Maybe it was the same for Charlie VIP.
Or maybe he really was just a creepy pervert, as advertised.
Rob risked a glance at Charlie VIP and quickly ducked behind the computer monitor again before the guy caught him looking. Fuzzy slippers, like Grampa Simpson. A white cabled cardigan, open to the third button like Mr. Rogers, but with nothing underneath except for chest hair and the occasional glimpse of old-dude nipple. Wild, thinning hair. Scabby cold sores around the corner of his mouth. The guy looked like a textbook addict, except in this case his drug of choice was porno rather than heroin or meth.
In other words, he looks like a guy who doesn’t need your judgment.
As resolved as Rob was, though, he still couldn’t meet the guy’s eye when he came up to the counter with a stack of German medical fetish and fisting movies. The women in this German stuff the distributor sent them always looked so haggard and skinny and pale, but maybe that was just because Rob had become acclimatized to the California version of sexuality, women with tans and fake tits and perfect makeup and nails.
“Find everything you were looking for?” he forced himself to ask.
Charlie drummed his fingers on the countertop like he was antsy for his fix. “You need more midget stuff.” He spoke with a growl, but there was no anger in his face. Maybe he just had a worn voice, although he didn’t smell of cigarette smoke. Maybe he’d quit. Traded one addiction for another less likely to kill him. “I seen this one eight times.”
Nine times, actually. Rob couldn’t think of anything more awkward and uncomfortable than making small talk with this guy about midget porn, so he didn’t say anything at all, just popped the empty cases onto the OUT shelf and went rooting through the filing cabinet for Charlie’s discs.
“Thanks, kid. You tell your manager about them midgets.”
Rob saluted him, which seemed to work just as well as speaking. Good thing too, because he wasn’t sure he could speak. Or at least, not without squeaking like a pubescent boy.
Another sigh of relief at the sound of the doorbell, but when Rob looked up, Charlie was still loitering around looking at the blow-up dolls. Coming through the door now was a big Native guy, probably Max and Christian’s age, wearing one of those black and red ERASE RACISM NAZI PUNKS FUCK OFF sweatshirts that Rob was pretty sure were for some metal band, although he did appreciate the sentiment, wherever it came from.
ERASE RACISM guy had the hood pulled up over his head, though, and no amount of chiding himself about not judging people by appearances could keep Rob from reacquainting himself with the location of the panic button underneath the counter.
Charlie seemed to feel the same way, because he clutched his plain black plastic bag to his chest and scurried out without a word.
A few minutes later, ERASE RACISM guy sauntered up to the counter with a big grin, put down a DVD case, and pulled the hood from his head.
Hood down, he transformed into a teddy bear with a round face and twinkling black eyes. His wet bangs flopped forward until he peevishly raked them back again.
Oh, it had been raining outside. Thus the hood. Duh.
Rob spared a passing thought for Charlie in his slippers. He hoped the guy had a car somewhere nearby.
“Didja get a load of that guy?” ERASE RACISM said, and handed over his membership card. Dylan Ford, age twenty-three.
“Um . . . Not really . . .” Rob mumbled, and turned for the filing cabinets before Dylan could see the flush on his face.
He hoped the conversation would end there, but it didn’t. “Not like I can talk, right?” Dylan laughed. “Guy my age coming to a porno store for anything but a prank, weird, right?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I guess.”
“Is it bad that I feel the need to justify myself to you? Do you get that a lot? Dudes just coming in here giving you all these excuses for why they gotta rent porn? I bet you’ve heard some pretty good ones. Even though you probably don’t care, right?” Got it in one, buddy, not that it’s going to stop you, I’m guessing. And sure enough, Dylan continued, “Well, anyway, mine is that my parents get a copy of my credit card statements. This way I can pay cash.” He gestured to the crinkled five dollar bill he’d put on the counter next to his DVD case. A gay DVD. Rob supposed that was a good reason to keep it from your parents . . . beyond just the embarrassment of having to explain the eighty-dollar charge from STR8 BOYS GONE GAY, INC. on your statement. “Not that I’m some closet case or something!” Dylan added with a scandalized expression, as if waiting to come out was some unheard-of thing, too sad and old-fashioned to comprehend. “Mom and Dad know I’m a homo, but doesn’t mean they need to know the details of what I jack off to, right?”
“Um, right,” Rob said. Although apparently it’s fine if I know what you jack off to.
Well, duh, because it’s your job, you judgmental jerk. Feeling sorry, now, Rob managed a genuine smile for the guy. Just because Dylan’s overfamiliarity made Rob feel embarrassed as hell didn’t mean he had the right to be a douche about it.
Dylan smiled back, encouraged, and put both elbows on the counter as he watched Rob process the rental. “And my sister does porn in California so I’d feel bad pirating it.”
God, was that supposed to be small talk? Did this guy not have a filter? All of Rob’s goodwill washed away in a tidal wave of fresh awkwardness. He hummed a noncommittal “Mm-hmm,” in response, hoping it would satisfy.
“Would feel like stealing the food off of her table, you know? Not that I’d watch porn with her in it.” Dylan laughed again, oblivious, totally unashamed. “God! Not that you’d think I would. Shit.”
“I’d hope not,” Rob said. Please let the roof fall in on our heads. He rang Dylan through and handed him his change. “Due back next week. Thanks for coming in.”
Now please go away.
Thankfully, after pulling his hood back over his head and stuffing the DVD into his front pouch pocket, Dylan did, calling out, “See ya next week!” as he went.
Maybe Rob should trade this shift for one of Max’s.
Although God knew how that was supposed to help.
His last night of freedom before the start of winter semester, and Rob wasn’t going to waste a single second of it. At eleven-thirty, he locked the front door to Rear Entrance Video, gave the store one last once-over, and stomped up the sidewalk toward the bus stop. At least the rain had stopped.
After giving the wet bench a swipe with his sleeve, he plopped down to wait for his bus and pulled out his cell, which had bleeped with a text.
His sister. Going out for drinks with some girlfriends, u wanna come?
Bernice’s club of choice was Celebrities, one of Vancouver’s venerable old gay bars. Which, naturally, was a scant five or six blocks up from Rear Entrance Video—not that Bernice knew Rob was in the neighbourhood.
Rob hadn’t come out to his family, but he had a feeling Bernice knew anyway and was too kind to ask. She was always inviting him out with her girlfriends: shopping, drinks, lunch at the local salad bar, all activities he had to assume were meant to be nonthreatening to his inner gay. Not to mention the yoga.
Or maybe she just knew how badly intimidated he was by other men his age and was hoping girls would be easier. It wasn’t like Rob was at all skilled at reading people, even his own sister.
Either way, in the end it didn’t really matter. He wasn’t sassy or bitchy or well dressed, and yeah, maybe he was a little “obvious,” but not in that ideal swishy, theatrical way women seemed to love so much. He was just awkward and mousey and too much of a nerd. Bernice’s friends would want to hear his opinions on Ryan Reynolds’s godlike abs, and he’d wind up complaining to them about how disappointed he’d been in Reynolds’s turn as Deadpool—a wasted opportunity if there ever was one, because Reynolds had been perfect for the part; it was too damn bad about that nightmarishly terrible script.
He thumbed in a quick reply: Sorry, still busy w/ roommate thing. Perhaps not strictly true, bu
t hey, maybe when he got home there’d be some Xbox going. At the very least, Austin was good for an all-nighter playing first person shooters (and at least open to the possibility of some survival horror) when he wasn’t out with his jock buddies.
Bernice’s reply was quick in coming: Boo, you whore. ;)
Yeah, she definitely knew Rob was gay.
He arrived back at the old house a little under an hour later. The rain had started up again, so he ran the rest of the way home and up the front path with his arms over his head, wishing he hadn’t foregone his umbrella. He stood under the leaking porch overhang—God, why was rain dripping from a structure so much colder and grosser than the same rain coming from the sky?—and fumbled with shivering hands through his pockets for his keys. The fucking lock stuck, of course, but at last he got the thing to click and suddenly he was falling through the front door in a pile of wet, teeth-chattering Asian kid.
The house was quiet. Dead silent, actually, the lights low.
Rob poked his head into the living room. The place was . . . Holy shit, immaculate. The throw pillows Christian had insisted on buying were actually on the couch. The coffee table was swept free of Doritos residue and takeout containers. No beer bottles scattered around Max’s usual spot.
Absurd as it was, Rob felt the weird urge to creep through the house. He kicked out of his sneakers, picked them up, and snuck back to the kitchen, which was the only room with a light on. Their Formica kitchen table was draped with a cloth that Rob hadn’t even known they had, and topped with a couple of emergency storm candles stuck into wine bottles and two of their only matching plates.
Noah stood at one of the counters, and the rhythmic sound of his quick, precise knifework filled Rob’s ears. He felt his body weirdly tighten, not sure why he was responding this way. Well, he knew why: he liked Noah, liked liked him to be precise, but even then, watching him cook was an odd thing to fixate on. But then, Rob was an artist, a future sculptor if the universe looked kindly on him. Maybe he just admired seeing that same focus and artistry reflected in another man, even if it was for food instead of clay or stone or paint. Or maybe he just liked the fact that Noah was clearly good with his hands.
The apron cinched tight around his waist and the soft well-worn jeans hugging his ass probably helped too.
Rob cleared his throat, and Noah startled. Turned. He was wearing a button-down shirt underneath his apron.
“Oh, Rob! Hey, buddy,” Noah said, still somehow knocked off balance, then shook his head and turned back to his chopping. Onions. A wave of sweet pain hit Rob’s eyes the minute he saw them, like some kind of vegetable—or were onions herbs?—placebo effect.
“Hey yourself. Where is everybody?” Rob forced himself to enter the kitchen, fighting that urge to stay back, stay away, avoid imposing himself. Old habits died hard, sure, but Rob had really meant his promise to himself that he wouldn’t act that way around his roommates, and really, wasn’t six months living with them enough time to get over it? Even so, Rob had horrible visions of himself as the weird kid who never left his room or spoke to anybody, but who paid his rent in full, on time, so nobody could come up with a good enough reason to make him move out.
“Out. I kicked them all out. Austin’s crashing at some meathead’s, probably drunk off his ass by now, and Max and Christian are at Christian’s auntie’s until no earlier than 2 a.m.”
The way Noah phrased that . . . To Rob, it sounded like Noah had been the one to set that timeline. Reverse-curfew?
“Uh, any particular reason?” Rob asked.
“I’m having a girl over. The hostess from my restaurant, actually. Which I know is a totally stupid idea, but I just can’t help myself. Her name’s Jenny Chan, her parents are from Hong Kong.”
A stab of jealousy hit Rob right in the gut. “Aha. Oh. Um. Do you want me to clear out too?” He could always call Bernice, he supposed. Get changed and pack a bag and show up at Celebrities after all. She’d be pleased.
“Nah, it’s cool. I can trust you to keep quiet and out of the way.” No question in it, no implied Can’t I? If there was one thing Rob was very good at, it was keeping to himself.
“Definitely. When’s she coming over? What are you making her?”
“Winter squash risotto. Can you believe she’s never had risotto before?”
If Austin had been there, he’d have made some borderline racist but toothless comment about Asians and rice, but thank God he wasn’t.
“Oh, and she’s coming over, um . . .” Noah checked his white plastic watch. “Shit, she’s supposed to be here—”
The doorbell rang, making its sickly busted up noise that was more like weee-aung than ding-dong.
“Now?” Rob finished helpfully.
“Shit!” Noah wiped his hands off on the towel he had draped over one shoulder. He nearly fled the room, but then stopped and spun, giving Rob a breathless look. “Do I look okay?”
His hair was messy and sticking up in places, damp with steam from the pan of sautéing squash, his apron spackled with God-knew-what from God-knew-when and God-knew-how-many-washes-ago. And his face was a little flushed.
Yeah. Hot as hell.
“You’re good, man. Go.”
Noah grinned at him. The doorbell wailed again.
“Go,” Rob insisted, half laughing. God, Noah was nervous, and there was that jealousy again.
“Oh and, um, Rob?”
“Yes?” God, why was Rob’s heart pounding like this?
“You may want to put your headphones on tonight. Just, uh, in case.”
Rob wrinkled his nose. He wasn’t one of those Ew, girl parts kind of guys (or gays, he supposed); he just didn’t want to know about Noah’s sex life unless that sex life involved him. “Gotcha. Have fun. Be respectful.”
Be respectful? Jesus, Rob.
They both walked to the front hall together, Rob taking a turn for the stairwell that took up most of the hall, and Noah heading for the front door. Rob was still on the stairs when Noah finally let Jenny in.
She was beautiful and petite, holding a Burberry-plaid rip-off umbrella, and when she closed it, Rob saw the glitter of a Swarovski hairclip in the shape of a big, girly bow tucked just behind her left ear, sweeping her bangs back. “Hi, Noah. Glad you decided not to leave me on the porch all night,” she teased, eyes flicking to Rob and then quickly determining he was of no consequence to her. She beamed at Noah like it was their wedding day, and Rob just knew that Noah was beaming right back.
Jenny Chan, five-foot-something and probably a hundred pounds sopping wet, wearing pink patterned tights underneath her trench coat. Absolutely gorgeous, and, unlike Rob, if she was shy then the trait would be as intoxicating as a dab of expensive perfume.
Rob felt that pang of jealousy again. That could be me. Not only when it came to dating Noah, but—
No, it couldn’t, and we’re not going there. Not tonight, not ever.
There was no point in waving good-bye. He was under no social expectation to say, “Nice to meet you,” since Noah hadn’t introduced them. So he just turned away and carried his wet shoes up the stairs.
Big, noise-cancelling headphones settled over his ears, Rob booted up his Kingdom of Elves account and selected his level-83 dark elf in her comically un-protective string bikini armor.
His guild-mates were quick to greet him, their scratchy masculine voices sounding in his ears.
“Hey, sweetie!”
“Evening, cutie!”
He hit the microphone button on his mouse, purring back, “Hi boys, how are you?” Okay, so he did a (surprisingly passable) girl voice over Teamspeak to match his sex-kitten avatar.
So sue him! If he had to choose between the shit he got for being a girl versus the shit he got for being a gay guy, he’d pick the girl anytime. At least the quaint chivalry of dudes hoping for eventual webcam shots or cybersex had its perks. Dubious ones, okay, but perks nonetheless. And maybe this was just his insecurities talking, but he preferred “Swee
t Tits” over “Fag-boy” as far as nicknames went, as well.
He picked up some mindless grinding mission: collecting twelve eyeballs off orcs who were apparently mostly blind, considering only one in fifty he killed seemed to drop an eyeball for him to pick up.
Sadly, teen-appropriate cartoon fantasy violence didn’t do much for getting his frustrations out. His mind kept straying back to Jenny Chan and Noah downstairs, probably nibbling off each other’s forks and trading little giggles and blushes. And Noah would be telling self-deprecating stories about himself to make her laugh, and openly staring at her pretty eyes and pretty smile, which she’d notice but wouldn’t say anything about, unless she was the type of person to say something about it, of course . . .
Rob would probably be the type not to point that kind of thing out; instead, he’d just smile more and blush more and bat his eyelashes more, slowly baiting Noah into making a compliment. Or maybe not. Maybe he’d get a coy, mischievous smile instead, and he’d say, Earth to Noah, did you even hear what I just said? whether he’d just said something or not. And then Noah would blush back and maybe he’d own up to it—Sorry for staring, babe, but you’re just too beautiful to resist—or maybe he’d be a little embarrassed at getting caught, and a little flustered, but Rob would soothe his hurt ego by reaching out for his hand and lowering his eyelids and saying, I didn’t tell you that you had to stop.
“Hey, Bobby,” a male voice called in his ear, knocking him out of his Noah fantasy.
“Hi!” Sex-kitten Rob (also known as Bobby) replied. Funny how she sounded so much less mousey than nerdy boy Rob ever could. “How are you doing, Mike?”
Mike was a college student from down in New York, doing some science or another that had him in class all day. And since he seemed to game all night, Rob wasn’t exactly sure when the guy slept.
Wallflower (Rear Entrance Video, #2) Page 2
