was.” Jamie polished off the rest of his beer.
“So why is he still calling you?” Eli asked.
“What do you care?” Maybe Jamie could finally score one off the kid.
“Because he’s fucking gorgeous. And he’s lived here for like ever and I’ve never met a single person who’s done him and—oh my God, did you? What’s he like?”
He kisses like a wet dream and smells like sex outdoors on a bed of leather. Jamie smirked. “Do I look like a gossipy queen?”
“Tell me you didn’t blow him off,” Eli begged.
“I didn’t blow him.”
“Yeah, yeah, badass top, whatever.” Eli waved that away. “But c’mon. He’s like gay royalty. Like a prince or something. You know his dad gave a huge check to marriage equality in Maryland even though the archbishop went to his house to try to talk him out of it?”
“So?”
“So?” Eli brushed his bangs out of his face. “Isn’t that cool?”
Jamie supposed it was. When he’d finally told his parents a couple of years back, they’d seemed to be expecting it. All his dad had done was pull him aside and say, “For God’s sake, don’t parade it in front of your mother.” As if he’d made a habit of dragging random men home for the past twenty years.
“You know one thing,” Quinn said. “I bet they have a cook. You could scrounge some meals there for a change.”
“Don’t listen to him, Jamie. He’s just being Quinn. We love having you come over. And at least you get out of having to clean up.” Eli gave Quinn an exaggerated, smacking kiss and slid off his lap.
“I’ll give you a hand,” Quinn offered.
“Nah. I’m sure you’ve got papers to correct, or at least to bitch and moan about, ’cause summers off and six-hour days is such a fucking burden.” They could both leave him alone right about now.
Quinn smacked Jamie’s back as he followed Eli from the kitchen. Despite the distraction of the mountain of dishes, Jamie slipped through the back door and into the yard. Taking a deep breath of humid air, he pulled out his emergency smoke. All the quitting plans said hanging on to it was a mistake, but knowing it was there made things easier sometimes. He ran it under his nose and put it between his lips.
Montgomery wasn’t the pathetic one. Jamie was, moping in Quinn’s yard, again. Social life squeezed down to bowling league, sponging meals off friends and dreaming about a lover who’d been dead for almost twenty years. Jamie couldn’t blame all that on Dad’s death or quitting smoking. Or losing another bar-hopping buddy when Bobby and Terry decided to go the been-friends-so-long-we-might-as-well-be-lovers route.
None of that could explain jerking awake to the sound of Colton’s neck snapping, the squashed melon sound of his skull on the rocks. Why couldn’t he get that other dream, the one where Colton leered and said, “Whatcha gonna give me for saving your ass on that jump, Donny?”
The dreams couldn’t be because of that rescue. Montgomery and his party buddy sure as hell weren’t the first lives Jamie had saved. Fishing two wasted rich boys out of the bay wasn’t anything like Colton risking his neck to free Jamie’s fucked-up chute so he could get to his reserve—then breaking his own damn neck screwing around on some jungle ruin a few weeks later. That had nothing to do with his dad or smoking or his friends running to jump into monogamy as if they couldn’t wait to have their balls cut off.
Jamie took the unlit cigarette and stared at it. Not gonna live forever anyway, Colton’s voice echoed in his head.
“Don’t want to go out like Dad, though.” Jamie’s fingers shifted to snap it, crush it, let the sweet little leaves drift around Quinn’s yard, but instead he tucked it back into his boot and went inside to do KP.
As he lifted up the heavy baking dish to slide it into the sink, he found a note. Not in Quinn’s tight cursive, but in uneven block letters. Call him back. Getting laid would help you
“So why is he still calling you?” Eli asked.
“What do you care?” Maybe Jamie could finally score one off the kid.
“Because he’s fucking gorgeous. And he’s lived here for like ever and I’ve never met a single person who’s done him and—oh my God, did you? What’s he like?”
He kisses like a wet dream and smells like sex outdoors on a bed of leather. Jamie smirked. “Do I look like a gossipy queen?”
“Tell me you didn’t blow him off,” Eli begged.
“I didn’t blow him.”
“Yeah, yeah, badass top, whatever.” Eli waved that away. “But c’mon. He’s like gay royalty. Like a prince or something. You know his dad gave a huge check to marriage equality in Maryland even though the archbishop went to his house to try to talk him out of it?”
“So?”
“So?” Eli brushed his bangs out of his face. “Isn’t that cool?”
Jamie supposed it was. When he’d finally told his parents a couple of years back, they’d seemed to be expecting it. All his dad had done was pull him aside and say, “For God’s sake, don’t parade it in front of your mother.” As if he’d made a habit of dragging random men home for the past twenty years.
“You know one thing,” Quinn said. “I bet they have a cook. You could scrounge some meals there for a change.”
“Don’t listen to him, Jamie. He’s just being Quinn. We love having you come over. And at least you get out of having to clean up.” Eli gave Quinn an exaggerated, smacking kiss and slid off his lap.
“I’ll give you a hand,” Quinn offered.
“Nah. I’m sure you’ve got papers to correct, or at least to bitch and moan about, ’cause summers off and six-hour days is such a fucking burden.” They could both leave him alone right about now.
Quinn smacked Jamie’s back as he followed Eli from the kitchen. Despite the distraction of the mountain of dishes, Jamie slipped through the back door and into the yard. Taking a deep breath of humid air, he pulled out his emergency smoke. All the quitting plans said hanging on to it was a mistake, but knowing it was there made things easier sometimes. He ran it under his nose and put it between his lips.
Montgomery wasn’t the pathetic one. Jamie was, moping in Quinn’s yard, again. Social life squeezed down to bowling league, sponging meals off friends and dreaming about a lover who’d been dead for almost twenty years. Jamie couldn’t blame all that on Dad’s death or quitting smoking. Or losing another bar-hopping buddy when Bobby and Terry decided to go the been-friends-so-long-we-might-as-well-be-lovers route.
None of that could explain jerking awake to the sound of Colton’s neck snapping, the squashed melon sound of his skull on the rocks. Why couldn’t he get that other dream, the one where Colton leered and said, “Whatcha gonna give me for saving your ass on that jump, Donny?”
The dreams couldn’t be because of that rescue. Montgomery and his party buddy sure as hell weren’t the first lives Jamie had saved. Fishing two wasted rich boys out of the bay wasn’t anything like Colton risking his neck to free Jamie’s fucked-up chute so he could get to his reserve—then breaking his own damn neck screwing around on some jungle ruin a few weeks later. That had nothing to do with his dad or smoking or his friends running to jump into monogamy as if they couldn’t wait to have their balls cut off.
Jamie took the unlit cigarette and stared at it. Not gonna live forever anyway, Colton’s voice echoed in his head.
“Don’t want to go out like Dad, though.” Jamie’s fingers shifted to snap it, crush it, let the sweet little leaves drift around Quinn’s yard, but instead he tucked it back into his boot and went inside to do KP.
As he lifted up the heavy baking dish to slide it into the sink, he found a note. Not in Quinn’s tight cursive, but in uneven block letters. Call him back. Getting laid would help you
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