Until he turns to me, his mouth against the crown of my head, and says, “You think you could ruin this, pal?”
I think maybe I could. And then I think maybe it could always be like this. Just like this. Not me crying like an idiot. Not me being stupid. Not me having any other problems. But it could always be him and me in his bed. It could always be him and me staying the night. I get just a peek from behind the curtain. A glimmer.
And so I kiss the center of his throat, look him in those azure eyes, and tell him, “I’ll give it my best shot.”
CHAPTER SIX
Asher
SEE, THE WAYit was supposed to go was like this:
Jimmy would go off to the Polytechnic, marry a Jessup girl, and get half. Then I was supposed to go off to the Polytechnic, marry a Reynolds or Sinclair girl, and get one-quarter. Being the second Holdren son, I could not expect a Jessup, nor could I expect half. These things were understood. Written in the annals of ancestry. The finality of a hammer strike.
And Glen, poor Glen. The third Holdren son, the spare of a spare, and the only expectation placed on him was that he make sure he didn’t get in Jimmy’s way. Or my way, for that matter. He’d get the last quarter, and for the longest time I thought my old man did it on a map with literal lines drawn. So I thought Glen’s quarter would be out by the south pasture, where the prolific chickweed kept us from planting, and in the dog days of summer it got all swampy and the gnats and mosquitoes would eat you alive.
I thought my quarter was by the creek. There was a little grove of trees and my favorite was the willow. I’d climb the lowest branch, thick and sturdy, and lie on my stomach, looking down at the creek below. I wasn’t sure how big a quarter of land was at that age, so I guessed it must be as big as the whole cellar. I marked out my quarter with rocks, laying one at each corner of my inheritance and made sure to choose the best part of the creek. The part that got little rapids when it rained and the tiny waterfall that I believed frogs and ladybugs bathed in. Everything was alive back then, magical, and I believed in things. It was all set and the terms clear.
Then it wasn’t.
It just wasn’t.
In my childish logic, Jimmy would’ve had the north pasture. It was where the horses grazed and there was a section for planting. The soil was rich and the grass never seemed to turn brown. Even in the dead of winter. There were wildflowers every spring and at the edge was a forest you could get lost in and still come out safe on the other side. It was perfect, pastoral, picturesque, and I believed that would be where he’d build his house and have his kids. And then I’d build my house on my little scrap by the creek. And then Glen would build his with the mosquitoes and there we’d be — three Holdren brothers side by side.
In an alternate dimension, I’m going home to my Reynolds girl. Or Sinclair. She makes us all a home and makes us all dinner. We hold hands with our children in prayer at the table. I have a son and a daughter. I’m already worn before I’m thirty. I’m already creasing like pressed silk, back aching like my father’s and his father’s. I’m already feeling the tight box of responsibility closing in on me, its walls pressing and its consequences a fist shaking.
But I would’ve had it all. The comforts of a family. A warm bed, never alone, and never afraid. I like to visit that life that never was sometimes. I’d visit it out on my balcony while a certain someone watched me. He didn’t know the places I could travel to. He didn’t know the places I’d let my mind wander to. He didn’t know his eyes were on someone who’d shriveled up his branch of the family tree until it was dry with rot and crumbling into dust.
But what he doesn’t know won’t hurt me. What he doesn’t know is mine, and I am so greedy. Just a fucking sin. And it doesn’t matter anyway. My dick was the first one he’d ever had in his mouth, guaranteed, and I don’t know how I should feel about it. He wasn’t ready, for whatever reason, and there was something else, it seemed, nagging at him, bothering him…and why do I notice or even give a shit? And just what does he think he’s going to ruin anyway? What’s the big idea? He couldn’t ruin ancient Greece.
He’s going to leave his aunt’s at some point, and this will be our interlude, the summer he learned a few things, and it’ll mean nothing in a few years. Hell, a few months. I feel like he’s so hungry, and I owe it to him, because I unscrewed the lid.
That’s the only thing I can tell myself. That’s the only reason I can give as I listen to him fall asleep beside me, slow breaths and a heavy head on my chest.
It’s the only way I can keep myself from getting used to it.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!”
Paul slaps his hand over his mouth when there’s no need. If anyone in the building hears him, I can explain it away. I’ve done it before. But he’s struggling to keep quiet and lets out a few more expletives.
Hearing him swear like that, though, really gets me going, and I’ve got one hand on his stomach, the other on his thigh, and my lips around his dick. My fingers creep over his navel, and my tongue does a swirl around the tip, and he makes another groan behind his hand, muffled curses. I can’t tell what his specific tastes are just yet. Right now, he seems to like everything and anything I do to him.
It’s not like I’m complaining.
First time I ever gave head, I was seventeen and the guy couldn’t have been any younger than thirty-five. His wedding ring gleamed on his left hand as he unzipped his slacks, and with the same mouth he kissed his wife and kids with, he told me how he was going to come down my throat. I got on my knees, and when he asked me how old I was I lied, told him I was a junior at Old Dominion, and he bought it. By the time I was done with him, he was cussing and panting like crazy. And I didn’t hardly do anything. I just…sucked his dick.
I thought the novelty of it, the act of doing it, would be enough to quell my thirst. That could be it, and I could just move on. But, I don’t know. Driving some guy crazy, taking him to the edge, and getting him off is exhilarating. To have that kind of control, to have them begging me for something I try hard to pretend I don’t want to give, and then to surrender to it, the whole dance, it does something for me.
“I’m going to come,” Paul rasps out.
Like right now.
His fingers slip into my hair, pulling until it’s almost painful. He makes this deep groan, low in his belly, and I get a gush of him, salty-bitter and trembling. I dutifully swallow, and when he’s finished, I pull off him and wipe my bottom lip. I get up from my knees and look down at him on my bed, shirt pushed up, pants around his ankles, and his glasses crooked. It’s awkward. And glorious.
We were supposed to be on the road an hour ago. It’s my fault. I was feeling him up through his jeans, because I wanted to, I wanted him, and next thing I know, his dick is in my mouth and I’m sucking him off. He opened the door to it the other night, and so I couldn’t help but walk through. I can’t be completely sure, but I’m probably the first person to ever do this for him. There could have been some wayward girl back in school. Imagining him getting it from somebody else gives me a pang of jealousy.
I lean over him to fix his glasses, and he fists my shirt, pulls me down into a hard kiss. His tongue pushes into my mouth, and the hungry desperate way he searches for his taste makes my dick so hard I’m worried I’ll spend in my pants.
And then like he’s reading my mind, his fingers are at my fly, making quick work with the button and zipper, tugging at my underpants. I want to let him, but we’ve got to get out of here. I’ve been sucking his cock and jacking him off practically in his aunt’s backyard. I really don’t like thinking about the proximity. And how guilty I feel for allowing it to begin with. We need another place to go, one that doesn’t make me feel so guilty, and I think I’ve found one.
