by Amy Lane
“I switch-hit too,” Channing said, dropping his voice and raising his eyebrows a couple of times.
Tino groaned. “Oh my God—I walked right into that one!”
“You did,” Channing agreed, and then some of the bubble went out of the room—and most of the air with it. “I date—and sleep with—people I like and find attractive. So, you know, if Jen comes over because we’ve got a work function, don’t… assume.”
“Assume?” Tino said carefully.
“Yeah. Assume. Draw false conclusions because of limited information,” Channing clarified. “Like, I could assume that your friend made that crack about virginity because he was kidding. Or I could assume you’re still a virgin because you were so driven through school you didn’t have time for other relationships. Or I could assume it’s because you’re saving yourself for marriage or—”
“Or maybe I just suck at pickup lines and I’m too serious about things,” Tino burst out, and then wished he could sink down on the bed and bury himself under the sheets. “God, why do I tell you these things?”
“I don’t know,” Channing said, that hooded look coming back into his eyes. “I have no idea why you just blurt out bibles full of truth in front of me.” He headed for the door. “But I’m awfully glad you do-oo….” He sang that last part and then disappeared.
Tino did groan and throw himself face-first on the bed once he was gone. Jesus—can I be any more of a dork around this guy?
Apparently not.
A half an hour later, when Tino had set up his laptop, made sure it was hooked up to the net, installed his books on the shelves, put his Star Trek collectibles all over his desk, put his clothes in the drawers, and thrown his comforter on the bed, he figured he was ready to go see Channing’s living space.
Because that could be maybe less personal than Tino’s bedroom, right?
Not so much.
Tino sort of “felt” his way past the dining room (which still looked like an extension of the office, only it was more organized this time round) and managed to make it into the study, as Channing called it.
And he was very impressed.
The appointments had obviously been chosen by Channing’s sister—the furniture was red maple and sort of “curly,” as Tino thought of it, with curved supports on the chairs and curved arms on the sides. There was a humongulous framed print of a baby who was probably Sammy—smiling, surprise surprise!—and that was the only decoration on the walls. The window on the side looked onto the swimming pool, and Tino checked out the view.
“You can see pretty much the whole yard from the desk,” he said, impressed.
Channing looked up from his computer and shrugged. “Yeah, but I don’t let Sammy play in the pool unless I’m out there. He keeps trying to tell me his mom let him stay there whether or not he was supervised, but I knew my sister—”
“Not happening?” Tino asked, figuring probably not. It wouldn’t have happened with his mom or dad, that was for damned sure.
“Not even a little,” Channing said darkly. He glanced at the computer again and hit a button and then went to retrieve the document that spit out of the printer. “Here’s the stuff that Sheryl set up for him to do during the summer—”
“Holy God!”
“Right? I mean, I actually canceled the stuff in the early early morning, because I don’t know about the kid, but it would sure be nice to have time to take a poop as a grown-up, right?”
Tino had to laugh at Channing’s scandalized expression. “I thought that was what the ten o’clock meeting was for.”
Channing bobbed his head decisively. “See? Men understand. Anyway—he’s got day camp five days a week until twelve, swimming lessons Monday and Wednesday after lunch, dance lessons Tuesday and Thursday at four, piano lessons Friday afternoons for two hours, and….” Channing grunted and snatched the schedule from Tino’s hand. “You know what? No Saturday thing. None. He’s got cartoons and the pool on Saturday, and if his ADHD can’t handle it, we’ll take him to Starbucks in the afternoon and then to fly kites at the lake. What do you think?”
“He has ADHD?” Tino asked, surprised. Jacob had ADHD, and Sammy’s behavior—even at its worst—hadn’t reminded Tino of Jacob at all.
“No,” Channing grunted. “Sheryl said he did, but the doctor didn’t diagnose him. Sammy’s just smart and active. I think….” He sighed and scrubbed his hand over his mouth and jaw. “I just think she was a little overwhelmed. I mean, a busy ER floor, Sheryl could manage it. But a small boy? You think she would have been used to it after she dealt with me, but—”
“It’s different with your own kid,” Tino said, hoping he wasn’t talking out of his ass. “If I’m dealing with Nica or Elaina, I’ve got no stake in how they turn out. I’m just their jerky older brother. But if I’m my parents, everything that kid does shows the world what an asshole I am.”
Channing should have laughed—Tino was going for the laugh—but he shrugged instead. “Yeah, well, Sheryl already felt pretty bad about her marriage—and about Corbin being a jerk. I guess she was maybe trying to show the world that Sammy could be perfect.”
They both looked at each other and grimaced.
“Yeah,” Tino agreed to the thing they’d just said with their eyes. “Maybe Sammy needs two days a week at his own swimming pool. Can I ask Artie over? We can bring his little brother and sister, they’re Sammy’s age. They can play.”
“If Sammy agrees, go for it,” Channing told him. “Oh!” He stood up and gestured for Tino over his shoulder. “Now that you have the schedule—and the maps, I printed out the maps?”
“Yeah—I have the feeling I’m going to know Granite Bay really well by September.”
“You know it. Anyway, follow me to the garage. Just remember, it’s behind and to the right of the kitchen, so if this house was ever full and you were trying to cater an event, you could back a truck into the garage and unload it straight to the freezer outside and the fridge in here.”
As they cleared the kitchen and made their way through the laundry room, Channing paused at a little shoe tree and toed on a pair of flip-flops, then snagged keys from the key board by the door.
“Come on—want to see your ride?”
Tino froze as he opened the garage. Of course, using the car had been stipulated in the contract, but Tino hadn’t really thought about what it would mean. Driving Sammy all over creation, yes—but Tino had needed to sign insurance papers too, and there’d been a caveat about him getting the car on his days off.
This car was his ticket to freedom for the next four months, and it didn’t matter how old and decrepit it was—if Channing had anything to do with it, it was going to run!
It wasn’t old and decrepit.
“A Tesla?” Tino was delighted when he saw the distinctive emblem on the keychain and the car plugged into the special adaptor in the garage. “What’s the range?”
Channing grimaced. “I wouldn’t push it beyond 250 miles, but seriously, if you’re going to take Sammy that far, I’d say just ask and I’ll give you the keys to the Firebird or the Odyssey.”
Tino checked out the other cars in the garage appreciatively. Channing had his roadster—silver with black pin-striping, of course—but the Odyssey was green, the Tesla was white, and the Pontiac was honeybee yellow.
“Nice variety,” he said, smiling a little. “Did you get bored?”
Channing shrugged. “I didn’t know what to expect when I took Sammy on, so I bought the Odyssey, but the Pontiac and the Tesla were Sheryl’s.” He made one of those feral little sounds in the back of his throat that indicated he was trying not to pass any judgments on his beloved sister. “I think she did a lot of spending to get back at Corbin for being such a prick.”
Tino considered. “Revenge spending—there’s worse ways to get back.”
Channing sent one of those shy, hooded glances his way, and Tino realized with dismay they were getting more, not less, potent with exposure.
And then Channing spoke and Tino’s stomach hurt in a whole new way. “You’re really kind, Tino, do you know that?”
Tino thought of how hard he’d fought himself to not come in and help that night. “I’m a silly, thoughtless, self-involved college student,” he said grimly. “Don’t expect anything more—I could totally let you down.”
Channing tilted his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. In the brief pause afterward, he regarded Tino so intently, Tino’s cheeks started to burn in closeness of the garage.
“No?” Tino rasped.
“No,” Channing confirmed. “I think you’re young, and you’re afraid of choosing wrong. You want to be successful, but you know that’s not all there is to life. I think you’re going to be just fine.”
Oh God, it was getting hard to swallow. “Is it getting hot in here?” Tino asked, and the question was mostly rhetorical because Tino was hot.
“Yeah,” Channing said soberly. “It really is—it’s going to be a scorcher today. We should go back inside.”
Tino tried to get back some equilibrium. “Unless you needed a gallon of milk and wanted me to drive the Pontiac into town to get it,” he said wickedly.
Then Channing blew his mind. “Yeah,” he said, grinning back. “Why not?”
Tino was still gaping at him when Channing pushed directly into his space, reaching for the still-open door at his back.
“Here—just let me get the… keys….” Channing’s voice sank, and he turned and met Tino’s eyes squarely in the dark. “Tino?” he whispered.
Tino couldn’t move. That body was rubbing up right against his. And Channing was tight and muscular and radiating even more heat in the sauna darkness of the garage.
“What?” he whispered back.
“Unless you want to spend the day in bed, you need to move back.”
Tino frowned. “But I thought we were going to the—”
Channing reached up and stroked Tino’s lower lip gently, bumping Tino’s hips with his lower body at the same time.
“Don’t be stupid, Martin,” he said soberly.
Tino squeaked. Actually squeaked. And took a hurried step back. “Uh… sorry… uh, didn’t mean to crowd you, ’cause, you know, uh—”
Channing groaned and thunked his head against the doorframe. Then he reached up and hit the garage door button and the door began to hum upward, letting shaded sunlight into what had once been a very private place.
“I’m going to give you the keys,” he said, sounding like he was working really hard at choosing his words. “Then I’m going to go upstairs to change while you back the car out. Can we do this?”
Tino nodded and then realized Channing couldn’t see him. “Uh, yeah. Trip to the store. Milk in a convertible. It’ll be awesome. Go. Go quickly. Run like the wind!”
Channing didn’t run, but he did push himself from the doorway, turning just enough to smack the keys into Tino’s hand.
“Five minutes,” he muttered. “Five minutes and a cold shower and a head full of sports scores. Jesus, kid, you’re gonna kill me.” Then he trudged away, slamming the door behind him.
Tino watched him go, lingering just long enough to let the image seep into his brain.
Him and Channing naked, teasing and touching and making love, in a bright and sunlit room.
He turned away from the door and toward that sun-yellow Pontiac, pretending that the groan was for the pretty, pretty car and not because his balls ached like they’d been smacked with a baseball bat.
Or desire.
Sunshine and Lollipops and Spoiled Brats
THE Pontiac drove divinely, and Tino enjoyed the heck out of buzzing along Auburn/Folsom road with Channing in the passenger seat, head tilted back to the sun like he’d been waiting for that moment all his life.
Unfortunately getting milk—and then frozen yogurt—was pretty much the extent of their day. They talked about inconsequential things, bantered, and generally enjoyed each other’s company, but they had to be back before Sammy got back from his playdate, and that didn’t leave them much time.
By the end of the first week, Tino would think about that brief time—wind in their hair, random jokes just like he would make with Jacob, and silly comments about everything and nothing—and wish there’d been more of it.
After a week in Sammy’s company, barely having any time to even text his parents or his friends, that time with Channing started to feel like the last memory of sweet freedom he’d ever have.
Channing got up early every morning—before Tino had to be up to wrestle Sammy, that was for darned sure—and left shortly after sunrise. He arrived home around ten o’clock at night, tucked Sammy in, and retired to his bedroom, heavy eyed and exhausted. Tino hadn’t felt secure enough in whatever rapport they’d established to ask him what he was doing with his business—whether he was moving it up to Sacramento or selling a share or even just establishing another office.
Whatever he was doing, he was so damned tired when he got home, Tino actually watched him walk into a wall before after bidding Tino and Sammy a distracted good night.
So Tino was on his own, and he couldn’t even be pissed at Channing, because every interaction he’d seen between the two of them told him Channing was probably moving heaven and earth for the little boy.
Of course, you could probably move the entire solar system before you managed to move that little boy!
“I don’t want to play piano!” Sammy screamed through the door, his voice cracking. “I don’t want to play—why do you make me do all this stuff I hate doing!”
“Because you don’t really hate doing it,” Tino shouted back. “You love all of it, I’ve seen you, kid. You’re exhausting. You just hate being hauled to it, and I don’t blame you. But he’s coming to this house to teach you how to play, and he’s going to be here in fifteen minutes!”
“Who cares!” he sobbed. “I don’t care! I was supposed to learn how to play for Mommy!”
Oh dear Lord. Tino had been stumbling across little landmines like this all week. He’d offered to put bananas into Sammy’s cereal on the first morning, only to discover that was how Sammy’s mother made cereal and they could never have cereal ever again because Tino had, completely by accident, tried to make it the way Sheryl Lowell-Tracy made it.
He’d begged Nica to send him Elaina’s old music files—the Disney songs and the old show tunes they’d raised Elaina on. The first time The Lion King hit the sound system in the Tesla, Sammy had kicked the back of Tino’s seat so hard Tino bit his tongue, because his mother played that song for him.
Just getting dressed was like running naked through a bramble wall. Sammy had apparently grown like a weed in the past two months, and Tino had found a stack of brand-new shorts and shirts on top of his dresser.
That Sammy refused to wear because Uncle Channing had bought them, and he wasn’t going to give up on the tiny shirt and tiny shorts that were strangling his little arms and legs.
And now, apparently, playing the piano was something that he’d done with Mom too, and Tino was at the end of his rope.
“Look, little man,” he called through the door, “I’m sorry about your mom—I am. And I get that you’re tired and this has been a long-assed week. But I’m pretty sure any mom who would schedule your life this hard wouldn’t be excited about her kid shrieking through the door like a winged monkey, you hear me?”
“You shut up about my mom!”
The shouted words were followed by a storm of weeping, and Tino sighed, banging his head softly against the doorframe. He’d bullied Mirella into giving him the key to the door the first time Sammy had done this, and Sammy was very aware that Tino could just barge into his room at any time and grab his obstreperous little self by the collar and force him to Tino’s will.
This had, in fact, been how Tino had gotten him out of his room for dance lessons, both times. Not the laying on o
f hands, because Tino didn’t spank other people’s children, but the solid, angry presence just sort of… forcing him by sheer strength of will.
Except Tino was out of will. It was Friday afternoon, the kid was clearly exhausted, and Tino was out of heart to force him to do one more thing. Channing had given him permission to not enforce the schedule, and maybe Tino hadn’t figured out how to administer repercussions for behaving like a little spoiled heathen, but forcing the kid onto the piano bench was not going to happen that night.
“Fine,” Tino sighed. “Fine. You stay in here and do what you gotta. I’m going to—”
“You’re gonna what?” Sammy sobbed.
“I’m going to take your damned lesson for you, that’s what I’m going to do!” Tino shouted back, done with feeling bad for him. “I wanted piano lessons my whole life, but my parents were working their asses off, you get that? I’ll take this piano lesson if you don’t want it—I’ll have fun doing it!”
And with that Tino stomped off, leaving the kid to do whatever floated his boat. Tino could hardly care anymore.
He got downstairs just in time to open the knock at the door, and that’s when Mr. Charles the piano teacher walked in.
Anson Charles was probably the most adorable man Tino had ever met in his life. Five foot five, blond, blue-eyed, in his late fifties and as gay and campy as the sugarplum fairy, Anson took three steps into the house and sighed.
“Sammy didn’t make it today either?” he asked, his piping voice falling sadly.
“Uh, no,” Tino said, feeling a rush of relief. “Did his uncle Channing have this problem last week?”
“It was the housekeeper, but yes. I… I mean, Sammy’s very good, you know. His mother was very musical, and Sammy was so happy to play while she sang for him. It’s just so sad.”
Tino let out a long breath and massaged the back of his neck. “Yeah, it really is. It’s like… he’s given up all the good things because his mom used to do them, and he won’t give up any of the bad things because of the same reasons.”
Anson grimaced. “Where is he now?” he asked, absentmindedly checking his strawberry blond coif. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt in bold blue-and-white horizontal stripes with a little blue beret on his head. He looked like Fred Astaire dressed as a mime, and Tino sort of adored the little singsong of his voice.
