Clickbait

by E. J. Russell

  “I thought you liked Gideon.”

  “I love Gideon, but he doesn’t do long-term. As soon as a guy shows the slightest bit of possessiveness or even an assumption that he expects a third date, Gideon is out the door.”

  “Lin.” Alex leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and dropping his head into his hands. “I’ve been crushing on the guy since that party you threw in Eugene, right before Dad got diagnosed.”

  “See? That’s what I mean about the loyalty. How many guys have you been serious about since then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I do. None.”

  “I’ve been a little busy. We both have. Dad’s illness—”

  “Didn’t stop you tonight.” She scooted next to him and wrapped her hands around his arm, leaning her head against his shoulder. “But I—I don’t want you to get hurt. Not ever, but especially not now. We’ve got enough chains on our hearts already.”

  “I can handle it.” He petted her bright hair, so soft, so different from his own. “I can take care of myself and still take care of you and Mom and Dad.”

  “But—”

  “Hey. Trust me.” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head.

  She sighed and nodded. “You, I trust. Now go home and get some rest.”

  When Gideon got up the next morning, the window sparkled in the unseasonable Portland sunshine, and he couldn’t find any evidence of last night’s freestyle ejaculation except the white splatter on the front of his jeans and the placket of his shirt, both of which had been artfully arranged on his rolling desk chair, and positioned next to the bed where he couldn’t miss them.

  Message received. It had happened, and Alex wasn’t above rubbing Gideon’s loss of control in a little, but he also wouldn’t let Gideon bear it alone. No harm. Guess he really meant it.

  Gideon climbed out of bed, eyeing his stupid bandages with revulsion. Thank God Alex hadn’t been similarly revolted. He shivered in the chill morning—or was it in memory of how Alex supported him, held him, jacked him off in front of the freaking window?

  Glorious. All of it. And he wanted more.

  He’d always looked at dating like website design. The first date was the landing page: general information, enough to know whether you wanted to click on a link and explore further. Translated to relationship terms: Will the postsex conversation be too awkward or unfortunate? The second date was the About page: a little more depth, but no additional interaction required, unless you wanted to leave a breezy comment on the page before exiting. Translation: It was great. Bye. The end. At least it always had been for every hookup since Mark.

  But with Alex, he wanted to click on all the links. Explore every last page, because the man’s content was so unexpected. He was bigger than Mark, but as gentle and caring as Lindsay. Blue collar and proud of it, but not afraid to explore new subjects and go deeper.

  God. Deeper. He remembered Alex’s words: “I can live without my dick up your ass.” Heat stole up his throat. Really? Because I’m not sure I can. Unbelievable that he could think about that, could be interested, could actively want that. But with Alex, it was a distinct possibility.

  And he’d thought nothing good could ever happen in October-the-sequel.

  For the first time since this hellish project started, Gideon felt like singing in the shower, so he did. He warbled a couple of Disney love songs—the good ones, with Howard Ashman lyrics. By the time he finished dressing, he’d segued from American Idol to So You Think You Can Dance, and cha-cha’d his way down the hall to the kitchen.

  Where his kewpie-doll-cute roommate glared at him from behind the butcher block like Bride of Chucky.

  “Morning, darling. Uh . . . planning to do something with the big-ass knife in your hand?”

  She pointed the thing at him, and he took a step back. Shit, he was stuck in a constant state of reverse lately. This had to stop.

  “You slept with my brother.”

  “Technically, there was no sleeping involved. Not together. I mean, I slept, a little, but I’m pretty sure he wasn’t in the bed at the time, and then when I woke up he was already dressed, and I’m only making this worse, aren’t I?”

  She tapped the tip of the knife on the top of the butcher block. Ting ting ting. “When’s the last time one of your so-called relationships lasted longer than a week, Gideon?”

  He scrunched up his face because it was way too early in the morning to play memory trivia. “I don’t keep track of minor details. Charlie’s the data wonk. We could ask her.”

  “I don’t need to ask her. I know. Never. You’ve never dated a man more than twice. Usually once is all you manage.”

  “Sweetie—”

  “Alex isn’t that kind of guy. He never has been. And if you hurt him, Gideon, I swear . . .” She jabbed the knife toward him to punctuate her words. He was glad he was far enough away that punctuate didn’t turn into puncture.

  He tried to defuse the Lindsay-bomb with a flash of his usual flame-diva, flipping his bangs out of his eyes and propping one hand on his hip. “I have no intention—”

  “That’s the problem. You never have any intentions. You just do. Whatever you want. You never think about how the other guy must feel.”

  “Please,” he scoffed. “Guys don’t do feelings, and we definitely don’t talk about them. It’s one of the advantages of being gay.”

  “Well, you’d better do feelings now. If you hurt my brother . . .” She set the knife down on the butcher block and crossed her arms. “I’ll have to ask you to move out.”

  “Lin.” His voice got lost somewhere between his chest and his throat. “You’d—you’d break up with me? We’re more than roommates. We’re friends. You’re my darling girl.”

  “I mean it, Gideon. Don’t hurt him. Or else.” She stalked down the hallway, and—another first—slammed her bedroom door.

  While Lindsay banged around getting ready for work in a totally un-Lindsay-like way, Gideon cowered in his room, unable to face her knowing that he’d be the collateral damage in the inevitable split between him and Alex—and of course it was inevitable. Gideon didn’t do serious and he didn’t do long-term and he oh-most-definitely did not do romantic relationships. How could he have possibly imagined this time would be any different?

  Contrast?

  Damn it. Sometimes contrast just meant you were fricking color-blind.

  If Lindsay fired him as a roommate and a best friend, Charlie would still have his back . . . but Charlie had her own sickeningly perfect romance now. Maybe her tolerance for Gideon’s catch-and-release liaisons would vanish and she’d side with Lindsay. Maybe he’d have no one.

  Even Toshiko, about as cuddly as the average laser cannon, and never one to indulge in sentiment, would probably blame him, laying out clinically precise evidence of his total worthlessness as a human being.

  How could he handle the loss of his angels?

  He collapsed into his desk chair, stripped off his glasses, and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. Oddly, the image that danced behind his eyelids wasn’t Toshiko or Lindsay or Charlie.

  It was Alex.

  Good lord. How had this turned from no-strings, quid pro quo sex into something different? This—this feeling was sooo out of his area of expertise. He had no idea how to construct a relationship that wasn’t built strictly on a mutual exchange of release—usually not requiring any cleanup because, hello? Condoms? He’d always insisted on them for all dick-related contact, including handjobs.

  So what should a guy do if he wanted to prove he was in it to win it? Flirting with the big-ass C word—c-c-c-commitment?

  First thing: change in tactics. As tempted as he was to do the opposite, he needed to keep the relationship moving outside the bedroom—not to mention the odd convenient unfinished stud bay—or it might never be about anything but sex.

  How could he prove—not only to Lindsay, but to Alex—that he wasn’t some flighty, selfish prick who thought only o
f himself, although he’d done his level best since he was eighteen to be exactly that?

  He needed to give them something they lacked, something they might not know how to ask for. What was Alex’s worst fear? What was Lindsay’s secret pain? That the tragedy of their dad’s illness would overwhelm anyone who wasn’t forced by ties of blood to deal with it. Lindsay’s douche bag ex had run. Gideon had virtually sprinted out of the house, damn it.

  No matter how much he wanted to be the go-to support guy for the Hennings, he knew his own limits. He’d never be able to face Mr. Henning. He couldn’t watch the heartbreaking deterioration that was his own personal nightmare.

  But he knew beyond any doubt that he was a world-class GBFF, and if anyone needed some of his sparkly TLC, it was Mama Henning.

  Now that, he most definitely could do.

  Geekspeak: Breadcrumbs

  Definition: A list of each successive web page viewed by visitor, typically displayed horizontally under the menu or title bar.

  Despite the glow in his belly that hadn’t died since he’d kissed Gideon last night, Alex couldn’t help feeling uneasy the next morning. Something niggled at him during his shower, during his morning contest with his dad.

  “Ned, man, time for your walk. Hup hup. Let’s haul our butts around the block before breakfast.”

  His father scowled at him. “I already went for a walk.”

  “Yeah, but that was yesterday. Can’t sit around being a sofa spud 24-7. It’s bad for you. Come on.”

  He shepherded his father out the door into the brisk air while the sun lurked behind the roofs to the east. The air was cold and sharp, tinged with the tang of wood smoke, damp concrete, and fallen leaves no longer crisp enough to crunch underfoot.

  Most of their neighbors had already taken down their Halloween decorations, but here and there, a weary jack-o’-lantern still perched on a front porch, its face beginning to pucker like a toothless man who’d forgotten his dentures. Not that his dad seemed to notice. His gaze didn’t focus on anything, while who-the-hell-knew-what played out in his mind.

  Alex kept his hand under his father’s elbow, guiding him over the uneven spots where tree roots buckled the sidewalk. As they crossed the final intersection on the homestretch back to their house, his father’s steps quickened, and he stumbled over the uneven edge of the curb. Shit, was his left foot dragging more than it had been yesterday?

  “Ned. Hey, man. Look at me. Can you smile?”

  His father stopped and scowled at him. “What for?”

  “Humor me.”

  “Bah.” He shuffled on down the sidewalk.

  Alex caught up with him in two giant strides “Then lift your arms.” He demonstrated, raising his hands over his head.

  “Foolishness.” Instead of complying, Ned did the opposite—stuffing his hands in his pockets. Jesus, the man got more stubborn every day, and Ned had been the king of mule-headedness his entire life, as Alex knew all too well—he’d been the crown prince himself.

  “Come on, man, please?” With his nerves sparking like a downed power line, Alex dogged Ned’s steps all the way home, getting nothing but glares and mumbles in return.

  Then, as his dad trudged up the back porch stairs, another jolt of high-voltage fear shot through Alex. Near Ned’s feet, two of the steps were blackened at one end, the charring extending onto the edge of the decking.

  Shit. That smell of burnt wood wasn’t only from the neighbors’ chimney smoke, it was here—at his own fucking house.

  He hustled his dad inside, got him settled in his chair, and sprinted for the kitchen. His mom was sitting at the table in her old blue scrubs, sipping tea, the paper open in front of her to the crossword puzzle.

  “Mom. The back porch. What happened?”

  Ruth looked up, but focused on a spot somewhere to the left of Alex’s head. Her cheeks were pale, but then she was always pale these days. “It’s so embarrassing. I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “Bother me? Our porch steps are half burned away.”

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “Mom. What happened?”

  She set her pencil down and folded her hands on top of the paper. “It was nothing. I was trying to light a candle—”

  He dropped into the chair next to her, his knees suddenly weak. “Candles? You’re kidding. I thought we cleared them all out. We can’t have any in the house with the way Dad—”

  “That’s why I took it outside. But I set it down near some cobwebs, I guess. They caught so fast. I—I’d forgotten they were so flammable.”

  “What did you do? Did you call the fire department? Did you—”

  “Don’t be silly. I hosed it down, and it was fine.” She glanced at him and shrugged. “I know it was stupid. But I found one of those vanilla-scented candles your father gave me for my birthday, and I wanted . . .” She sniffled, and Alex’s spike of annoyance faded into the familiar ache of regret and sorrow.

  “Shit, Mom.”

  “Alex. Language.”

  “Sorry.” He got up and poured himself a cup of coffee. “Hey, what did the doctor say about his leg last time you were there? It seems weaker than it was. Hell, he tripped over nothing on our walk just now.”

  “That can happen to anybody.”

  “Yeah? Well, I think we should get another opinion. That guy—”

  “Is perfectly competent.”

  “Maybe. But he’s as old as Dad. We need a younger guy. Someone who’s up on all the latest treatments.” Alex abandoned his coffee and grabbed the handset of their old wall phone. He had the clinic’s phone number memorized. “He needs to refer us to someone better.”

  “Alex.” His mother tugged the receiver out of his hand and put it back in its cradle. “Dr. Corey is perfectly competent, and vascular dementia is his specialty.”

  “How do we know he doesn’t suffer from it himself? He’s the same age as Dad.”

  “Alexander Matthew Henning.” The tone that accompanied the triple-barreled name was too familiar—he’d heard it at least twice a day during his out-of-control teenage years. “Assuming I agreed with your assessment—which I don’t, and as a nurse—”

  “Retired.” Jesus, he sounded as sulky as a kindergartner.

  His mother raised one eyebrow. She obviously recognized his tone from back in the day as well. “As a nurse, I hold myself a better judge of medical personnel than you or your sister. You know perfectly well that your father would never accept a new doctor. He doesn’t trust strangers.”

  “He learned to trust Toshiko with no problem.”

  “Yes, but we’ve both agreed that she’s a special case.” She pressed her lips together, an extra wrinkle folding the skin between her brows. “We can’t count on that happening with anybody else, especially a new medical provider.”

  “But—”

  “End of discussion.”

  Alex sighed. “Got it.” He retrieved his coffee and sat down next to her. “I’ll fix the porch this weekend.”

  “No! It’s not a big deal. Only cosmetic damage. It can wait.”

  “Mom—”

  “Alex.” She mimicked his warning tone. “Don’t worry about it. I mean it. When the weekend arrives, I want you to relax when you can, not deal with my foolishness. Promise me.”

  “But—”

  “I’m pulling rank on you, son. You are not to touch those steps, and if you have a chance for a little fun, take it. Understand?”

  His mouth twisted into a lopsided smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Gideon wasted zero time putting his plan into action. As soon as it was late enough, with the sun well above the trees, he called the Henning house. Alex’s mother picked up the phone, and he launched into his patented peppy song and dance.

  “Mrs. Henning. Hi. It’s Gideon Wallace. We met the other day, and I was so incredibly rude that I ran away.”

  “That’s all right.” Her voice sounded tired. Gideon wondered when she’d last gotten a good night’s sleep.<
br />
  “No, it most certainly is not. Now don’t be mad at your son, but he’s told me a little bit about what you’re going through.”

  “I see.” Oooh. That tone did not bode well for Alex.

  “I’d like to help.”

  “Thank you, but Ned . . . my husband doesn’t really do well with strangers.” Her voice broke on the last word. Poor baby. You’re a stranger now too, aren’t you?

  “I know. But the person I’d like to help is Y-O-U. Is there anyone who can stay with your husband today? Because if you don’t mind my saying so, you need a break.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, indeedy.” Gideon dialed up his cajoling tone. “How long has it been since you’ve had some good old-fashioned me time?”

  She chuckled. “I don’t remember.”

  “Then we sooo need to fix that. I’ve made a mani-pedi appointment for you at the salon where I go—I’m in dire need of a haircut and touch-up. We’ll hit the salon, do a little lunch, a bit of retail therapy—”

  “I don’t need anything.”

  “Fine, we’ll take shopping off the agenda. But you ask Lindsay about my mad spa-day skills. She’ll tell you I know how to do it right.”

  “I don’t need to.” He heard the smile in her voice. Score. “She told me about how you took care of her after Will left.”

  “So, is it a date?”

  “I do have someone coming by today who’s willing to sit with Ned for a few hours. So yes. Thank you. I’d love it.”

  On his way to Westmoreland that afternoon, Gideon took a little detour. If Mrs. Henning—Ruth—didn’t want to shop, she most definitely needed the boost that only something new and unnecessary could give a person, and he intended to deliver. When he parked his MINI in front of the Hennings’ house, Alex’s Charger was in the driveway.

  Uh-oh. Would he be okay with this? Gideon had wanted a chance to break the news of his plan in person. He’d learned the hard way that the Henning family did not like surprises any more than he did himself, no matter what Alex said when he was trying to wind Gideon up. But when he knocked on the front door, it wasn’t Ruth or even Alex who opened it.