Yearn

by A. D. Ellis

  “We have to go do that pick-up,” Khi reminded me through gritted teeth. “Your choice, but I’d rather not have a full stomach when we gather up a body that may have been decomposing for days.”

  Fuck. I’d forgotten about the pick-up. Depending on contracts through the county and private companies, we sometimes found ourselves being called in to remove a body when the coroner wasn’t available—or didn’t want to deal with the removal. This wasn’t something that happened on every crew I’d been on in the past, but it wasn’t unusual.

  Mostly, the jobs were fairly quick and easy, but sometimes we ran into issues with smell depending on how long the body had been there. I’d heard some rough stories from crew members who went on stomach-churning removal runs.

  As much as I hated to admit it, Khi was right. Eating before a removal wasn’t smart.

  “Fine. We’ll grab food later.” I made a left turn and headed toward the location of our assignment. Glancing at Khi, I attempted easy conversation once again. “Good job with that last call. I was a little worried when we first got there. You think he’ll live?”

  Khi’s jaw bulged. “Hard to say. Heart is tricky.” I’d noticed Khi—if he acknowledged me at all—was most likely to talk about patients and the job, but even then, I got short, clipped answers.

  “True. Glad his wife called when she did. Caught it early.”

  Khi gave hard nod.

  “Do you…”

  “Stop. We’re not doing this. It works just fine if we don’t talk,” Khi ground out. “There’s the house. Let’s get this body and be done with it.”

  Throughout the body removal—which turned out to be a simple one—and three more calls during that shift, I stewed over Khi’s refusal to even try to work through our situation.

  When we’d ended up relegated to the same room at Aunt Bev’s, I’d accepted it and made it work because we hardly ever saw each other. But now? It was too much. I’d spent over half of my life cowering from my parents and society out of fear of being myself. I wasn’t going back there. If I could overcome the challenges—okay, continuously work at overcoming the challenges—of being a gay Black man, I could definitely face the obstacle that was Khi.

  I knew we’d never really liked each other and that seemed to have gotten worse over the years. I knew Khi was dealing with recent breakup shit and I had nearly zero experience with relationships. I knew it was probable we’d never be friends.

  However…

  The silent treatment was pissing me off. For one, it made for imperfect working conditions. Partners needed to communicate. The best pairs built a bond and Khi’s refusal to speak to me was hindering that bond.

  I also knew I needed to apologize for the past. Khi may have acted like he didn’t want to discuss it, but I needed to make it right. Maybe the way I’d treated him wasn’t something that ruined or changed his life—I wasn’t conceited enough to think I could have that effect on him—but it was still shitty and I wanted to clear the air. Was it selfish that I’d expect Khi to bend to my will just so I could get something off my chest? Yeah, probably. But guilt over the way I’d been back then was eating at me and I needed to fix things with Khi.

  By the time the long-ass shift ended, I’d come to a decision.

  I wasn’t going to stop trying to speak to Khi. I’d make him coffee, I’d comment on patients, I’d ask questions. We were housemates and work partners; I’d treat Khi just like anyone else.

  The plan had a very high probability of backfiring or at least getting me a black eye, but I was done dealing with the awkward tension. I’d make the man talk to me one way or another.

  Feeling satisfied with my plan, I looked forward to a couple days off with updated life goals. One, continue creating and pushing my designs to fashion companies big and small. Two, move Khi’s and my relationship from hate to at least tolerate.

  I had a feeling we’d both changed a lot since high school. I knew I’d done a complete one-eighty. I figured some of Khi’s attitude issues were more from whatever shit he was dealing with from the breakup than me specifically—maybe there was hope. We could talk, put the past behind us, and at least end the thick-ass tension that surrounded us every damn minute of the day.

  The next day, Khi made enough noise getting out of bed to make me think two raging rhinos were on the loose in my room. On purpose or he was just loud as fuck? Or was I just unusually prickly because he continually got under my skin? I didn’t know, but I mentally cursed him because I knew there was no way I was getting back to sleep.

  Cracking an eye, not wanting him to have the satisfaction of knowing he’d woken me, I caught sight of Khi bent at the waist as he pulled on a pair of socks and running shorts. His firm ass was encased in tight boxer briefs and I gritted my teeth to keep from licking my lips—I was supposedly asleep, drooling over my roommate’s ass wasn’t part of slumber.

  Khi straightened and slipped the shorts up to his trim waist, but not before I saw the profile of a very impressive bulge.

  Fuck.

  I’d maybe decided I was going to treat Khi like my other friends and colleagues and eventually make him talk to me, but lusting over the guy who hated me was not part of the plan. Yeah, he was my very first crush, but I’d screwed that up royally—not that there’d ever been a chance Khi would go for a guy like me—but popping a boner over him now wasn’t a good idea. Not good at all.

  In the dim room, peeking through just a tiny slit in one eye, I mourned the loss of Khi’s naked back—all that smooth, coppery brown skin—as he pulled a hoodie over his head. Keeping the hood up to cover his extra short fade, Khi slipped in his earbuds and sat to pull on his running shoes. Grabbing his phone—not seeming to even try to be quiet—he left the room, the door giving an audible click to announce his exit.

  I huffed and rolled to my back. What a show to wake up to—despite our animosity or whatever we wanted to call it, there was no denying that Khi was a fine-ass specimen. My thick morning erection strained against my boxer briefs in a display of agreement over just how fine that man was.

  Fuck.

  Reason one-million-and-one why it was so much better when Khi and I were on opposite schedules was now staring me in the face. When I didn’t see Khi as much, it was easier to forget how much I’d liked him way back when. Easier to ignore that he was sex personified, a walking wet dream.

  Yeah, his pissy attitude and silent treatment were a decent boner-killer, but at that moment, all I could see when I closed my eyes was his glorious body as he’d dressed. Tight ass, strong thighs atop long legs, broad back…and that bulge. That very promising protrusion had my imagination going wild as my hand reached under the waistband of my underwear to grip my cock.

  Whether girth or length was responsible for the tantalizing picture Khi’s dick had made as it filled out his briefs didn’t matter. With a hand on my throbbing cock, I was immediately submerged in a daydream involving my mouth and Khi’s dick. I stroked myself as I imagined dropping to my knees and sucking him off. Allowing my mind to wander further, I pictured Khi behind me as he pressed into my ass, filling me with that delicious cock. I was totally vers, so giving or taking wasn’t an issue, but fantasizing about Khi fucking me was enough to have my cock shooting hot, thick spurts over my fist.

  As my release cooled on my stomach, I threw an arm over my eyes.

  Fuck.

  Jacking off to a hot guy wasn’t a new thing for me. And I’d had sex—good and bad—with a few men, despite never being able to make a relationship work. Although, in retrospect, hookup apps are probably the worst place for a newly out gay man to go looking if you’re really wanting to attempt a relationship.

  But jacking off to Khi—the housemate and work partner who’d hated me for a decade? Bad idea. Very bad idea.

  Grabbing a dirty t-shirt from the floor, I wiped myself clean and made my way to the bathroom to shower. My little morning voyeur jerk-off session would have to be a one-time thing.

  My goal was to
get Khi to at least tolerate me so we could work well together and co-exist in my aunt’s house for as long as necessary without the thick weight of awkward tension.

  My goal was not to make things even more tense and awkward by adding a renewed crush and guilty masturbation to the mixture.

  Which was why, after tucking my braids away from the shower spray and doing a quick wake-up wash and rinse, I most definitely did not treat my cock to a second round of stroking myself to completion imagining Khi’s noises as I plowed into him.

  Because that would have been dangerous—a very slippery slope indeed.

  After I dried and pulled on underwear, I went back to my room and flopped bonelessly on my bed. Covering my eyes with my hands, I took a few deep breaths. I needed to focus on my goals, not get hot and bothered imagining Khi now that I’d seen a few shadowy bits and pieces of him.

  Focus.

  A return crush was not part of the plan.

  Deep breath.

  Focus.

  This was a one-off…okay, two-off…but nothing that couldn’t be pushed aside and forgotten.

  Unbidden, an image of Khi floated before my eyes.

  Damn it.

  No.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Maybe the resentment, bitterness, and awkward tension was a safer way to go?

  No, I needed—hell, Khi and I both needed—to work this out. For a lot of reasons.

  I could be mature enough to stick to the plan without boning up every time I thought about him.

  I could. Definitely.

  Fuck.

  I was so screwed.

  Six

  Khi

  “For the love of God,” I growled, “stop making me coffee and shut up.” I stalked past a smiling Dre and escaped out the kitchen door. Making my way to my car, I gritted my teeth.

  A few days earlier, Dre had suddenly gotten even more annoying than usual. The guy used to piss me off just by being in the same vicinity because he was a spoiled, rich, condescending, closet-case. Now, though, I could admit that Dre had changed a lot, but he was still irritating the shit out of me.

  Ever since we’d started working together, it was impossible to avoid him. We were together at work, together at home, together when we slept. So, I did what any self-respecting guy would do and clammed up, figuring Dre would eventually get the hint that we’d work best together if we spoke as little as possible.

  For a smart guy, Dre sure didn’t pick up on what I was laying down.

  I swear, the more I ignored him, the more he talked.

  I’d told him to stop making me coffee.

  He kept making me coffee.

  I’d told him to stop telling me things.

  He kept telling me the most random shit.

  I’d told him to stop asking me questions.

  He kept peppering me with the most ridiculous questions.

  I’d told him to stop buying me food when he stopped to grab something.

  He kept throwing to-go bags my way every time he picked up a burger and fries.

  He. Just. Wouldn’t. Stop.

  And I was losing my God damned mind.

  Part of me wanted to just give in and clear the air with Dre. Maybe it would be easier. But the anger and annoyance and distance were giving me something to hold onto. The thought of letting go and opening myself up to any kind of emotions or connections or healing was scary as fuck and continually brought me to thoughts of Blaine.

  Fucking Blaine.

  We’d met when I was playing basketball in college. He was a medical student and I was still taking as many general education and elective courses as possible because I had zero idea what I wanted to do outside of playing ball.

  Blaine and I started dating a few months before I blew out my knee at the last game of my sophomore year. Surprisingly enough, he stayed by my side and we somehow survived the surgery, recovery, and me losing basketball all while he participated in his residency.

  I’d never thought I’d make it to the pros, but I’d wanted to play for as long as possible. Basketball was the great part, the required college enrollment to keep playing basketball was where I’d suffered. So, losing the ability to play brought me down, but I pulled myself out of the doldrums by celebrating that I no longer had to torture myself with college courses and the inability to choose a major.

  With a serious boyfriend newly employed in the medical field and my own adrenaline-junky personality still firmly intact, choosing to become a paramedic became a logical option.

  Lord knew I’d seen enough of the good side of what EMS workers did over the years when they’d have to show up at our junky little house because my dad was unresponsive or injured himself in some sort of drunken mishap.

  So, Blaine and I settled into our life together with him finishing his residency and me beginning my paramedic training. We had a decent little apartment close to the hospital and I’d thought we were happy.

  In hindsight, Blaine was controlling, egocentric, and emotionally detached on the best of days. During the bad times, he bordered on verbally and emotionally abusive.

  However—and I now cringed at the thought of how shallow and willing to settle I was—the sex was good and he was bringing in enough money to keep me in food and shelter while I completed my paramedic courses. I figured what we lacked in romance and communication we could make up for in having well-paying jobs we enjoyed, a nice place, and looking good to outsiders.

  Hell, what did I know? I had absolutely zero sense of what a good relationship was supposed to entail. My mom ran off when I was little and I was raised by a mean, detached drunk. I knew I wanted better for Gabby, but I went and found myself stuck in a loveless situation before I realized what was happening and settled rather than fighting for better.

  I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when Blaine, my fiancé—who I’d stupidly agreed to marry once his residency was complete—blew my life to smithereens after we’d been together for seven years.

  Sure, my life wasn’t the greatest, but I’d lived without love or comfortable contentment up until that point and figured I could continue. However, I was blindsided—I naively wasn’t expecting Blaine to self-destruct and take me with him.

  Blaine had always been a social drinker and, over the years I knew him, the drinking got progressively worse. He blew up if I approached him about how much he was drinking and how heavily he relied on it to get through his days. Growing up with an alcoholic, I felt trapped and dismayed to find myself marrying one, but I wasn’t sure how to get out. Looking back, I’d known I was depressed and not dealing well with my situation. One of my best moves was to find a local doctor who was willing to prescribe me an antidepressant—although, I likely should have gone through a mental health professional, but that was a whole different can of worms.

  Every time Blaine got blackout drunk, I promised myself I’d leave the moment I’d saved up enough money. I wasn’t making a lot as a paramedic, but Blaine’s money covered most of our finances and he considered my job so far below him that my money wasn’t something he wanted anything to do with.

  As the fog of depression began to clear, I made the decision to leave because Blaine’s drinking had gotten to be too much. I quickly started pinching and saving every single penny. I had no clue where I’d go, but something had awakened inside of me and I knew I had to get away from him. It was like I dealt with the issues, handled things fine, convinced myself all was good or at least tolerable, and then BAM I hit a wall and realized I just couldn’t do it any longer.

  Sadly, though, Blaine forced my departure much more quickly than I was prepared for. His drinking got him fired. The lack of a job started a gambling habit to pay rent and bills—of course, this was information I had no clue about. Luckily, my money was going into my personal account so he couldn’t touch it. He couldn’t ask me for money without setting off alarms as to why he needed my money, so he kept gambling. He’d get enough to cover rent and bills but then he’d lose money in anothe
r bet, so he’d borrow to cover himself and he got in deeper and deeper and deeper.

  I was finally leaving because the drinking had gotten so bad that I’d woken up and realized I had to get away. The gambling wasn’t something I found out about until the very end.

  The night I packed up everything and left a naked, sobbing, begging Blaine kneeling on the floor, screaming apologies interspersed with derisive curses aimed at me for being the reason he’d had to do what he did was burned into my memories.

  I’d come home from a shift early that night. The station had been slow and the chief cut me and my partner loose two hours early. When I’d arrived home, I’d immediately noticed unfamiliar shoes and followed tell-tale noises down the hall to our bedroom.

  Where I’d found Blaine bent over the bed while he fucked a tall, dark stranger within an inch of his life. Shocked into immobility, I’d stood there trying to process what I was seeing. Blaine had never topped me, he wouldn’t even discuss it. I was vers and definitely interested in bottoming, but Blaine wouldn’t even hear of it. So, to see him topping this guy hurt in a variety of ways.

  Neither of them saw me and I found myself transfixed to see how the situation would play out. I knew I’d be leaving that night—enough money saved or not—but I couldn’t make myself move. Why was Blaine willing to top for this man but never for me?

  When they both climaxed and collapsed to the bed, I made to step into the room, but the man spoke and halted my movements.

  “Fuck, that dick of yours is definitely worth the money. If you ever want to talk about making this a more permanent situation, let me know.”

  I remembered standing there, blinking, trying to make sense of what he’d said.

  “If you want to pay for exclusive access to this dick, it’s going to cost you a pretty penny. I’d be losing a lot of money from some high-paying clients,” Blaine had said.