Damn, ever since Rear Entrance Video, he couldn’t look at people in service jobs the same way.
“Wow,” Bernice said, and leaned back in her seat, practically tilting it onto its back legs. She took a loud sip on the straw of her no-whip strawberry frappuccino, scrutinizing him through scrunched up eyes. “And this was with your new boyfriend? I mean, I hope it was!”
“Uh . . .” Rob said, not sure how to answer that. “About that . . .”
“Oh my God, Rob! Oh my God! You didn’t! Oh my God!”
“It’s not that!” Rob protested, face as hot as a furnace now. “Jeez, I come out and suddenly my sister thinks I’m doing the whole 1970s-gloryhole no-condoms thing, high off my mind on poppers . . .”
“What are poppers?”
“Ugh, don’t ask. Look, what I mean is, I don’t know if Dylan is my boyfriend or not. I kinda lied to you last week. Well, not about being gay, but about having a boyfriend. Sorry. I just . . . needed an excuse to leave, you know?”
Bernice pouted, pretty brow furrowed, and stabbed her frappuccino with her straw. “Well, that was shitty of you.”
“Yeah, I know. I really am sorry, I’m just . . . I’m going through a weird time in my life right now.”
“You’re safe, right?” She reached out and clasped his hand tightly, peering into his eyes as if she could see the truth there. She probably could.
“Yes, Bernice. I am. Well, except for this cold.” He sniffled for effect and took a sip of his chamomile tea.
“Well, that’s good.” She gave him a judgmental look for a second longer, eyelids low, body language closed off, and then a switch flipped inside her and she sat forward again, eyes sparkling. Rob wished he could ask her how she got her eyelashes like that. She seemed to have a way better handle on her mascara than he did. “So? Are you going to tell me about this guy Dylan, or what?”
“Will you forgive me if I do?” He batted his eyelashes at her.
She tsked. “You know you’re forgiven already. But sure. Now dish.”
“He’s, um . . . he’s in school with me. Older than me—oh my God, would you lose the scandalized look, he’s not even twenty-five, okay?—and he does indie comics. I don’t know, he’s cute and I like him and I can actually talk to him and I guess maybe he likes me back? Or maybe not. After, um, the thing we did in the alley, he got all weird. Sent me home alone, wouldn’t come even after I invited him.”
“Robert Ng inviting a guy home. Never thought I’d see the day.”
“Ha-ha. So he sends me home, but he pays my cab bill, even though it cost like forty-six bucks. Maybe he felt guilty.”
“Or maybe he likes you.” She smiled, giving him a sly look out of the corners of her perfect eyes.
“I don’t know. He just seemed weird about the whole thing. Kept warning me off him and asking if I was sure.”
“What is he, a Cullen? A drug dealer?”
“Who knows. I have a feeling I’m in over my head, though.”
“Rob, honey, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’d be in over your head if you were dating a kindergarten teacher driving a Prius.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Rob grumbled, but couldn’t help smiling. He was glad he was talking to Bernice again. He’d missed her this past week. He only wished he could be as open about the secret at the bottom of his bag as he was about his hookup with Dylan. “Anyway, I better get to work.”
She threw her cell phone into her purse and rearranged the big peachy-orange scarf she was wearing around her slim neck. “I can’t believe you’re working. You know Mom and Dad are paying your way specifically so you don’t have to work and you can just focus on your schooling, right?”
Rob paid a little too much attention to zipping up his hoodie. “It’s art school, Bernice. It’s not like I’m doing pre-med or something.”
“God, can you imagine?” she laughed.
“And anyway, I’m doing it as a favor for my roommate. It’s his aunt’s store and she’s in treatment for cancer, so he’s managing it for her while she’s off work, and he’s having a hard time finding reliable staff.”
“You’re a saint,” Bernice said as they stood, and she grabbed him under one arm and kissed him square on the cheek. “Except for screening my calls all week. Don’t do that again, you little shit, or else I’m telling Mom and Dad you’re doing it in dirty back alleys.”
Rob glowered at her. “Don’t you dare.”
“Kidding! Kidding!” And with that, she danced away from him, floating out of the shop and into the watery daylight like the frappuccino fairy.
He sighed, watching her go. Even though it hadn’t really resolved anything, talking to her about Dylan had really helped with the horrible swirl of conflicting feelings inside of him. Now, if only he could calm the similarly chaotic mess about his gender confusion . . . Namely, why, for the first time in ages, had he been able to get off without falling into that girl body fantasy? Could being with Dylan fix him?
There’s nothing to fix, he told himself as he finally left the shop.
But if that was the case, if wanting to be a girl sometimes was an inherent part of him that didn’t need changing, that maybe couldn’t be changed, then was pursuing Dylan even a good idea in the first place? It’d have to come out sometime. Maybe that blowjob had been new and novel enough that Rob hadn’t needed to fall back on the fantasy, but that didn’t mean it would always be like that. Bobby wasn’t about to vanish out of existence forever, never to return. In fact, Rob was intending to put on the glasses and hair extensions again in less than an hour. Looking forward to it, in fact.
And if he couldn’t even tell his sister—the one person in his life he knew without a doubt would always love and forgive him—about his double life, then how the hell could he ever tell Dylan? He’d always be living a lie. Living in fear of being found out, of how Dylan might react. Sure, he seemed cool now, but even the most progressive, PC people in the world still couldn’t wrap their stubborn minds around people who fucked around with gender lines. Hell, even if Dylan didn’t get violent, even if he kept his judgments to himself, would Rob be able to handle a rejection—even a kind one—once he’d gotten invested? Once he’d . . . fallen?
Yeah. Maybe Dylan pushing him away was for the best after all.
Too bad Rob’s heart didn’t agree.
In the end, Bobby wound up lasting roughly half his shift before he had to call Max and beg for mercy.
“Max,” he croaked into the phone in his Rob voice, not that this cold was really conducive to doing his Bobby one properly, “Max, please please please, you gotta come take this shift, I think I’m dying.”
Okay, probably not, but he was leaking snot like a faucet and coughing like he had consumption. Even Charlie VIP had kept his distance. All Bobby wanted to do was get these hair extensions out, wash this makeup off, get out of this itchy fucking bra, and climb into bed, where he could sleep for thirty hours straight.
“Aw, Rob, seriously, man?” Max complained. On the other end of the phone, Bobby could hear a murmur in the background. Probably Christian. “It’s Rob. Yeah. Little nugget says he’s sick. Yeah. Yeah. Oh, fine—hey, Rob, I’m back. Okay, Christian says if I don’t come in he’s not gonna give me blowjobs for a week, so I guess you’ve got a replacement. Give me an hour?”
“Sure.” Bobby sneezed. Sniffled. “Sure, sure. See you soon. Tell Christian thank you.”
“What about my thank you?”
“Oh, fine. Thanks for giving in to Christian’s blackmail, Max.”
“You’re welcome,” Max said with an imperious sniff, and hung up.
And thank God the phone call ended when it did, because not a second later, the bell over the door jingled.
“Welcome to Rear Entrance Video,” Bobby said, dabbing at his nose with a tissue.
In walked Adam Fickes in his Hollister cap. “You don’t look too good, babydoll,” he said, flopping over the counter and holding out his rental disc.
“Yeah, I got caught out in the rain last night.” As sick as Bobby was, a warm feeling pooled in his lower belly, remembering—until, of course, the ice-cold shock of remembering what had happened after hit.
Dylan, sending him home alone.
He took the case from Adam’s hand and scanned it, refusing to look the guy in the eye as he processed the return.
“So gettin’ caught in the rain . . . is that why you didn’t call me, baby?”
Ugh, please don’t make me have this conversation.
“Sorry, I guess I should have just told you up front we’re not allowed to date customers.”
“Whaaat!” Adam snapped his fingers in frustration. “Seriously? What’s your boss care who you date?”
Bobby shrugged. “I don’t make the rules, I just follow them.”
Now, please get out of my face so I can close up shop and de-girl before Max shows up here and gets a fun surprise.
“Okay, okay, well how about this. How about when your shift’s over, I just happen to be standing outside waiting for a bus, and I just happen to see you walking by and ask you for your digits. Not your customer then, am I?”
“I don’t know . . .” Bobby mumbled, ducking his head in just the right way to cause his hair to curtain half his face. He sniffled again. “I’m honestly just waiting for my coworker to come take over for me, and then I’m going straight home to bed.”
Why the hell don’t you just say no? So much for Bobby being able to say and do all the things Rob was too chicken to. But then, maybe Bobby’s powers were weakened by Walking Dead levels of illness. You could hardly blame the girl.
“I get it, I get it. I know when I’m not wanted. What, you got a boyfriend, is that it?”
Yes, tell him yes. “Yeah. I do. I don’t normally talk about him here, but yeah, I do.”
The bruises on Adam’s ego seemed to heal, because the macho hurt went from his voice. “He Asian like you? Because let me tell you, if you’re dating an Asian guy, you are missing out.”
“Um . . .” Bobby examined his nails, for lack of anything else to look at.
“Bet you my dick’s twice as big as his.” Bobby must have given him a shocked look at that, because he put up both hands in a pitch-perfect white Kanye impression. “Just sayin’.”
“Okay, well, that’s good, but I really need to get back to work now.” And then, for good measure, Bobby hacked out a nasty, wet cough into his hands.
That did the trick. Adam finally retreated, walking backward toward the door, but he couldn’t help one last attempt just before he slipped out. “Get better soon, babe. You think over that bus stop offer. Think of me when you’re rubbing the Vicks on your tits tonight. Nine inches!”
Yeah. Sure.
As soon as the bell jingled, Bobby rushed to the door and locked it behind him, breathing a sigh of relief at the click.
Forty minutes later when Max sauntered in, it was Rob waiting for him behind the counter.
Days passed. Rob got sicker. By Thursday, he was completely bedridden.
Friday afternoon, he was woken by a text.
Send me ur house address. Bringing u the week’s homework b/c dr chasTITTY can’t do email. Typical prof. Also need notes for those powerpoints I assume u never got around to making.
Dylan. He sounded pissed.
Well, fair enough. It was obvious the guy had been burned in group projects before, judging by the fact that he’d wanted to get to the gallery before Rob had had a chance to procrastinate or get slippery on the dates. And now here it was, Friday, and Rob was flaking on his half of the assignment. Sure, he was sick, but too sick to get his ass to his computer? If he was in Dylan’s position, he’d be furious. After all, Dylan was doing him a favor by doing the presentation solo in exchange for the PowerPoint notes.
Rob texted back his address, along with a simple note: Sorry.
As if things weren’t awkward enough already.
He flopped back onto his pillow, one-hundred percent intending to get up, get dressed, and tidy up a bit, maybe at least type up his notes so Dylan could just copy-paste them onto the PowerPoint . . . and promptly fell asleep.
A knock at his door jolted him awake again.
Noah, probably. The guy had been forcing hot and spicy soups on him for days, saying they’d “clear out his sinuses.”
“Whatever it is, Noah, thanks, but no thanks! My poor sick taste buds need a break!”
“It’s not Noah,” Dylan’s voice sounded through the door.
Fuck! What time was it? He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Peered at his alarm clock. Five in the evening, seriously? Shitshitshit.
“Coming! Coming! Sorry sorry . . .” He rolled out of bed—literally, rolled right onto the floor with a crash, then had to use the mattress to lever himself to his feet. Okay, no time to get dressed, but the least he could do was put on a T-shirt. He stumbled across his room, pinballing off walls and furniture and listing like a drunk. Finally he made it to his dresser, where he ransacked his drawers until he found a shirt he wasn’t embarrassed to be seen in: his PE T-shirt from high school. He pulled it over his head, got his arms in the sleeves, and dove for the door.
“Finally,” Dylan said as soon as he opened the door, and forced his way into the room like he owned the place. “Your fucking roommate’s shirtless and flexing his muscles at himself in the bathroom mirror with the door open.” He mimicked gagging himself with a finger.
“That would be Austin. I think his head is literally made of meat. Um, come in, make yourself at . . . home?”
Dylan obviously didn’t need an invitation, because he was already sprawled out on Rob’s bed. He had an overstuffed black Dickies book bag between his legs on the floor and an unmarked paper bag on his lap. Maybe he’d picked himself up some supper on his way.
“This is for you,” he said, and held out the bag.
Or he was way more of a gentleman than Rob had given him credit for. Wow.
“Uh, thanks, wow. You didn’t have to do that. Really. Shit.”
“Yeah I did. It’s my fault you’re sick, after all.”
“Um, that’s not really how viruses work, but thanks all the same.” The heat in Rob’s cheeks definitely wasn’t the low-grade fever he’d been fighting the last few days. He unrolled the top of the bag and sat. There was a take-out bowl and a plastic spoon inside. “Chicken noodle soup?” he asked.
“How basic do you think I am?” Dylan said, laying on the offense thick. “Open it.”
Rob did, and the minute the smell of the steam hit his nostrils, he felt his chest swell with the deepest, basest gratitude there was. “Is this . . . is this congee?”
Dylan nodded with a grin. “You like it? I had to go to this restaurant where the old woman running the counter didn’t speak English to get it, but luckily there was someone our age in line with me and she translated.”
“Mmm, do I like it? I love it. When I’m sick, at least. Wow, thank you.” For the first time in days, his slumbering appetite stirred. Sure, the food was bland, the exact opposite of what Noah thought he should eat to get his hunger back, but there was no beating it on a primal comfort level. He dug in, not even the remotest bit self-conscious at the way Dylan was staring at him with a dopey smile the entire time.
“Good,” Dylan said. “You know, I missed you this week. Which is kinda crazy since we don’t really know each other all that well—”
“You know me well enough to bring me congee when I’m sick.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Puny, but you’re not my first Chinese boyfriend.”
Rob nearly spat out his mouthful of congee. “What?”
Dylan laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh, yeah, I dated this guy William Chan in tenth? No, eleventh grade. He was way high maintenance. And superattached to his mom. Creepy attached. Probably still shares a bed with her on stormy nights.”
“No, the other part.” The part about me being your boyfriend, you colossal idiot.
“Oh! Boyfriend! Well, uh, I mean, if you want to. If being with me is what you really, really want.”
Why did he say it like that, like being boyfriends was some huge decision or commitment? Did he not want Rob to say yes to him? Then why bring it up at all? Rob frowned as the cold, awkward reality set in. Sure, Dylan had called him his boyfriend, but he’d also ditched him that night at the gallery without an explanation. An explanation that Rob damn well deserved. “I do want that, but not until you tell me . . .” He stirred the congee counterclockwise. “Why did you run out on me the other night? Doesn’t seem very boyfriend-y.”
Dylan had the good sense to look chastened. “You’re right. It wasn’t. I got cold feet, I guess. You’re just so . . . I don’t know, cute and innocent with your baby face. And getting asked home like that, after the coffee and everything, it didn’t freak me out, exactly, but I was worried that maybe you didn’t understand what you were really asking for.”
What I was really asking for? “Sex, Dylan. I was asking for sex. That’s why I invited you home. You don’t have to be so . . .” He groaned, struggle to come up with the words. “Protective of me. I know I’m younger than you, but I’m not a little kid. I can make my own decisions. I know you mean well, but how about you let me do the worrying about what I want?”
“Right,” Dylan said, and now he was definitely looking ashamed, his head ducked between his shoulders like Rob was taking away his TV privileges. “Of course. Sorry.”
“But we could give it a try,” Rob added shyly. He stared down into his bowl, suddenly unable to even look at Dylan.
“Yeah. A try.” Dylan’s voice was optimistic, and he slapped his hands on his thighs. “Nothing too serious. Anything . . . comes up, we end it. No harm, no foul. Okay.”
Well, that was a little cold-blooded. But I’ll take it. “Okay,” Rob said, trying to keep his voice peppy. “Deal. Boyfriends.” He held out his hand, and Dylan looked down at it, and then back up at Rob’s face like he’d grown a second head.
“You want to shake on it?”
Wallflower (Rear Entrance Video, #2) Page 10
