few seconds before following. I trail behind for a while before slipping back to the other side of the road.
In the privacy of my car, I light up a cigarette, feeling edgy.
But it’s not bad. I’m not manic.
When I think of this husband of Bren’s, all I can see is soft—too soft for Bren. I can’t imagineanyscenario where Chris is a top. The way he walks and talks all scream bottom.
The situation fascinates me and fills me with hope. Has Bren been topping all these years? Why would he marry a man who’sa bottom? I guess it’s possible Bren’s changed, and they are both vers.
I’m probably just projecting what I want to be true, because I’m gone on Bren like I was at sixteen.
“Fuck,” I mutter, wanting so desperately to be the last man Bren allowed inside of him. I want him to have chosen me, and only me, and for it to mean something. I want Bren’s marriage to be nothing more than a substitute, a half relationship, something he settled for. I don’t mind if there’s genuine love between them, but I want it to be a love of comfort and safety, rather than passionate and all-consuming like we shared.
I toss the cigarette butt out of the window and lean back against the headrest, closing my eyes. “Bren,” I whisper, remembering what it was like to be inside him, to hear him moan and writhe in my arms.
I want him. And I’ll do anything to get him back where he belongs—inmyarms.
Running late to pick up Lu from netball practice, I speed down the highway, my mind barely on the traffic. It’s taken every inch of self-control to keep myself from texting or calling Bren. I had hoped that, by giving him space, he might have caved and contacted me first.
Eating has lost its appeal and sleep escapes me. Last night, endless filthy memories had me desperate for release while James lay snoring beside me. In the early hours of the morning when I’d finally succumbed to sleep, I dreamt of Bren. When I awoke, it was to visions of chestnut eyes and the ghost of his touch.
Turning into the netball court car park, I find Lu waiting for me, everyone else already gone bar the coach.
“Hey pumpkin,” I say as she hops into the passenger seat. “How was your day?”
“It was good. I got an A on my English essay.” She smiles, a rare occurrence with me.
“That’s great Lu. Hey, I have something to tell you, and I was hoping it could stay between the two of us.”
