by Amy Lane
“Digger,” he said automatically.
“Sure. This is a long cut—I’m talking fifteen stitches long. I don’t care what the house looks like—what are you doing to care for yourself?”
Reg leaned to the side a little, looked up at Lance, and grinned. “I’m having a friend stitch up my owie.”
An odd look of pain crossed Lance’s handsome features. “Yeah. Okay. There’s that. Look, I’m going to call a colleague and see if I can’t get some antibiotics for you to take, and then I’m going to stay here and study tonight so you can get some sleep. Is that okay?”
Reg blinked at him, his eyes stinging again. “Would you?” he begged, feeling pathetic and naked. “I’m never sure the meds are taking—not the first night after an episode, anyway.”
Lance nodded. “Reg—”
“Digger.”
“Digger—I hate to ask, but, are you sure you don’t want to see about a state care facility?”
Reg shook his head. “She hates them,” he said softly, remembering her violence. “Our mom put her in one when I was a kid, and then they let her out and… and she was different.”
“Where’s your mom now?” Lance asked.
“Who knows,” Reg said, staring glumly at the linoleum. She’d taken off a short time after Queenie. “I think she was just as lost as I am.”
Lance kissed his temple then, not like a fuck buddy, but like a brother. Reg closed his eyes and realized he didn’t know if Lance hooked up with a lot of guys when he wasn’t at work, and then realized he didn’t care. Lance was a friend right now, and Reg needed one of those so damned bad he couldn’t breathe.
LANCE STAYED the night, as promised.
Veronica woke up at around six in the evening. Reg—shoulder comfortably numb, as long as he went shirtless with just the bandage on it—made her dinner, and they sat in front of the television for a while. Then he made her take her medication—all of it—and took her up to her bed and her newly cleaned room.
“I like your friend,” she said sleepily. “He’s not a fag, is he?”
Oh God. “V, that’s a mean word. Most of the words on your walls are mean. I think we need to paint your walls and stop learning mean words on the internet.”
“But they’re all out to get us, Reggie,” she said, eyes suddenly open wide and limpid. “You know that—the fags and the spics and the ni—”
He put his hand over her mouth. “V, that’s bullshit, okay? You’re looking that shit up, and idiots are spouting bullshit, and you’re soaking it up like a sponge. If you don’t start looking up nice shit, I’m going to take away your computer, okay?”
“You can’t!” she gasped, sitting up in bed. He’d changed her sheets while she sat downstairs, and he felt mildly better about the whole entire world now that he knew she was no longer sleeping on those sheets. “Those people on the computer—they understand me!”
“And some of them are okay,” Reg said, remembering the talks John and Dex had given him about reading his fan mail. He’d wanted to respond and get to know people and maybe hook up—and then he’d seen the bad reviews and his feelings had been so hurt! But they’d explained to him about trolls and how some people just frothed in their own jizz (John’s words), and maybe it was just best to let computer people stay on their side of the computer. “But a lot of them just….” He couldn’t say “froth in their own jizz” to his mentally ill sister. “A lot of them just roll around in their own crap and then try to smear it on anyone who will listen. This shit on your walls, that’s someone else’s ji—uh, crap. And you wrote it all over your walls and made it your own.”
“You’re just mad ’cause I called you a fag,” she lashed out, but hey—Reg fucked guys for money, had for a long time. He’d been called worse, and he knew that now.
“I wish you wouldn’t, but that’s not it.” He took a deep breath and let his eyes wander around the room. “V, meanness just… breeds meanness.” He managed a smile for the girl who used to make him peanut butter and banana sandwiches when there wasn’t anything else to eat in the house. “You’re my sweet big sister. Sometimes, even if they’re out to get you, you gotta forgive them and find another way to be.”
“They put the bugs on my arms,” she said disconsolately, but he was used to her saying things like that.
“No, they didn’t,” he told her gently. “Your brain put the bugs on your arms. I wish I could make it stop.”
She nodded, her mouth crumpling. “Me too. I’m sorry, Reg. For saying mean things. I shouldn’t say them to you. I’m so sorry.” Tired tears seeped from the corners of her eyes, and Reg breathed and nodded and waited for her to fall asleep.
He made it downstairs, his shoulder aching fiercely—in fact, his entire body hurting in ways he couldn’t even define. He always felt like this after one of V’s meltdowns. It was like the fear and the anger and the frustration—and the love—backed up inside his joints and just hurt.
Lance sat at his beat-up kitchen table, textbooks open. He glanced up as Reg stepped into the kitchen, smiling grimly.
“You look like shit, Re—I mean, Digger. This happen a lot?”
“Once a year or so. Sometimes every six months.” He shrugged and then called himself retarded because he’d hurt his own goddamned shoulder. “It is what it is.” He put his hand out to the doorframe, suddenly exhausted. “It won’t bother your schoolwork none if I watch TV, will it?”
Lance glanced up from his books. “TV won’t help you sleep,” he said. “Wanna fool around?”
Reg grinned suddenly, because he spoke this language. “You got no idea. I helped Dex film this kid this morning—had a ten-incher, if you can believe that.”
Lance widened his eyes comically and stood up, sauntering over to Reg with familiarity if not with passion. “Ten inches like a pencil?” he asked.
“Ten inches like a water bottle,” Reg corrected earnestly, comforted by his friend’s smile and the way he was laughing.
“That’s fuckin’ amazing. Think I can get on the schedule with him?”
“You’ll have to talk to Dex,” he murmured. Lance liked to kiss—he remembered that—and kisses were warm and animal, and even if Reg wasn’t gay, he liked them.
“Sure,” Lance said, putting his big hands on Reg’s hips. “I’ll talk to Dex in the morning.” He lowered his head and took Reg’s mouth, and Reg sighed into his bigger body.
This. This he knew. Could be the only thing he was good at. And even if Lance moved on to practice medicine and marry a tiny blonde wife, right now it was the only cure he had.
Afterward, as he lay groggy with encroaching sleep, Lance stood up to dress, and he found himself thinking about it—about the moment when this smart, nice, pretty doctor boy would move on and leave Reg behind.
“Lance?” he mumbled.
“Yeah?”
“You think you’ll remember me when you’re off doctoring and being famous, and I’m still here?”
Lance’s hand in his hair was gentle, and in spite of what they’d just done in bed, brotherly. “I don’t think I’ll be able to forget you,” he said, his voice raspy and sad.
Reg was going to tell him not to be sad—Lance was going to go off and doctor and that would be awesome—but Reg’d had a hell of a day, and Lance had reamed all his worries away.
He fell asleep instead.
Lance woke him up at four in the morning. Apparently Chance, whose real name was Chase, had tried to kill himself the night before, and all the guys who knew him were at the hospital, trying to see if he’d be okay.
Reg shot up in bed, winced, and fell back down. He remembered Veronica, asleep, but who would be awake shortly and need her meds if he didn’t want her to kill him the next time he slept, and how she was going to need him three times a day for the next couple of weeks.
“I can’t go,” he said disconsolately. These guys were his friends—his brothers, like Lance—and he wanted to be there for them.
“Dex’ll understa
nd,” Lance said, patting his calf. “Here—go back to sleep. I’ll set your phone and lock your door, okay?”
Reg nodded, remembering that Lance had been up all night. “Get some sleep,” he said. “Just… you know. Take care.”
Lance nodded soberly. “You take care too, Reg. And if you ever want someone to help get her settled someplace else, I can do that.”
But Reg couldn’t think about that. He could, however, get a few more hours of sleep. He’d take what he could get.
New and Normal
BOBBY’S FIRST shoot was a girl named Trisha, who had dyed black hair and a lot of tattoos along her belly-dancing-skirt line. She was likable enough, but after getting used to posing one way to show off his pecs, and another way to show off his cock, and then a third way so everybody could see his hands on her less-than-ample boobs, the thrill was gone.
He got it up—he always did—and he did the thing.
Dex gave clear directions, made him feel comfortable, and by the time pleasure actually took over and he couldn’t stop himself from thrusting his hips into Trisha’s willing body, the name “Bobby” fit him like it was the name he should have been born with.
When it was over, Trisha took a deep breath, grabbed some offered tissues to wipe off, and rolled off the bed.
“Damn,” she said admiringly. “That thing’s huge. I’ll shoot a scene with that anytime.”
“Uh, thank you?”
She laughed self-consciously, pulling on a robe she’d left offscreen. Some of the “fuck-me-baby” armor that had carried her through the scene fell away. “Sorry—that was rude. You were nice to work with. If you stay in het, I’d love to work with you again.”
He nodded, feeling more human himself. “Thank you—it was a pleasure working with you too.”
She dimpled charmingly, like a pretty girl at a dance, swung her sweaty hair behind her, and turned toward the door. “I hope it’s okay if I get the shower first?”
“It should be all clear,” Dex said, putting away his precious equipment. “Thanks, Trisha. He’ll give you about twenty minutes before coming in.”
“Thanks, Dex.” She gave a little wave and sauntered off, yawning behind her hand. Well, they’d been working that scene for about four hours. Bobby could use a shower and a snack and a nap himself—but not necessarily in that order.
Dex nodded absently and locked up his case. “See you in a few weeks, hon. Study hard.” He then gave a tired smile to Bobby. “How you doing?” he asked. “All good?”
Bobby thought about it, but the thinking was easier with the check from his solo burning a hole in the jeans he’d worn that day. He’d managed to find a cheap hotel for the last two nights so he’d be rested and clean, because when Dex had offered him sort of an “emergency shift,” as it were, he jumped right on it.
But how did he feel after shooting sex for money—not solo?
Soiled? Immoral? Self-loathing?
“I’m hungry,” he said with passion. “God—I haven’t eaten in two days!”
Dex’s laughter sounded sincere but subdued. Bobby had gotten that vibe all day, pretty much from everybody. He’d heard “How’s he doing?” asked a lot of times, and he figured somebody had been hurt in a car accident or something, but he didn’t want to ask.
“Well, good. There’s a couple of all-you-can-eat places nearby. Ask Kelsey—she’s got a map—and a few gyms nearby, if you miss your workout.”
Bobby didn’t want to look at his body—he was pretty skinny from the last two months. He figured his cock might have gotten him in the door, but he’d been looking at the other guys walking in. He’d have to step up his game.
“That’s awesome,” he said, because it was a nice thing to do. “Thank you.”
Dex nodded and bit his lip. “Look—think you can shoot again in a week? I know it’s short notice, but we’re sort of two men down. I might end up shooting with you, if that’s okay.” He paused. “Goddammit. We didn’t even ask—are you up for guys? I could have another girl in here—I mean, I swore I was out of the game, you know?”
Bobby stared at him blankly. A guy. Dex, who was sort of giving Bobby the warm fuzzies in his chest already. Could Bobby… do the thing with Dex?
In spite of the activity of the last four hours, his cock stirred.
Apparently so.
Trying to salvage some dignity, Bobby found a towel and wrapped it around his waist. When he was staring into space, he wasn’t seeing dollar signs—not even though he could make enough to send his mom some while getting an apartment of his own eventually.
Oh—crap. Speaking of….
“I’d love to, but I was going to go visit my mom for a week, and this means I can’t.”
Dex’s eyebrows went up when Bobby could have sworn he was too tired for surprise.
Hell. “I’ve got a girlfriend, and she doesn’t know—and I don’t want to tell her right now—not until, you know, I’m settled. But in the meantime, I’m going to burn through all my money on hotels.”
“D’oh!” Dex grimaced and smacked his forehead with his palm. “Okay, yeah, I hear you. Where were you staying when you were working at the juice place?”
Jesus, this was embarrassing. “My truck.”
Dex closed his eyes and wiped them with his palms. “You guys… this fucking job… eighteen is grown-up. That’s the fucking law. Who said? That’s what I want to know. Who said eighteen was fucking grown. This whole fucking business needs a goddamned mommy!”
“I got a mom,” Bobby said, confused and a little frightened. There was a lot of emotion here that he didn’t know how to deal with. “My dad’s AWOL, but he was a fuckin’ asshole, so no worries.”
Dex shook his head and took a deep breath, like he was getting it together. “There’s a flophouse—everybody pays into the kitty for rent and takes the first available spot. I’m pretty sure there’s only five guys there right now. They’ve got four beds and a couch—loser gets the floor. But it’s better than your truck and not as expensive as a by-the-day hotel, no matter how crappy.”
“I usually visit my mom on the weekends,” Bobby said, feeling some optimism. “I’d be the perfect roommate.”
Dex half laughed, but his voice still sounded thick, like this hurt went way too deep for a little humor. “Then I’ll get you that number. Trisha should be done in about five minutes. Come see me when you’re done with the shower.”
Thank God for Dex. “Dude, I can’t even—thank you—”
Dex shrugged and took another deep breath. “Your problem’s easy,” he said, sounding bitter. “Your problem I can fix. I gotta go. For all I know, Kelsey just put another client on terminal hold. See you up front.”
Bobby shoved the clothes he’d worn into his little duffel bag and shouldered it. Then he wandered through the halls in a towel until he found the showers. Trisha was just getting out, thank God, because he wanted to shower alone.
DEX’S LEAD with the flophouse panned out—an apartment in a big complex, but one that had a pool and a weight room and a coin-op laundry. Parking was a nightmare. He usually had to park a couple of blocks away in front of a strip mall or somebody’s house, and he slept in fear that his truck would be broken into or vandalized.
But so far so good—his truck was intact, his mom and Jessica understood about the “overtime” he said he had to work, and the guys?
Were a lot of fun, actually. Dex had been right—first come, first serve for the couch, but the guy who didn’t get the couch got offered lots of pillows and blankets, and if Bobby slept on the floor by the coffee table, he had his sleeping bag as a sort of mattress. He took some of his first money and bought an actual inflatable air mattress, and offered it to whoever got in last if he got the couch, and was quickly the favorite roommate ever.
Someone had a coffee maker, so everybody bought coffee when they were out. Someone had a juicer, so everybody bought veggies and fruit. They kept stuff roughly on spots on the shelf, but if you left a Post-it IOU,
people usually forgave pretty quick.
Bobby was so damned grateful to not have to eat out—or sleep in the back of his truck—and to eventually get the shower, that he fell into the crowd pretty easily. The day after he arrived, he signed up for the gym Dex had recommended and was given a Johnnies employee discount, of all things. That was okay. They set him up with a personal trainer, and he spent the next five days getting used to a workout regimen that was, as the trainer told him, almost purely cosmetic. “You’ve got plenty of actual muscles from whatever work you’ve been doing. What we’re going to start is exercises that will make your muscles pop. Some changes to your diet and you’ll be as ripped as the other guys at your work, trust me.”
The trainer was a tiny, fit woman in her fifties, with dyed red-gold hair and a sort of pixieish sense of humor Bobby really appreciated. She reminded him of his mom on the days his mom hadn’t felt beat down by life, and Bobby drank in Trina’s words like they were gold.
The workouts served to tire him out—as did the waiting tables, because he wasn’t giving that job up since he didn’t have to—but he sure did rest better with an apartment to sleep in. Of course, he hadn’t counted on the guys hooking up in the beds, regardless of the full house, but boys or girls, that’s what they did. At first he thought it would make him horny—and embarrass him—but one night he was trying to fall asleep on his mattress and saw Billy on the couch wrestling his hard-on, and he fell asleep chuckling.
They were all human animals here. He was just lucky they had enough room to not step on each other in the morning.
And hearing all the sex—and seeing all the beating off—made him sort of ready for his scene with Dex. In fact, more than ready.
He’d spent the night dreaming about Dex’s blue eyes, his sweet mouth, and the things that were going to happen to Bobby’s body that had never happened before.
He woke up with his hand around his cock, and he had to make himself not jerk off. Breakfast was coffee followed by soda water, followed by another cup of coffee, because—as he’d been constantly warned—he was going to bottom, and you wanted your system free and clear when you bottomed, or shit, literally, would get real.
