by Sidney Bell
“Does it pass go?” Zac asks.
“Yeah. Thanks. You did a great job.”
Zac preens a little, and Cal’s bowled over by overwhelming fondness and profound gratitude that this man is in his life. It’s hard to imagine putting it into words. Even after years of being overcome by how charming and giving Zac can be, Cal still finds it easier to buy Zac something silly or to take him to play mini-golf. Despite being a nearly forty-year-old man who wears a lot of leather, Zac has an unassailable love of mini-golf.
Half of their fight this morning was about how Cal needs to open up, though. Maybe he should try to explain that moments like this—the loyal, protective impulses that hide under Zac’s rough exterior—are a huge part of the reason that Cal loves him. Or...or maybe Cal could kiss him. His stomach goes liquid and hot at the thought, although his mind immediately rebels from it. It’s weird without Anya here to bridge the gap between what Cal and Zac used to be and what they are now. Whatever that is.
In the end, he stands there stupidly with his mouth closed.
“Good, good, good.” Zac fidgets in front of the sink, one long-fingered hand fiddling with the hot water tap. “Uh, can I ask what set all this off in the first place? The temptation to drink, I mean. You said it’s been a few weeks now that you’ve been feeling it.”
“Stress, I guess.” Cal goes to the fridge and pulls out a bowl of already-washed grapes, just to have something to do. He puts it on the counter and nudges it toward Zac.
Zac takes a few and pops them in his mouth. “Specifically which stress, though?”
“I don’t know. A lot of things. The album’s shit, you know.”
“It’s not,” Zac says, rote, taking more grapes. “Fuck it, though, I know you’re not going to agree with me. The world could give you a million awards and you’d say the voting public was full of idiots.”
Cal smiles. “Maybe.”
“But it’s been whatever it is for months now. There’s gotta be more than that. Did it get worse or something? Or is it, like, a combination of shit? Is it, you know, a fraction?” He takes a few more grapes and pushes the bowl over. “Eat some of these, huh? I feel weird being the only one eating.”
Cal takes a handful. “What do you want, a percentage? It’s 27% the album?”
Zac exhales hard, a frustrated noise coming with it. “I can only think of one big change lately that might’ve tipped you over, man, and I think it’s pretty obvious that I’d really like you to tell me that me and Anya didn’t break you. So if you could do that, that’d be great.”
“Oh.” Cal frowns. “I didn’t—”
“You don’t have to lie,” Zac interrupts, holding a hand out, all stop, wait. “That sounded like I wanted you to lie. If we broke you, you can say. Just...don’t. Be broken or anything.”
“I’m not broken.” Cal eats more grapes, a big, rude handful, so his mouth is busy and he has time to think of something to say. “It’s the nature of any recovery. There are setbacks when times get hard.”
“So we’re making it hard?” Then Zac blinks and adds, “That’s what she said.”
“Come on, that one’s too easy.”
“Don’t be judgmental. She did say it.”
“If you say so. Look, lusting after my best friend’s wife made me feel like an asshole. It’s not like it occurred to me that you wouldn’t mind. And then Anya said what she did and I... I don’t know. Would you say the past two weeks were fun for you? Or that last night wasn’t stressful?”
Zac laughs. “Sex isn’t stressful.”
“Maybe not the way you do it.”
“It’s true, I don’t have the Empire State Building hanging off my groin, so, yeah, I could see how that would be trickier.”
Cal can feel himself turning red, because juvenile as the joke had been, Zac is talking about his dick. And sure, Zac has talked about dicks as much as any other guy might over the course of a twenty-year friendship, but it’s different now. He knows what Cal’s looks like, what Cal does in bed. It’s not only embarrassment making him feel hot and flustered. He wonders if Zac’s been thinking about Cal’s dick and how big he is. If Zac might be more or less interested now that he knows.
“It’s not—it’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” Cal says. Which is an understatement. There are the obvious drawbacks—he’s never had a quickie in his life and the number of blow jobs he’s received can be counted on one hand—but it’s the other things that’ve left more of a mark over the years. It’s not so bad now that he’s more familiar with how women’s bodies work, but through his teens and early twenties, his size was a real problem in his relationships. He and Sharon, for instance, lost their virginities together, and since they were both idiot teenagers who didn’t know what the hell they were doing, he ended up hurting her without meaning to. Having his first girlfriend burst into tears beneath him kind of messed him up for a while. There were a few women who slept with him once only to apologetically break up with him afterward because their bodies simply weren’t compatible. He suspects that he knows more about the sensitivities of the average cervix than most men.
Cal maybe has some issues with his size.
Zac raises a doubtful eyebrow. “Porn wouldn’t lie to me, Cal.”
Cal decides Zac is joking. He really hopes Zac is joking. “Uh. Okay.”
Zac laughs again, this time more at him than near him, so Cal shrugs and turns away, taking the bowl of grapes back to the fridge. But then the laughter trails off, and Zac asks, “Seriously, though. Was it us? Did we do this to you?”
“No. It wasn’t—it’s fine.”
“Shit.”
“It’s fine,” Cal insists.
Zac takes a deep breath. “Do you want to stop—”
“No,” Cal snaps, and then pauses, taken aback by his own vehemence. Zac is too, his surprise and relief clear on his face. Cal imagines not touching Anya again, not having this...this possibility with Zac. The reality of her and the possibility of him. He doesn’t want it to end a second before it has to. More slowly, more purposefully, he adds, “Don’t even go there.”
“You seem sort of conflicted though.”
“I’m not good at change.”
“No shit. But there’s more to it than that, because you’ve always been bad at change, and you’re not breaking bottles on an average day.”
Cal can’t put it into words. The closest he can come is the feeling he’d get when he did something wrong as a child. Like something’s building inside him, a tension he can’t resolve, where the only way out is to drop the other shoe himself. He wants this, he does, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel like a roller coaster without brakes. And he’s not sure he can hit rock bottom in his life again and come out intact on the other side. “I’ll figure it out.”
Zac tips his head to one side. “Tell me you’re going to let us help.”
Cal sighs. “Is there any point in fighting it?”
“Nope.” Zac smiles at him, sunny and sly at the same time, and Cal’s heart thumps. “So we should get what you’ll need for in the morning, and then we’ll stop at the liquor store on the way home. Oh, and you should get your bass too. We can work from home tomorrow.”
The way Zac says home, as if Cal belongs in the big gray house too, makes his heart thump all over again.
* * *
Zac goes into the liquor store while Cal stays in the car. The paper bag gets stashed in the trunk, and as soon as they’re in the house, Zac tells Cal in no uncertain terms to go kiss Anya. He stands there waiting as Cal heads deeper into the house, and Cal knows he’s going to hide the tequila.
Out of sight, out of mind has never really been a truism for Cal when it comes to drinking. Knowing he’d have to ask Zac to get the tequila for him is a far more effective deterrent. Zac wouldn’t only say no, he’d punch him. Or sit on him. Or call him nam
es. It would be ugly and painful, whatever Zac did, and Cal finds himself as settled as he’s been all day, despite there being alcohol in the house.
Zac won’t let him fuck up. And even if Zac caved, Anya would be two steps behind, and she’d really handle it.
Cal finds her in a small bedroom upstairs that’s been converted into an office. She’s alone. PJ must be down for a nap.
Cal’s never been in here before. There’s a lot of equipment—a ladder propped up in the corner, a big stand against the wall holding what looks like giant rolls of wallpaper, all with different patterns. Backdrops, he supposes. The current one is eggshell white, pouring down from the frame and out across the floor like a waterfall. Lights on stands and big, gray umbrella-like screens loom over shelves overflowing with mysterious black gadgets. There’s a closed door with thick black padding nailed into place covering every crack that must lead to her darkroom.
She’s sitting at a large white table with glossy prints in front of her. She’s wearing skimpy little shorts made of baggy fabric and a too-big T-shirt, and she’s gorgeous, all tawny hair and long limbs. She looks up when he comes in, and there’s a wariness in her that he can’t help feeling shitty about, knowing he put it there. Anya should never be wary, and he walks over, cups her face, and kisses her.
She’s stiff for a second. But right as he gets scared that she’ll push him away, she melts against him. Her fingers slide through his hair and her mouth opens under his, soft and sweet. He loves how she feels against him, her hips and breasts round, her arms strong and possessive.
When he lets her go, she’s gratifyingly flushed. “I love kissing you,” she says, and he finds himself grinning, his first real smile of the day, maybe.
“I love kissing you too. Try to remember that for the next few minutes, huh? I’ve got something to tell you.”
“Is this the alcoholism confession?” One elegant eyebrow lifts, her expression steady.
He manages not to choke on air, but it’s a near thing. “Huh. Well. It was going to be. I didn’t know you were a mind-reader.”
“I’m not. But you’ve never had any wine or beer with dinner here no matter how many times I’ve offered, and you and Zac both freaked out about a broken bottle of tequila.” She sounds amused. “It’s not a case for Sherlock.”
“Fair point.” He plays with her fingers, which are, reassuringly, still in his hands. “You’re not mad?”
“That you had a problem eight years ago, dealt with it, and now occasionally need help?” There’s so much patience on her face that he can’t breathe. “Seems like a silly thing to be mad about. I wish you’d felt like you could tell me before now, but I understand why you didn’t. I can’t imagine you’ve ever volunteered that particular detail about yourself a single day before you had to.”
“I can see why that would make you mad—”
“A man who never uttered a free word in his life continues to not utter free words.” Her mouth takes on a wry shape. “It’s also silly to be mad at people for being who they are.”
He bends to kiss her palm, and then stays there, lips resting against her skin as the tension drains out of him. “I didn’t expect it to be easy to tell you.”
She tugs him up. “Don’t you dare crawl on your belly around me for past mistakes, Cal, whatever they might be. I’m not interested. The man you are now, today? He’s lovely. I find you so lovely. You don’t ever have to be afraid. All right?”
He kisses her again to cover up the way his throat goes tight at her words. He means it to be small, chaste, grateful. But like so many things with her, the kiss transforms on him, becomes something new. He didn’t know it’s possible to get so overwhelmed by another person. He isn’t prepared for any of this.
His feelings for Zac have always been sleeping dragons, resting right beneath the surface. Quiet enough to put aside for long stretches at a time, but powerful enough that the thought of them waking is a terrifying thing.
His feelings for Anya resemble the woman herself: unexpected, unpredictable and incredibly powerful. He feels like a teenager blundering headlong into first love, helpless to resist the force of his own emotions. It doesn’t matter if the loss of control scares him; like Anya, these feelings refuse to be put aside. He’s falling for her. It’s a fact as inflexible as the sun being hot or the sky being blue.
His hands shake. He touches her everywhere, ravenous, desperate, stroking her breasts through her shirt, fingers fascinated by the bumps of her spine, his lips eager on her throat. He’s gripping too hard but he can’t stop himself, afraid she might slip away, like he might wake up to realize that this has all been a dream, this kindness, this heat. He can’t believe she’s real, that someone this brave and smart and unflinching would ever let him touch her, let alone look at him like she’s feeling something similar. But it’s there in her gaze, in the way her breath hitches at his touch, at the way she shudders under his mouth.
Dimly, he remembers that Zac is downstairs, hiding his tequila, taking care of him while Cal’s up here kissing his wife, and maybe they should call for him. Maybe Zac would like to see. Maybe it’s not fair to do this without him. But he can’t think well enough to be sure, and Anya doesn’t seem to think it’s wrong. She’s sliding out of her chair, pulling him down to the floor with her, and then he’s on top of her, between her thighs, kissing her hard, and it’s nothing but heat and fury and speed then. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.
He goes down on her there on the shaggy white rug, his fingers inside her, his other hand in his jeans the second she finishes crying out her orgasm, fumbling his cock free and jerking off until he’s coming on her belly. She smiles up at him, sweet and dozy and pink-cheeked, and he bends and rests his mouth against her thigh, closing his eyes and hoping she’ll hear what he can’t say.
He doesn’t know how long he’ll get to keep this, but whenever it ends, they’re going to have to pry it out of his clutching hands.
* * *
When they go downstairs later, Zac’s lounging in front of the television, long legs propped up on the coffee table. His jeans are open and he’s touching himself through the fabric of his boxer-briefs. He’s like a louche, lazy panther, relaxed and watchful at the same time.
Anya goes to perch on the arm of the couch beside him. “You could hear us, huh?”
“I could hear you.” Zac’s eyes slide past his wife to where Cal’s fidgeting in the doorway. That look is a brand on his skin. “Cal’s quieter.”
Cal wishes he had some rules for this thing they’re doing. “It’s all right, isn’t it? That we...”
Zac’s brow creases for a second. “Yeah, man. It’s fine.”
Cal nods. He likes watching Anya brush her fingers through Zac’s hair. She did that for him a little bit ago. He hopes it makes Zac feel the way it made Cal feel: sleepy, cared for, and like he wanted to shiver, all at the same time.
Anya leans down to kiss Zac, and he grabs at her. Cal’s never seen them do more than a quick hug or a pat on the bottom or a kiss. He didn’t know Zac was the type who, well, groped. Cal feels weird about it, a lifetime of conditioning whispering that it’s too rough, too disrespectful. Except Anya would speak up if it bothered her, and she seems to be enjoying it. She must like that Zac’s so vulgar about the whole thing, so enthusiastic that he doesn’t care to take his time. If this is her usual preference, he wonders if she finds his own touch lacking. He hopes not.
She slides off the arm of the couch to straddle Zac and his hands go to her breasts, squeezing, hard enough that Cal wouldn’t have dared, too worried about hurting her. Then he’s mouthing her nipples through her shirt and bra.
“Did he get you nice and wet, baby?” Zac murmurs, and Cal’s mouth goes dry.
Anya makes a humming sound of affirmation, her head falling back.
“Fuck,” Zac whispers, and sits up straighter. He slides a hand do
wn between them, fingers reaching in through the leg of her shorts. She gasps and grabs his shoulders, and Cal finds himself sinking into the armchair. He feels like he’s doing something wrong by being here, by watching, but he’s not sure if that’s actually true. They know he is. He has permission.
Permission or not, it feels illicit. Intrusive. He shouldn’t be doing this. And yet he can’t stop watching: Zac’s hands, lean and veiny with their blunt-tipped nails, clutching and taking, Anya’s hips rocking into his touch. Yeah, she probably is still wet and slick from Cal’s mouth.
Is Zac trying to touch her where Cal had touched her? Cal’s cock—despite being so recently sated—twitches in his jeans. How can that be so hot? He leans forward, eyes drawn to where Zac’s fingers disappear into Anya’s shorts. He’s got at least one finger inside her, and she’s working against the heel of his hand. He’s biting her nipples now, leaving wet marks on her shirt.
“Harder,” she groans, and Cal has to suck in a breath.
Zac’s digging his jeans open with his free hand, pulling his dick out, settling it against his belly. Cal hasn’t seen him hard before. Cal stares, unable to help himself. Zac starts yanking at the crotch of Anya’s shorts and panties—red lacy ones, Cal remembers, and shifts, trying to make room in his own jeans for his erection.
When Zac’s gotten the fabric tugged to one side, baring her, he holds his dick up so that Anya can shift and sink down onto it. They both sigh as she does so. Anya leans forward, cups Zac’s face in her hands, and kisses him, slow and sweet. Zac kisses her back, a hum of pleasure resonating from the back of his throat. Cal’s never heard him sound like that, so tender, so soft. Cal drops his gaze to his lap, only barely able to see them moving in his peripheral vision. It’s too much to watch them like this, like a thief or a spy, stealing something precious. He doesn’t understand why Zac likes this so much. His stomach hurts. They’re beautiful together, so beautiful that it’s blinding, like glancing at the sun. Overwhelming.
