The server arrived with their waters and a basket of breadsticks. Rafe snatched one and munched nonchalantly, still reading the menu. Mikey took off his jacket and glared at Rafe, shoving his hair out of his eyes when it fell over his forehead again. He resented Rafe’s presence, not to mention the feelings it had kicked up. And it was impossible to believe the guy didn’t have some kind of designs on Krissy.
Mikey wasn’t sure if it was some kind of primitive caveman impulse, but he felt the need to challenge Rafe. To prove he was a worthwhile candidate for Krissy’s attention.
The quiet stretched on, the same edgy silence they’d had in the car, until he finally blurted, “I’m more than a landscaper, you know.”
Rafe glanced up, one eyebrow lifted in amusement. “O-kay…”
The glib expression pissed Mikey off. He had something to prove here.
“We do full-on property management. Snow removal, spring and fall cleanups, lawn care, patio installation. That kind of stuff,” he said. “And what’s your problem with the church job? Some people actually like being a part of their religious community.”
Rafe held up his hands in surrender. “Hey. Chill. I didn’t mean anything by it, I swear. I was just surprised because Krissy hadn’t mentioned it.”
Mikey huffed out a breath, suddenly embarrassed he’d gotten so aggravated. The rise in temper was out of character for him. He’d always opted for flight instead of fight. Even when his parents got on his case about the whole dating thing, pleading with him to not make things harder for himself and to “just stick with girls, since you like them too”, he headed for Dean’s instead of arguing with them.
“Sorry,” he said.
Rafe’s smile hadn’t dulled. “No worries.” He lowered his hands and plucked another breadstick from the basket. “Honestly, I was really just shocked Krissy left anything out, with the way she hasn’t stopped talking about you.”
Hope flared in Mikey’s chest. “She hasn’t?”
Dark brows pressed together in a look of sympathetic mockery. “Duh.” Rafe offered him a devious grin. “You like her, don’t you.”
Mikey’s cheeks went hot. “Duh.”
“Good. Then this week will go swimmingly.”
Okay, so Rafe wanted him and Krissy together. Maybe the guy wasn’t all bad. Mikey exhaled, returning a more muted version of Rafe’s grin. His defensiveness seemed unfounded now that it didn’t appear Rafe was a threat. The rest…well, that was in his head. He could bury it.
He had plenty of practice, after all. He’d been doing it for years.
“About the church job,” Rafe said around a bite of cracker. “Are you…religious?”
“Sure. I mean, I’m not on my way to the Vatican or anything, but it’s an important part of my life.” Mikey glanced away, hoping Rafe couldn’t hear the hypocrisy in his words.
As a child, he’d loved everything about his church: the rituals of mass and communion, the safe, reliable routine of tradition. He’d accepted the teachings in the Bible too but had questioned them as he got older, especially when he got to college and found himself lusting after the wrong kind of flesh. Wanting a man went against everything he’d been taught. He’d had friends at school who scoffed at the idea of it being a sin, even attended a few of the on-campus’s Queer-Straight Alliance meetings at their prompting, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d put a blot on his soul.
Volunteering as the choir director made Mikey feel like he was at least doing something right. Like he was keeping a promise to God that he was a good person, even if the fantasies that still plagued him made him fear otherwise.
“The job isn’t really a religious thing. I only work with the clergy when I need to plan music for the services.”
“Gotcha,” Rafe said. A glance in Krissy’s direction was followed by another small lull in conversation. “You’ve lived in Maine all your life?”
“All my life.”
“You like it here?”
“I do. It’s nice, especially around the holidays, and my family’s business is a big part of the community. It’s impossible to feel lonely, living someplace where everybody knows you.”
More hypocrisy. The Pelletiers’ local celebrity status was the driving force behind his family’s arguments. And Mikey had never felt lonelier. All his closest friends had paired up—Dean was with Jamie, their other buddy Connor was out in Boston helping his fiancée Gabriella pack to move here, and Mikey was starting to worry he’d be spending the rest of his days alone.
Rafe crunched on the breadstick, dark eyes still fixed on him. Mikey fidgeted under the other man’s stare and said, “I guess that kind of life isn’t for everyone.”
Rafe huffed out a breath. “It certainly wasn’t for me.”
“You’re not originally from Queens?” He imagined Rafe born with a New Yorker’s street smarts, the kind of toughness you could only learn by living in a city filled with over eight million people.
The amusement on Rafe’s face faded, replaced by a casual expression of indifference. “I’m from the South,” he replied mildly. “Georgia.”
“Wow. I’d never have known. You don’t have an accent.”
Rafe laughed—a short, bitter sound. “I hope not. I spent a shit-ton of cash on a dialect coach to get rid of it.”
There was a haunted, faraway look in Rafe’s eyes, but it disappeared when Krissy bounded back to their table and plopped into the spot beside Mikey.
“We can all relax now,” she said, tugging off her jacket. “My parents have been temporarily placated.”
“Are they worried about you not being safe?” Mikey asked.
Krissy paused, her nose scrunching up. “It’s a long story.”
Rafe snorted and rolled his eyes. Clearly there was more to this, but Mikey knew what it was like to not want to discuss stuff when you weren’t ready. He was keeping things to himself too.
“I understand,” he said, and the way Krissy beamed at him warmed Mikey like sunlight on a cold day.
The server returned, and Krissy quickly perused her choices, insisting the two of them go first. They ordered a bevy of seafood, and Mikey promised to share some of his fisherman’s platter with her when it seemed to sway her decision to get the typical Maine standards of clam chowder and a lobster roll.
The server stepped away, and Mikey forced himself to start asking questions.
“So how did you two meet?” If there was a shot at him being more comfortable, he needed all the information he could get. “You said you were in a show?”
Krissy started fiddling with her straw wrapper. “Yes, the summer after my sophomore year.”
“At Tisch?”
She shook her head. “No, Rafe was a few years ahead of me, and this show was way too risqué to be NYU approved.”
And there went the becoming-more-comfortable portion of the program. “Risqué?”
Krissy ducked her head. She hid her face behind her hair, apparently too flustered to answer.
Rafe leaned in instead, arms crossing over the table, and Mikey’s stomach flip-flopped at the slightly sinister lift of the other man’s brow.
“The show was called ‘The Theory of Deviance’,” he said. “Written and directed by one of my friends who minored in psych. It was one of those too-smart-for-its-own-good, socially expressive plays showcasing behavior that violates societal norms. How people are born deviant but try to rise above it, not following through on their desires because of things like values, morality, religion.” Rafe chuckled, dark eyes flashing. “It’s a real theory about human behavior, but my buddy pushed the envelope with his interpretation. No Equity actors worth their salt were coming out for auditions, so I went back to my alma mater and put up a flyer.”
He looked over at Krissy, and his gaze softened in a way that made jealousy spark once again in Mikey’s gut. “Th
is one showed up and was cast in a scene about a threesome.”
The spark switched from envy to arousal. “With girls, or…guys?”
Krissy rubbed her lips together. Mikey stared at her mouth for a moment, mesmerized.
“Guys,” she said, and Mikey tried to will away the semi pressing against his zipper. “But it was just acting. We weren’t actually doing anything, although I did freak out a bit during the audition.” She laughed and blushed. “I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Someone had to talk me down.”
Rafe snickered. They exchanged glances, but before Mikey’s jealousy had a chance to go from simmer to boil, Krissy turned his way.
“It was a short run. Only two weekends of performances. I didn’t even tell my family about it. I just did it hoping it would get me over my stage fright. Didn’t really work though.”
“You have stage fright?” Mikey asked. She was so outgoing, he couldn’t imagine her being intimidated by anything.
Krissy wove the wrapper around her fingers. “I’ve been dancing forever so I can do that okay, but my acting skills aren’t great and my voice needs serious work.”
“She’s wrong,” Rafe said.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Whatever.” Krissy dropped the wrapper and rolled her eyes, but Rafe was smiling at her.
“She has an amazing voice,” he said. “It’s the only reason I haven’t tried to scare her off acting entirely. She’ll probably get a lead somewhere right out of college, which is more than I can say for myself.”
“You’ll get another show,” Krissy insisted. Their banter was like watching a tennis match, something Mikey wasn’t involved in until she glanced up at him. “Mikey sings, you know. Not only for the church job. He minored in music at school.”
Now it was Mikey’s turn to blush. “I only sing when I’m teaching. Mostly I play guitar.”
“You never wanted to perform?” Rafe asked.
“Nah, just love music. The first time I sang in four-part harmony, I thought I’d witnessed a miracle.”
Rafe’s lips turned up at the edges. It was the same fond grin he’d given Krissy. “Now that, I understand.”
He looked away, but the echo of his smile remained in Mikey’s vision.
The server returned with their meals. Krissy cooed over the food, insisting on trying a bit of everyone’s before starting a full-on inquisition about the local lobstering business. Mikey wasn’t an expert on the subject, but he knew enough, and by the time they’d finished eating, she’d decided she wanted a trap of her own to bring home with her.
“We could go fishing in the Hudson,” she said when they drove back to the apartment. “There might be untapped resources. Ones nobody knows about. We’d make a killing!”
Her unbridled enthusiasm was charming. She was a whirling dervish of energy, taking the stairs two at a time and hollering from the landing that she’d beat them.
Once they’d gotten inside and hung up their coats, Rafe collapsed onto the armchair. “The night’s still young. What’s next?”
Mikey had hoped next would be Rafe leaving him and Krissy alone again.
No such luck, apparently. But Mikey didn’t want to be rude.
“We can watch another movie,” he said, then nodded to Dean and Jamie’s new collection of board games, the Christmas-slash-thank-you-for-this-week gift he’d given them. “Or play one of those?”
“Actually,” Krissy said. “Would it be okay if I did yoga for a bit?”
She’d told him about her daily practice. He admired her diligence, even though he’d never been a fan of exercise himself. Dean had gotten into lifting lately and had invited Mikey to join, but that sounded about as appealing as a root canal after long days spent doing manual labor.
Krissy working out was different though. He would’ve preferred to be spending quality time with her, but watching her bend and stretch would be kinda hot.
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll move the table so you have room.”
She skipped off to the bedroom to change. Rafe remained in the chair and pulled out his phone again while Mikey maneuvered furniture around.
“You need help with that?” Rafe asked distractedly.
“Got it,” Mikey grunted. He might not have muscles to spare, but he could move a table two feet, thank you very much.
Krissy emerged from the bedroom a few minutes later, barefoot in bright pink leggings and an oversized purple shirt that said “Yoga Girls are Twisted”.
Mikey snickered at the logo, only stealing a glance at the rest of her body after she’d plugged in her ear buds and bent down to unroll her mat. Tiny waist. Shapely hips and thighs, calves strong from her dance training, her body a perfect hourglass shape. Why had he passed up the opportunity to kiss her earlier?
Oh, right. Because he was a stupid, stupid nice guy. And because of other things. Things sitting in the middle of the living room.
Knowing he needed to keep himself busy for a while, Mikey retrieved his guitar from its spot in the corner. He’d brought it over yesterday, hoping he’d get to show Krissy some of the new stuff he was working on for the choir. He sat down on the futon, took a few minutes to tune it, then began plucking out the notes of R.E.M.’s “Losing My Religion”.
Mikey’s musical tastes were varied—everything from pop to alternative to country, although the last had always been his favorite. He thought the kids would get into this song though, and hummed along as he played, making mental notes of where he could split the group. He started singing at the chorus, and Rafe surprised him by joining in, picking the higher notes in harmony. Krissy had her hands braced on the ground and one leg in the air, but she popped her ear buds out and turned her head their way to listen.
They continued into the next verse, but Rafe stared at his phone the whole time, as if singing was something he just did without noticing or needing to concentrate. His breath control was impressive too, his voice softer than Mikey would’ve expected.
It sent a chill through Mikey, reminding him of that first time he’d sung with the choir—the notes playing off one another, voices intermingling to create a perfectly meshed melody. It also brought back memories of another time and place. Of singing with another man and losing himself to the music. To the inescapable, unrelenting feeling of wanting something he shouldn’t.
It was a feeling that needed to go away. Now.
When they finished the piece, Rafe met his gaze. “Do you know what that song’s about?” he asked quietly.
“Sure.” Mikey always did his research before bringing a song to work. “The video had religious undertones, but Michael Stipe said it was about having a crush. About being boxed in by your feelings and worrying about putting yourself out there, telling the other person how you feel.”
He cast a sideways glimpse toward Krissy. Despite her upside-down position, her shoulders crept up to her ears in flushed pleasure.
“Maybe that’s what he told the press,” Rafe said. “But Stipe is from Georgia. ‘Losing your religion’ is a southern expression about being pushed to the end of your rope. So far that it completely destroys your faith.”
Across the room, Krissy’s body went rigid. Everything got very quiet.
“I guess that’s one interpretation,” Mikey said.
Rafe stared at the ground, his brows drawn tightly together, lips pursed in a frown. “Yeah.”
Then Rafe’s phone rang. One look at his screen, and his demeanor completely shifted, that carefree smile returning as he picked up the call.
“Merrick!” Rafe sprang from his chair and sauntered toward the bedroom. “Yeah, I’m in town. You coming through for me tomorrow?” A pause was followed by laughter. “I meant with the tickets, you freak.”
He closed the door behind him.
Mikey took a deep breath. Krissy had
plugged her headphones in again, her body in a triangle and her palm reaching toward the ceiling. He didn’t want to bother her with asking what Rafe meant by his comment, so he strummed through several more songs while she finished her routine. A light sheen of sweat was on her forehead when she rolled up her mat and plopped down next to him.
“You have a very pretty voice,” she said.
Mikey felt his cheeks heat. He placed the guitar on the floor. “Thank you.”
She curled her legs under her and cocked her head to the side. “I don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“How the music and the landscaping jobs come together.”
“Simple. The landscaping pays the bills. The music doesn’t.” It was an easier explanation than the truth.
“But you live with your folks. They don’t charge you rent, do they?”
They didn’t, only asking him to pay his share of the utilities, but that wasn’t the reason he was still at home. Sure, he could’ve found a place to rent. Could’ve spent some of the cash he’d saved up on a used car instead of riding his bike everywhere. He would’ve liked to have said he had a plan, that he was saving money for something, but the reality was he hated being alone.
“No, but they wouldn’t be so keen on me abandoning the business and still living there while I found something else. And I don’t know if I want to. I like working in nature, when it doesn’t beat up my hands, that is.”
He tried to hide his hands between his knees, not wanting her to see how the winter weather had toughened skin already calloused skin from playing guitar, but Krissy’s gaze dropped down to them anyway. With slow movements, she reached over and stroked the knuckles on his right hand.
Her gentle touch was soothing. Mikey eased his hand out from where it had been trapped and turned it over. Krissy paused and gazed at him with those wide eyes of hers, vivid purple framed by dark lashes. Her hand hovered over his in a move that asked for permission.
He nodded, too quickly. Too eagerly, but he didn’t care. This felt natural with her. It felt right.
The Theory of Deviance: Portland Rebels, Book 3 Page 4
