André

by Jayce Ellis

  It would be my pleasure.

  Marcus

  We had just enough time for mutual hand jobs before I had to hop back on the plane, and the rest of the week passed at a mind-numbingly slow pace. I mean, classes were what they were, my classmates were as unconcerned about my absence as my roommates were, and I wanted nothing more than to get to the weekend.

  This time, when one of my roommates knocked on the door to tell me I had company, I was ready. Slightly pissed, because I would’ve scooped André from the airport, but I should’ve known he wouldn’t want me to lose studying time by picking him up. I jogged down the stairs, intent on kissing him senseless before hurrying off to whatever hotel he’d gotten and spending the weekend buried in him.

  Except it was my parents standing in the foyer. My dick wilted like overcooked spaghetti, and part of me wanted to turn right back around and go upstairs.

  Mom looked up and gave me a tentative wave. “Hi, Marcus.”

  I reached the last step and stopped. “Mom. Dad. Hey.”

  Mom spanned the gulf between us and circled her arms around me, and I stooped over for her kiss. Lord, her scent was comforting. “Hey, baby.”

  “What’re you guys doing here?” Was my voice scratchy?

  “You don’t answer your phone, son. Don’t give us much of a choice.” Dad with the voice of reason.

  I ran a hand over my head. “I had a lot to think about.” Even me and André had avoided having the what-does-Marcus-want-to-do-with-his-life conversation. I didn’t want to be hasty or put anyone in a bad position. Once was more than enough for that.

  “I need to apologize to André,” Mom said, and my laugh was admittedly a little hysterical.

  “Well, he should be here any moment now, so you’ll have your chance.”

  Her eyes widened, then narrowed, and I knew she was about to go mama bear on me again. Dad saw it too, because he grabbed her hand and tugged her to him. “Stephanie...”

  They sat in the living room and I got us all some coffee, then ran back upstairs for my phone. No missed calls, thank god. I took a moment to get myself together. I couldn’t have everything on my own terms. Hadn’t Phil said that when he assigned me to André, and look how well that had turned out. I needed to hear my parents out. I needed to find out why André had told me to talk to them anyway. I still had no clue what he was talking about, and I’d shoved it in the back of my mind.

  I walked downstairs in a different frame of mind, ready to listen, to not be defensive. And found André sitting in the two-seater across from them when I got there.

  He turned to me and smiled, and there was no reservation in it. That calmed me in a way my own pep talks never could, and after a long hug and brief kiss, I sat down next to him.

  “So,” I said to start, “André told me I needed to talk to you about your work, Mom. That’s had me mad confused for a minute now.”

  She took a deep breath, did some mental judo with Dad, then told me about how she’d never really wanted to work, that her illness had given her the excuse she needed, and she’d been terrified that she’d passed it down to me.

  “What was wrong with you wanting to stay home?”

  She looked at me, then everywhere else, before shaking her head. “I wasn’t supposed to want that. To stay home and take care of my husband. That wasn’t feminist enough then. It’s probably not feminist enough now, I don’t know, but me eschewing the hustle and bustle of work meant I was brainwashed by the patriarchy. I was terrified I’d done the same to you.” She took a long, deep breath, then glanced at André. “I did do that to you. And I’m sorry.”

  I turned to André. “What the hell happened after I left?”

  He laughed and leaned into me, kissing me gently before sitting back and staring at me with what I’m pretty sure was adoration. “I think we all had to think about the assumptions we made. Unlearning them is hard, and not a straight line. You were the most honest of all, and that made you a target. I’m sorry.”

  Times like this I was glad my roommates tended to be out or at the library early on Saturdays, because this was not a conversation I really wanted to have. I itched to get in the kitchen, something so I didn’t have to face it directly, but it was past time for that.

  Besides, hadn’t I struggled like hell with what I wanted? When Jake told me I was better suited for a small firm, and that wasn’t quite it. Then he said cooking, and that didn’t capture it either. When it’d finally hit me that I wanted to take care of André, I’d rejected it out of hand. Refused to consider it, even as the thought grew and morphed and became all consuming. Holding it in had become an albatross around my neck and I’d felt that momentary relief when I’d finally released that pressure. But like Jake had said—and I needed to hit him up too, shit—I’d only been thinking about myself. I couldn’t keep doing that, not if I wanted me and André to work. And I wanted that more than just about anything.

  “Marcus. Baby, you okay?”

  André calling me baby in front of Mom and Dad was perhaps the best thing ever, and when he wrapped his arm around my waist and scooted closer to me, I was a goner. I’d get over everything if it meant I got to have him.

  “You have to understand,” André said to my parents. “I have no problems being the breadwinner or whatever. First, Marcus would have to help me out at the office anyway because he’s amazing, and second, what he does for me is worth more than money. I still think I get the better end of that deal.”

  Dad nodded, like that was the first sensible thing he’d heard. “I’ve felt that way about Stephanie for almost thirty years.”

  If it was possible, me and Mom would both be blushing. She took compliments about as well as I did.

  “But I had to think about it,” André continued. “I had to know it was what he wanted, because I want to give him the world.”

  I wanted to fuck. Right now. Hearing those words, spoken to my parents after all the shit that had gone down before, was music. Was better than any proclamation I could have given. And was probably a highly inappropriate thought to have with them sitting right there, but I did not care.

  “I just want him to be happy,” Mom said, her voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. I leaned forward.

  “Hey, Ma,” I said, and waited until she looked up. “You like being at home?” She nodded. “Me too.” I winked and she laughed and Dad looked at her and André looked at me and I was high on life.

  “I will finish my degree, though,” I said, “and I’m not counting out working altogether. I want to keep my foot in the door and make sure I’m making the right decisions.”

  “And I’ll be here every step of the way,” André assured me.

  I didn’t doubt it.

  Epilogue

  André

  The auditorium was hot, cramped, and I couldn’t see Marcus. Sandwiched between Mrs. Thompson on one side and Jake on the other, I didn’t have breathing room.

  “So,” Jake said, “I heard Marc is moving in with you.”

  I nodded. He’d gotten an offer and, after a series of long, post-sex and morning-after conversations, Clarymore had agreed to defer his start date for a few months. If he decided he wanted to work, he’d start the following January.

  “Yeah,” I said, “he’s going to focus on the CPA exam and then make a decision.”

  Mrs. Thompson patted my knee. “You’re good for him. I’m glad he has someone to talk to.”

  Jake slumped in the seat next to me. I cleared my throat. “You two figure things out?” I knew Jake had played a part, albeit unintentionally, with Marcus’s parents showing up, and things had been strained between them since.

  “Well, he asked me to be here today, so I’m taking it.” Jake looked at me. “Man, I’m sorry about what I did. I was worried about him.”

  “I’m glad he had someone who cared enough to worry. It was a messy
situation, but if you’d left us to our own devices, I might still think Marcus was concerned about stay-at-home parenting.”

  He snorted at that and sat up. And just in time as the lights dimmed and the procession started. Pomp and circumstance indeed.

  The ceremony lasted unreasonably long, and I was hoarse from shouting by the time it finished. Mrs. Thompson seemed to have a sixth sense for where her son was, and she beelined toward him once we’d made our way outside.

  Marcus hugged his parents and then took a moment with Jake. Fifteen years of friendship, spanning childhood moves and adulthood mistakes, wouldn’t be wiped out that easily, and I was glad for it. When they broke apart, they finally looked again like the guys I’d seen that night at Park. Jake with that broad, easy smile that drew my attention, and Marcus.

  He turned to me then and memories of that first glance burned through me. Then he was hot. Now he was everything. And I was pretty sure he knew where my mind was, if the grin on his face was anything to go by.

  The two of them walked over and Marcus engulfed me in a hug. “Love you,” he murmured in my ear.

  Almost a year. Still not tired of hearing it. “Love you back. You ready to pack it up and move in?”

  He squeezed me and looked down. “And feed you breakfast?”

  “Preferably naked.”

  Marcus snickered and pulled me close, then bent his head down so no one could hear. Just like the first time, and I fought my shudder now the same way I’d done then. “No. I’m going to make you strip. Then I’m cooking for you, fully clothed in a three-piece suit. I’ll make you sit on my lap while I hand feed you and then fuck you just like that.”

  “Marcus! Come over here and get some pictures.”

  And he smacked my ass and left me there. I had to turn and adjust myself, take a few deep breaths, and take them again, before I could face anyone. And when I did, Harold was sauntering over. Jesus Christ.

  Mr. Thompson reached him first and I said a quick prayer of thanks, then took a moment to look around. You couldn’t have told me a year ago that I’d be in a relationship, my business growing faster than I ever envisioned, about to move in with this amazing man. That I’d shed the shackles of old-school masculinity the same way Marcus had, and found something better. Truer. Hell, better make sure Jake didn’t know how right he was.

  “Dre, get over here, Nupe,” Marcus called out, the smile on his face lighting my whole world. “I need a pic with my man.”

  I jogged over, knowing I was blessed beyond measure.

  * * *

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  For more information on books by Jayce Ellis, please visit her website at www.jayceellis.com.

  Stay tuned for the next book from Jayce Ellis,

  Learned Behaviors,

  coming in 2020!

  Acknowledgments

  To my ladies: Irette Patterson, Maarika Sterling, Gigi Thomas, Adele Buck, and Lisa Lin, who’ve listened to me bitch and whine and complain, who’ve read versions and brainstormed, and kept me sane, thank you forever.

  Mackenzie, you literally pulled this story across the finish line and I’m forever grateful. Thank you for believing in me, for getting what I was trying to do here, and for pulling the best version of this story from me.

  J, you leveled up husbanding on this one! Getting up before work, staying up after I’d gone to bed, typing in handwritten edits and giving valuable advice on the story itself at the same time, all while keeping me sane and mostly sober? You’re amazing—and thanks for getting me a tablet that converts handwriting to text so we never have to do that again!

  About the Author

  Jayce Ellis has three loves: her husband and her two turtles. Hubby loves her back. The turtles she’s not so sure about, but they do love their sports (Bay Area teams FTW!). She still hasn’t figured out why she lives in Northern Virginia, where there’s weather, instead of California, where she’s from, and where it’s just...pretty. Jayce spends her days divorcing happily married couples (or so she’s been told), and her nights talking maniacally to herself. Thankfully the recorder catches her rumblings and magically turns them into words on a screen. Painting nails is way easier when you don’t actually have to type, and with well over 500 polishes to get through, there’s a lot of painting going on.

  Notwithstanding her no-good, very bad, horrible day job, Jayce seriously believes that true love conquers all. Even Maleficent said it. Sure, she was having an epic Mean Girls moment at the time, but she still said it. And she’s right. The only thing Jayce loves more than writing about true love conquering all, is hearing from readers who feel the same way. Drop her a line; she’d love to hear from you.

  Website/blog: www.jayceellis.com

  Twitter: @thelawyerwrites

  Now available from Carina Press and Jayce Ellis...

  Jeremiah Stewart’s sexuality is no one’s business. Not that he’s hiding it.

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Jeremiah.

  I parked my car at the entrance of the strip club and let the engine idle, checking my phone one more time before I tossed it in the glove compartment and heaved out a breath. Chucky was probably the only guy, gay or straight, who could get me here, on my day off no less, on a humid as fuck Friday night in DC. Talking ’bout he had something to discuss, but not over the phone. Like we were in high school or some shit.

  Across the parking lot, I got my hand stamped, paid the entrance fee and exchanged two twenties and a ten for fifty ones. The bulk made me distinctly uncomfortable, even though it wasn’t a lot of money and would be on a stage or in a thong before long. Taking a deep breath, I braced myself for the onslaught and stepped inside.

  It took a second before my eyes adjusted. Low lights dotted the booths and the bar, but multicolored strobe lights accentuated the center stage. The other two stages, to the left and right of the bar, weren’t in use, and the place wasn’t really about it yet. It was only nine, but at eleven one of the local DJs showed up and folks would wild out. By God’s grace I would be home sleep by then.

  I scanned the crowd, looking past the jacket-but-no-tie, buttons-undone, after-work crowd, past the giggling first-time-in-a-strip-club girls, past the old men prowling and the young ones flexing, trying to spot this six-foot-three-inch dreadlocked man in a suit who should’ve been posted up by the main stage. I reached for my phone and came up empty, of course. Never mind that then.

  The crowd parted, and I found him. And his girl. Ronnie to Chucky, Veronica to everyone else. Her presence explained a lot, namely why Chucky wasn’t front and center and halfway to broke by now. I schooled my face and walked over to where they sat, alone in a corner booth easily meant for six.

  “Jeremiah Stewart!” Chucky yelled once I got close. “My man, what’s good?” He stood and gave me a half-hug, whispered, “I’ll explain later,” then sat down and looped an arm over Veronica’s shoulder.

  “Everything’s solid,” I replied, then plastered on a smile. “How’re you tonight, Veronica?”

  Veronica uncrossed her legs, reached for a glass of what smelled like a super fruity white wine, then sat back again, taking just enough time to push her weave to the side before settling into her man. She took a sip before “Hello, Jeremiah” forced its way past her lips.

  Chucky speared me with a look over her head. That me and Veronica weren’t tight was an understatement, but that’s what happened when you speculated to your friends about your man’s sexuality because his boy was gay, and never bothered to just fucking ask him. I’d cussed her all the way out, but that was years ago and we’d learned to keep it civil for Chucky’s sake. This level of dismissiveness was out of charac
ter, even for her. But I shut up and sat back, ignoring the squeak of the leather, slightly sticky even with the air conditioning, and watched the action.

  The prime moneymakers didn’t come on until later, but no lie, baby girl on top of the pole was doing the damn thing. She was hanging from a horizontal bar at the ceiling, upside down in the splits. A crowd had gathered, and she did a pull-up in that position, flipped around, holding herself on the stage pole with just her arms, and slid to the ground. I, and just about everyone else there, jumped in applause. Dollar bills littered the stage like roses thrown at a king.

  “She trying to take all my money,” I said, fishing out my stack. I appreciated the skill, even if I didn’t get down like that. Chucky stood, stopped to do whatever nonverbal thing he and Veronica did, then followed me.

  I pushed through the crowd to the semicircular platform, added some more ones to the pile and waited for Chucky to do the same, then went for the bar. I needed a drink.

  We both ordered and were silent until they came. Then Chucky spoke before I could. “Look, man, I’m sorry about Ronnie. She’s not feeling great and asked to come with.” I opened my mouth, but he kept going. “And she didn’t want to hear it when I offered to cancel and meet you later.” His shoulders stiffened and he cracked his neck. Something else was up, but then he smiled. That fake as fuck one he used when he didn’t want folks scared of the big Black man. “But yo, what’s up with you? You looked hella tense when you walked in.”

  Sometimes I hated that about Chucky. He could be drunk as hell, attention focused elsewhere, and still be the sharpest fucker in the room. Even when I knew he was hiding something.

  “We had a company meeting today.” On my off day. Always on my off day.

  “And...?”

  “They’re merging with HealthNet and exploring ‘cost-reduction methods.’” Man, the euphemisms businesses came up with.