by Wade Lake
"Um-hum."
"I guess I'm feeling the same way now ... with this house."
"Um-hum."
"I mean, I'm glad we didn't let that stop us—"
"Why are we talking about the past?" Chase breaks in. "I barely remember yesterday." He presses his left hand over Mack's mouth. He does that sometimes when Mack won’t shut up … when there’s too much talking, not enough touching.
"Sorry," Mack mumbles into Chase's palm.
He means it.
He knows that Chase is stressed out enough without Mack adding to it. This move can’t be easy for him. Mack's job is to solve problems for Chase, not pile them on. If there's an overdue bill, Mack works extra hours. If Chase's back is bothering him, Mack runs him a bath and rubs out the knots. Chase doesn't ask for it, and Mack wouldn't dream of being the kind of partner who has to be asked.
"Only thing I remember about your proposal was how you had that puppy-at-the-shelter look," Chase says. "I couldn't say no to that. Knew all I'd have to do is rub your belly, you'd love me for life."
Mack's eyes dart to the neighboring houses. It's light enough now, he can see the porches and stoops. The colors of the shutters. In the big house across the street, a light pops on. Mack knows they really should stop. But there's no stopping Chase. Not once he's started … and he's definitely started.
"I love to pet your belly," Chase whispers and releases Mack's mouth.
"I love that, too," Mack mumbles.
"Course, I never stop at the belly." Chase's right hand slips below Mack's navel and keeps going—slips behind the three layers concealing Mack's crotch: brass belt buckle, denim jeans, cotton briefs. Fingers wide open, Chase’s hand pushes through Mack's bush like a flat comb.
Mack makes a startled noise. He presses his face against Chase's neck and inhales deeply. His beard smells like spearmint. His skin smells like the damp that hangs over New Orleans on a still July morning: a tangy mix of soap and swamp and yesterday’s sweat that never quite washes away. Beneath his lips, Mack can feel Chase’s heartbeat. Can feel is own heartbeat. Feels like the skins of two pounding drums pressed together.
Three things Mack loves about Chase: his confident walk, the smell of his skin, and his insatiable sex drive.
Chase loves cock the way New Orleans loves a parade.
Chase's sexuality is his pride. It's his sense of self, his sense of accomplishment, his sense of entitlement. If there's a hunger on his mind, his whole body says it. He can give straight men erections with just a handshake. When he walks down the center aisle on a bus, women cross their legs tightly. With nothing more than a forthright glance, he can cause Mack to involuntarily touch himself. Since their first date, they've never made it forty-eight hours without fucking.
Making love, Mack calls it, but it’s usually fucking: loud, sloppy, and in a hurry. They fuck like animals at the zoo. Like men in prison. Like sailors on a sinking ship: deaf to the chaos around them, blind to the lifejackets, grabbing for one another’s cocks before they drown.
Mack can't get his belt buckle undone quickly enough. He tries to release his seatbelt. He fumbles with it in the shadows. Chase's arm is in the way, and Mack can't reach around to the release button. Just ignoring the seatbelt now, he tugs at his leather belt—the buckle springs open. He unbuttons his fly as fast as his fingers can work and pulls it wide open, giving Chase's hand more room to feel around.
Chase growls into Mack’s ear. His hand slides down to the base of Mack's thickening cock. Mack moans softly. Chase closes his grip and places his large, warm thumb over the spongy head as if pressing a cap onto a medicine bottle … begins rubbing a small circle clockwise, round and round, tickling the pliable tip.
Mack's cock swells, doubling in circumference … easing Chase's hand open.
Chase finds Mack's mouth.
Their lips touch.
Hard this time.
Mack loves the taste of Chase's lips. Loves the rub of their slippery surface. Feels like the skins of grapes. Hot grapes thumping with a pulse. He imagines these lips as the gatekeepers to Chase's private thoughts. If he can ease in between them ... if he can crawl into Chase's head the way Chase so often crawls into his. Maybe he'll know what Chase really thinks about the house. Why he's not sharing Mack's excitement … and nervousness.
Chase's mouth pulls back. "You gonna cum for me?" he asks, tightening his grip and quickening the rotation of his thumb.
Mack nods in the velvety light then leans in, pressing his mouth back on Chase's.
This kiss lasts longer. Tastes like coffee and egg yolks and seems to go on for minutes but abruptly breaks when Chase pulls away to ask a second time, "You gonna cum for me?"
Mack nods again and goes back in for another kiss.
Chase immediately pulls away. "Answer me," he demands. "You gonna cum for me?"
"Yes," Mack whispers.
"Louder," Chase says.
"Yes," Mack says, full-voiced and breathless, then leans in for another kiss.
Down the street, a dog barks.
Mouths together, Mack imagines his consciousness easing into Chase's head. That happens sometimes. In the middle of a lengthy kiss. It's happening now. Mack is sure he can hear Chase's thoughts: deep-toned vibrations approach like waves … rolling whispers that he can't quite interpret … sounds like … feels like … something important Chase is not telling Mack. Something he's unwilling to say aloud. Something about the house they've bought. Chase doesn't like the house. He hates something about the house. The hate sounds like a moan.
Chase pulls away for a quick breath, and the sudden movement startles Mack, causing his knee to jerk and hit the turn signal—cherry-colored lights blink on and off, lighting up the curb. Mack tries to slap the blinker off. He misses and hits the windshield wiper switch—
The wiper wands make broad, squeaking arcs back and forth over the dry windshield.
Chase pushes his mouth back onto Mack's, slamming the back of Mack's head against the headrest and pinning Mack to the seat. "You gonna cum for me?" he asks again; this time, his words go straight into Mack's mouth, and Mack feels them briefly on the back of his tongue before they slide down his throat.
Mack's answer emerges as an accidental grunt—a violent exhale—and a hard pulse moving up the underbelly of his erection. Chase's thumb is still capped over the top of Mack's cock, but it can't contain the orgasm—it escapes like beer from a shaken bottle, suds spraying three directions at once.
Chase pulls away chuckling to himself.
Mack goes in for another kiss.
Chase turns his head.
Mack's lips hit Chase's jaw.
He knows I was searching for something, Mack thinks to himself. Through the dim light, he notes his husband's expression. There's a satisfied grin on Chase's face and a far-away look in his eyes.
Once he's caught his breath, Mack finally unfastens his seatbelt—the strap and plate are both slick with semen; it takes him a second to get a good grip.
Chase has already backed out of the window.
As the seatbelt retreats, Mack opens the driver's side door. He scoots offs the seat, catches Chase's waist and guides him into the concealment of the open door. "Your turn," he says. "Climb back in here with me."
Chase's hand grips Mack's wrist. "I'm good."
It takes Mack a moment to realize Chase is pushing him away.
"You don't want me to ..."
"Sun's up. We got a lot of work ahead of us."
Mack eases back onto the bench seat. "You're right, I guess, but ... yeah, okay." He flips off the blinkers and the wipers, buttons his jeans back up, buckles his belt.
Chase is leaning against the hood, staring at the house.
He doesn't look happy. Looks like he's working up the courage to start a job he doesn't want to begin.
Down the street, the dog is still barking.
Mack exits the truck. Wipes his hands on his pant legs. "I'm looking forward to it," he says, attempting to r
ouse Chase.
"Looking forward to what?" Chase mumbles.
"Fixing up this place together," Mack says. "It's gonna be fun."
Chase pushes himself off the hood and begins walking toward the house. "Gonna be fun," he mocks, his voice farther away than his body.
2
Mack and Chase cross the slender yard beneath the canopy of oak branches and Mardi Gras beads, and climb the four steps up to the front stoop of what is now their house. Chase slides the key into the lock, gives it a hard clockwise twist, then pulls out and steps aside, gesturing for Mack to complete the ritual. Mack grips the knob, eager to step over the threshold, and turns it halfway before pausing. His free hand reaches out for Chase's arm … catches his elbow, slides down his forearm to his hand. Their fingers interlace loosely. "It's ours now," Mack says.
Chase purses his lips and releases a short whistle. "Mostly yours."
The door opens directly into the long, narrow, empty living room. The floors are long-leaf heart pine, rough and old. The wide planks lead to an equally long, narrow, empty bedroom. To their immediate left is the narrow kitchen—same dimensions as the living room. Behind the kitchen is the formal dining room. The one and only bathroom is at the rear of the house, accessible only from the bedroom.
Chase lets go of Mack's hand and steps to the tall, skinny window facing the front street.
The floorboards creak—the sound seems to crawl around the entire room before settling in the corners.
Mack turns a small circle, taking in the moment. He feels lightheaded—overwhelmed with endorphins. He's stood in this same spot a half dozen times—during the tours and inspections—but every time before, it had felt like a maybe, a possibility, an optimistic goal. Now, ready or not, this is their reality. He digs into his pocket for his phone and begins filming. "Say something," he tells Chase.
Chase turns away from the camera and peers out the window. "We'll be able to see the parades from here."
✽✽✽
Their first project together is to unload the bed.
They’ll need to work quickly. An early morning thunderhead is rolling north from Algiers Point, and their foam mattress is tied to the top of the camper shell of Mack's truck. The headboard is under the camper top and less vulnerable, but easier to access.
Chase goes for the headboard.
Mack heads for the mattress.
When Chase sees Mack unhooking the bungee straps that secure the mattress, he grabs his attention with a "Hey, babe?" and points to the heavy headboard.
Mack abandons the mattress and helps Chase with the massive headboard. It's slow going. The bed is a hand-me-down from Chase's grandparents, Brazilian Walnut, perfect for this historic house and heavier than anything Mack and Chase could afford new. But it weighs a ton. It's the kind of bed that once set up, you don't want to have to move it again.
They ease the headboard off the truck and set it down gently on the sidewalk. Once they’ve caught their breath, they carry it up the steps, over the stoop, into the living room, then pause for another breather. A minute later, they carry it through the living room into the bedroom and lean it against the wall beneath the only bedroom window.
Mack leans beside the headboard. The day is just beginning, and he's already sweating through his shirt. Chase sits down on the floor as if he needs a nap.
A thunderclap nearby rattles the thin window glass. Mack looks to Chase. Chase nods. Both men jump to their feet and hurry back to Mack's truck. Bringing in the heavy footboard requires almost as much muscle as headboard. Next, Chase quickly grabs up the side rails and frame while Mack begins unhooking the bungees holding the mattress.
A single raindrop tags the bill of Mack's ball cap. It's a big raindrop. Big enough that he hears the impact.
Working faster now, he unhooks the last bungee strap, pulls it out from under the mattress, and tosses it aside.
A second raindrop tags the back of his neck.
Chase carries the side rails into the house.
A sheet of lightning unrolls across the sky, followed by an immediate thunderclap.
When Chase comes back out, he pauses on the steps. He appears to be inspecting the overhang above the stoop, or maybe the roof.
Mack waves him over to the mattress. "Grab hold on your side, and we'll slide it off the camper top," Mack says.
Chase looks a little perturbed. "That's what I'm about to do," he says. "You worry about your end—don't let your end touch the ground."
The thick foam isn't heavy, and it slides off the shell top easily. Too easily. Mack is expecting more resistance—the mattress slips out of his grip, and his corner of the mattress touches the ground.
"Told you that would happen," Chase says.
"You did." Mack agrees, avoiding Chase's eyes.
At that moment, a gust of wind strikes Mack from behind and works its way underneath his t-shirt. It tickles the hairs on the back of his neck. Above his head, in the high branches of the live oak, the wind sounds like whispers.
There's another sound up there as well. The strangeness of it steals Mack’s attention: a soft metallic tone, like two pipes rubbing.
His instinct is to look up, but just as he’s about to, a much closer noise distracts him—
Sounds like someone tossed a handful of heavy beads onto the mattress.
A second later, the sound of more beads hitting the mattress. Thousands. It takes Mack a second to realize what's happening. It's the sound of over-sized raindrops drumming the foam. By the time he squats to regain his grip, the back of his shirt is soaked. He ignores it. Lifts. They hurry the wobbly mattress across the short yard toward the steps.
In the spotty grass beneath the oak, the ground dips slightly. It's a natural indentation from decades of previous residents pushing and pulling lawn chairs into the shade. When Mack steps into the low spot, his ankle turns inward and the mattress turns outward—he reaches up to steady it, but the whole mattress pops out of his grip.
"Sorry!" he yells before it hits the ground.
"Dammit!" Chase shouts. "Get with the program!"
Rain is coming down in buckets now.
Mack quickly hoists his end back up and motions for Chase to continue. They carry it past the Mardi Gras Oak, up the four steps, and attempt to push-pull it through the front door—not an easy task. The mattress catches on the shallow wooden overhang that shields the stoop; the thick foam bends and folds at weird angles. Finally, it pops through the entryway. They carry it across the living room into the bedroom. Drop it.
A sodden thud.
The bedroom window vibrates.
Outside, the rain is roaring. Sounds like plastic beads pelting the roof.
These early morning summer storms rarely last long, but they'll have to wait out the heaviest part of it before they can continue unloading. Mack dashes out to fetch his toolbox. Returning, now thoroughly soaked, he begins fastening the bed frame together. "Where do we want the headboard?" he asks.
"Anywhere you like,” Chase mumbles
Mack points to the wall opposite the window. "Be nice to have our feet toward the window."
Chase grimaces. "Why?"
Mack shrugs. "Be nice to watch the sunrise."
Chase shakes his head. "I don't like to sleep facing a window. You know that."
Yes, Mack thinks to himself. I know all your weird quirks. But he doesn't say that. Instead, he says, "It's big furniture for a small room. Only other choice is to put the headboard under the window, which—you see how tall the headboard is—it’ll block part of our view."
"I'd prefer that."
Mark is hesitant. “Really?”
“It’s a shitty view, what’s it matter?”
Mack rubs his chin. "Well … I wanna replace this thin glass before the end of the year. Headboard there will be hard to work around."
"There's a hundred projects to do here before we worry about replacing windows."
Mack nods. "True. But they do need replaced. Eventua
lly. With something more sturdy. This neighborhood ain't as safe as what we're used to."
Chase shrugs. "Meanwhile, our big-ass headboard blocking the bottom of the window might slow down burglars." He smiles playfully. “Ever think of that?”
Mack chuckles. "Okay, that's a benefit I hadn't considered."
Chase strokes his beard, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “If one does manage to squeeze through, he'll drop right onto the sheets between us, and we can have our way with him."
Mack rolls his eyes. "I got you, I don't need my ass burgled."
"They say a threesome with an armed intruder spices up a marriage.” His grin says he's joking, but there's more to it than that. A lot of Chase’s jokes are wishful thinking. He’s been dropping hints about opening up the marriage for months now.
“Who says that?” Mack asks, playing along.
“Armed intruders.”
Mack chuckles, but on the inside, he’s grimacing. His guts tighten up every time Chase mentions the word "threesome." Mack can't help but associate it with his own past relationships that didn't last. The word reminds him of former friends and fuck buddies, now rudderless middle-aged men drifting in and out of convenient couplings, always at the beginning of a relationship, never following through. These were the same friends who tried to talk Mack and Chase out of marriage. These were the friends who tried to seduce Chase at his bachelor party: led him blindfolded to a dank dive filled with hustlers and pickpockets, where businessmen sit at the bar with their dicks hanging out. Mack doesn't have friends anymore. Except for Chase. "Under the window's fine," he concedes.
Chase pumps his fist in victory. "Good choice. I think you'll like it better there."
Chase is used to getting his way.
Mack is used to giving him that.
There are more significant issues to a successful marriage than which direction the bed faces.
With a lot of grunting, they center the headboard beneath the window, attach the side rails and drop the mattress into the frame.
