Why the helldoes the world hate me?
387 days. I waited 387 days without sex, not that I was counting, and out of all the men on Grindr in Boston, I chose him. The captain of the hockey team I’ve been hired to service.
No. Not service. Bad choice of words. Hired to provide care for. Yeah, that’s it.
Those eyes never leave mine as I all but tear him from the bike by the back of his jersey. Like all hockey players are born to do, he curses a blue streak as I bustle him down out of the gym, down the hall, and into the joke of an office I’ve been assigned. I’m fairly certain it’s a closet, but who am I to complain?
As much as I want to slam the door, I also don’t want to garner any attention, so I lean my back against it, letting the cool surface calm me as it closes with a soft click.
“Mr. Malkovich.”
“Cory.” With the same brash confidence he wielded in my former bedroom, he deposits himself in my chair, legs spread wide enough for me to stand between them, should I feel the urge. “You had no problem calling me Cory last night. Although, you moaned it more than said it.”
“I didn’t moan.” I whined like a pathetic, perverted old man. There’s a difference. “About that.”
“About what? About you undressing me, playing with my nipples, molding my ass in those big strong hands. Sucking my?—”
In a bid not to punch the wall, I clench my fists at my side. “That’s enough. You’re acting like a?—”
“Student? Because I am. I mean, I am an almost twenty-one-year-old college student, but a student all the same. How do you think Coach would feel about you inviting college kids back to your secret lair? Do you think he’d be as pissed as say … your wife?”
At first, the implied threat to my job consumes the majority of my cognitive power. But slowly, the full accusation slips through the cracks. “My wife?”
“Yeah. Your wife. The old ball and chain. The woman you’re married to. The mother of your child, Dyl. You know, her.”
In a bid to assert some kind of dominance, I want to remain standing, but themother of your child, Dyl,bit has me staggering to the first sit-able surface, my desk. It’s a dangerous spot, leaving me vulnerable. I’m not quite sure that he’s sane, so I don’t care to leave my back to him, but should I sit on the same side, we would be so close our bodies would likely touch, and I don’t really want that either. Instead, I shuffle to the short side, my ass hanging precariously close to the edge.
“I mean this with all sincerity, Mr … sorry, Cory, but what the fuck are you talking about? Unless you didn’t notice last night, I am gay with a capital G. I’ve never even kissed a woman, let alone married and produced offspring with one.”
“Sure,” he huffs. “I know what I heard, ‘Is everything okay, Faithy? Is Dyl okay? Sit tight, sweetheart.’”
I freeze. What the hell was that? “Okay. There’s a lot to unpack there, most important of all being, why does your impersonation of me sound like Daddy Pig?”
“Ahh, ‘cause you’re a Daddy, and you’re English.”
“No, I’m Australian. Even then, most people don’t notice the accent.”’
“Yeah, well call me Cory, and a linguist genius. Can we get back to the daddy and wife and secret pad part now? I’m dying to hear this excuse.”
Feeling slightly more at ease, I cross my arms over my chest and one foot over the other. “I will as long as you stop calling me Daddy.”
“Why?” He snaps, replicating my pose. “Does it turn you on?”
“Yes. It does, and since we both know that’s not good for either of us, I suggest you stop.”
Ahh, finally, something that shuts him up.
“That call last night came from my sister, and was calling about Dylan, our brother.”
“Ahh yeah, sure. I have a sister and I would rather plunge a knife in my eye than call hersweetheart.”
“For the most part, I would be inclined to feel the same, but Faith, my sister, was distressed, and worried about our brother. Not that I owe you this much detail, but we lost our dad recently and we’ve had to step in as Dylan’s primary caregivers. Faith needed reassurance, Dad called her sweetheart when she was upset, so I’ve begun too as well. Now, I know you’re angry, and I must admit it’s noble if not misplaced. But I need you to slow down, and think. My name is James Plum. My sister is Faith Pl?—”
“Plum,” he finishes. A new layer of shame washes over me watching the brash exterior of a young man full of swagger, yet naive to the harshness of the world at his feet, fades away. Suddenly, he appears every bit the young adult he is. “Faith Plum. Professor Faith Plum.”
“Correct. Glad we’re on the same page.” I lean to my desk and grab an unopened bottle of water, handing it to him without meeting his eye. “Now, as for the apartment, it is mine, or was mine, but I have been forced to sublet or sell it in order to move back home.”
“Oh.”
