Out in the Open

by A. J. Truman

  “Ethan. Just Ethan,” he snapped back and then shushed him.

  “That’s so boring.”

  “It works for me,” Ethan said in a gritted whisper. “We have our first paper due next week. It wouldn’t kill you to pay attention.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “As long as I pass, that’s all I care about. In the real world, nobody cares about your GPA.”

  Ethan slammed down his pen. Out of all the crap Greg spewed, that was the most ludicrous. “Oh, really? Then how will you get into a top law school?”

  “A good internship and kickass LSAT scores. Not by killing myself for these four years.” He sat up in his seat, and Ethan noticed his pecs pulling against his shirt. “Don’t piss away the one time of your time when you have total freedom and no real responsibility except living it up.”

  “You are just full of positivity.” That had sounded much better in Ethan’s head.

  “Just the truth. College is a reward for working hard in high school, which I did. Do you really want to be one of those kids who spends college in a library?”

  “I think our library is pretty.”

  “You know what I mean.” Greg waved it off. “I’m trying to be nice and help you out. Ride the wave.”

  “You’re just trying to distract me.”

  “You’ve stumbled onto my evil plan.” Greg lifted his shirt to scratch his stomach, giving Ethan an extended glimpse of his abs. And then he yawned, not covering his mouth. “It’s too easy teasing you, dude. Take some deep breaths once in a while.”

  Ethan didn’t say anything. He turned back to his notes. He knew why Greg didn’t need to do any work. It was a dirty not-so-secret that fraternities kept their brothers’ old papers and tests to use in the future. Since Sharpe probably didn’t change the curriculum much year to year, he figured that Greg already had all the papers and test materials he needed to pass. Guys like him didn’t have to do any real work. They could coast on their charm, their connections, and their looks. And then they used their old-boys network to get great jobs. Well, Ethan would work harder than all of them.

  So he stayed quiet. He took the high road. Ethan listened to his professor, followed the PowerPoint, felt the knowledge pouring into him.

  A few minutes later, he got a whiff of body spray as Greg leaned over. What now?

  “Sharpe always begins class at 9:50. He believes that being punctual means showing up early, being extra-prepared or some bullshit like that.” Greg’s voice vibrated in Ethan’s ear, sending a trail of goose bumps prickling down his back. “All the suck-ups get here by 9:30, in case you were feeling left out.”

  Greg shot him a smirk with raised eyebrows. At least Ethan knew why he was such a latecomer now.

  “I can’t get here by 9:30.”

  “Then I guess you’re stuck with me for the rest of the quarter.”

  Maybe that’s not so bad was the first thought that jumped into his mind, and he instantly shook it out. Get it together, Ethan!

  Greg kept looking at him, like he was waiting for a response, a continuation of their back-and-forth.

  “I need to concentrate,” Ethan said and returned his attention to Professor Sharpe’s lecture.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Later that day, Ethan went to the gym to do his usual forty-five minutes on the elliptical while reading for class. He never got much read—textbook materials were usually too dense to focus on while running—but he still liked being productive.

  He tried reading over the Constitutional Law textbook, which struggled to stay on the bookrest on his machine. The plastic bar holding it up looked like it was going to snap any second, so he put it down and took out the PowerPoint printout from that day’s lecture. Professor Sharpe would probably pull any test material from the notes rather than the book. He promised himself that he would do all the textbook reading later.

  He walked past the weight room on his way to the stretching room, and there, working some dumbbells, were Greg and an Indian guy. Greg wore a T-shirt that left his muscular arms in full view. Sweat mussed up his hair, and he stared into the mirror with an intense look as he lifted the weights, his triceps flexing with each rep. The other guy texted on his phone with one hand while doing half-hearted dumbbell lifts with the other.

  Ethan hadn’t thought Greg could be that intense and focused about anything. Apparently, he was wrong. Very wrong. Ethan walked slowly to the stretching room to take in a few extra seconds of Greg in his weight-training glory. He knew he would never have a body like that, but it didn’t hurt to admire the guys who did.

  Ethan stretched and did some sit-ups and push-ups. This had been a great day thus far. He’d learned, he’d studied, he’d done homework, and he’d worked out. All major boxes had been checked off.

  When he finished, he walked to the back of the locker room. The sound of a loud guy telling a story wafted from his row. Ethan dreaded having to change next to guys like this. Instead of changing in peace, he had to actively try to drown out the voices. He felt awkward, like he was interrupting their conversation or becoming a de facto third wheel. Ethan reached his row and froze.

  The loud guy was Greg’s friend. And Greg was next to him. Shirtless.

  Greg greeted him with a head nod, but Ethan couldn’t manage a smile. Some feeling paralyzed him—fear, nervousness…something else? His face drained of all color, and he immediately looked down, though not before glimpsing Greg’s muscular, cut chest.

  “Do you remember that hot chick in that polka-dot shirt, tits nearly hanging out?” The friend estimated the size of her breasts. “She was at that stoplight party, and we totally hooked up. Dude, she was such a nice piece.”

  “Excuse me,” Ethan said. It came out as a mumbled whisper. He motioned to the locker right next to theirs, which of course just had to be his today. He squeezed in the middle.

  “Sure.” Greg nodded at him like nothing was wrong. Nothing was wrong. They were in a locker room. People get changed in locker rooms all the time. This was all perfectly acceptable behavior, Ethan assured himself.

  Ethan hated these situations. He worried that guys would instantly know he was gay and demand that he leave. Or worse. He never sneaked a peek or anything like that. This was a delicate situation—gay and straight men in a locker room. He had to handle it just right. Not make others uncomfortable and not let on that he totally was. He wondered if he was the only gay guy who felt that way.

  Greg undid his sneakers. “You gonna see her again, Sahil?”

  Sahil kept mum, and Greg punched him in the shoulder playfully. It looked to Ethan like it would’ve hurt at least a little. Not that he was looking at them. Nope. Not at all. Ethan focused every ounce of eyesight on a peeled strip of gray paint on his locker.

  “So that was who you were texting during our workout.”

  “Hey, man, I still worked out my left arm,” Sahil said.

  “I’m sure you’ll work out your right tonight. Alone.”

  Ethan opened his locker. He sat on the bench, inches from both of them. Sahil took off his shorts, and then Greg did the same.

  Greg was now in nothing but boxer briefs. White boxer briefs that hugged his butt, forming this perfect curve. It was like an upside-down question mark. Ethan used all his willpower to avert his eyes. He’s an asshole. He’s mean to me, Ethan repeated to himself.

  “Still hitting the books?” Greg asked him. Ethan had to look up. He’d been asked a question. His heart galloped in his chest.

  He caught a glance of Greg’s broad chest, a drop of sweat trickling down each well-defined muscle and ab, before making eye contact. He wondered how long it’d taken Greg to get that body or if it was another gift of birth.

  Ethan patted his law textbook, bringing him back to the present. “Yeah. I tried. I just read the outline.”

  “’Atta boy,” Greg said with a wink that made Ethan’s blood rush through his face. And elsewhere.

  Ethan
untied his shoes. He would take his time and avoid going shirtless in front of these guys. His slender torso had some definition, but nothing like what he was facing. Or not facing. Because he wasn’t looking.

  He’s an asshole. He’s mean to me.

  Sahil’s booming voice chimed back in, and Ethan gladly hid behind it. “Dude, what happened to that blonde you were talking to at the party?”

  Greg shrugged, and Ethan caught a flash of discomfort squeeze onto his face. “She was all right. We’ve been texting.”

  “That’s it, Sandman? I thought you’d already found out if the carpet matched the drapes.”

  “I’ll keep you posted.”

  “You’re slipping,” Sahil said with a slight edge.

  “Still got a better game than you. Although not as good a game as Wendell Sharpe.”

  Ethan realized that was for him. They were waiting for his response. Heat choked his neck. “Um, yeah.”

  “Have fun studying,” Greg said.

  “I’m going to read the textbook later.”

  “Okay.”

  “I will.” That came out as a yelp. Ethan cringed and looked forward to some privacy.

  “I believe you.” Greg pointed at him. Ethan felt so small. “Happy studying, Ethan.”

  Greg wrapped his waist in a towel and tossed his boxer briefs in his locker. The towel hung just under that heavenly V that his abs formed—a “happy trail” was what he’d heard some girls in his dorm call it. His eyes burned with want. Only for Greg’s body, he told himself. Everything else about him could be recycled.

  Ethan waited until the guys left for the shower. He took off his sweat-soaked shirt and placed it in a plastic grocery bag before putting it in his locker. He slyly turned his head to glance behind him, wanting to make sure they both were fully gone.

  Behind him, Greg strutted to the showers, taking wide steps that would’ve moved any guy to get out of his way. He removed his towel, and Ethan viewed the nicest ass he’d ever seen. Round, firm, everything he expected and more. You could bounce your entire piggy bank off that thing. A buzz of energy surged through Ethan’s body, giving his heart a real workout compared to the elliptical.

  And then Greg looked over his shoulder.

  Their eyes locked, and Ethan felt a police spotlight shine on him. He’d been caught! Was he staring? Oh crap! How long had that glimpse lasted?

  Greg had no smirk, no eyebrow raise this time. And just as quickly as he’d turned around, Greg entered the shower. That two seconds stretched to an hour in Ethan’s mind. He couldn’t gauge Greg’s reaction. He’d seemed to be just as surprised as Ethan.

  Heat burned up Ethan’s face, and all air escaped his lungs. He’d broken the number one of the locker room. There’s no way he could ever come back here. No way he could return to Constitutional Law. He might as well move out of state.

  He changed into his clothes in a matter of seconds, shoved everything into his backpack and dashed out of there while Greg, thankfully, was still in the shower.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ethan ran through the gym lobby and out the double doors. He almost knocked over an old man, presumably there to use the sauna. Why couldn’t that guy have been in the locker room? Ethan never would’ve given him a second glance. Why had it had to be Greg? Of all eight thousand undergrads and five thousand grad students, why him?

  The inner-campus shuttle stopped at the curb, but Ethan needed to walk this off. He forced one foot in front of the other at a clip, traveling down the riverfront path that ran through the heart of the North Campus.

  He felt a tsunami of relief when he got to his dorm, safely nestled within South Campus. He bumped into a student in the lobby by the dorm lounge and exchanged quick hellos. If Ethan had been in a better mood, he would have gladly kept talking, but he used the “just came from gym/exhausted” excuse and charged up the stairs to his room.

  And he locked the door.

  He was home. Away from the gym, from Greg, away from the pitchforks and punches that were sure to come his way once it got out that Ethan Follett gawked at naked guys in the locker room.

  “I wasn’t gawking!” he said aloud. It was a one-second glance to check if the coast was clear. And Greg’s amazing ass got in the way.

  Amazing ass. Awful person attached.

  He collapsed onto his bed and took deep, calming breaths he’d learned from a brief flirtation with yoga last year. He thanked the housing gods he’d gotten a single this year, the last one available in his dorm. Had he been one number lower in the lottery, he would’ve had to share a room with Malcolm Czerny, whose body odor entered a room three seconds before he did.

  Ethan reached for his iPad under his pillow and searched for Greg online. He only had a little information, but that was enough to pull up the guy’s social media profile.

  Greg Sanderson. Senior. From Short Pump, Virginia. A few seconds in Google Maps assured Ethan that Short Pump wasn’t hick country, but instead a well-to-do suburb of Washington, D.C. His profile picture was him skiing with his friends. He wore wraparound shades that somehow brought out his pronounced jawline.

  Ethan made his way to the rest of the photos. They were all very typical pictures. Greg didn’t break the mold of rich fratboy; he was the mold. Ethan clicked through pictures of him at parties, him doing a kegstand, him on the beach. In all of them, he was in a group of at least five people. Lemmings. They travelled in packs. And to Ethan’s secret dismay, Greg was fully clothed in all of them.

  One picture did stick out from the monotony. Greg was in an elementary school classroom, squatting next to the pint-sized desks and posing with two little girls. It was a sweeter side that Ethan didn’t know Greg was capable of at all.

  He laid back on his bed. It was that four o’clock lull in the day, and he let his tiredness creep over him like a blanket. His mind flooded with different images, but they all came back to one.

  Greg’s ass.

  Ethan kept thinking about it, thinking about doing more than thinking about it. When you had a body like Greg Sanderson’s, it was meant to be ogled and objectified. Straight guys did this to girls all the time; now it was their turn.

  Ethan’s lower half tingled, a sensation flooded through him. To one part in particular. Greg’s profile stared back at him from the iPad, and Ethan got lost in those brown eyes for a moment. They were dark and deep, like black holes that couldn’t help but suck Ethan in immediately.

  Maybe Greg hadn’t even noticed Ethan looking at him at all.

  What if he knew I was looking at his profile now? Ethan turned off his iPad just to be sure.

  Φ

  A burst of gold and orange setting sun flooded through his window, waking Ethan from his nap. He decided to go to the dining hall solo. His friends were busy with newspaper stuff on Thursday nights, so he was on his own. He wasn’t a fan of eating dinner alone. It brought back too many memories of lonely lunch days in the high school cafeteria. At least in college, kids drifted into the dining hall over a two-hour period, and many of them ate while studying or checking their phones. College dining halls were a place to eat, not a social scene.

  He scooped pasta Bolognese onto his plate but then imagined his less-than-impressive physique next to Greg’s. He opted for salad and grilled chicken instead. And a caramel brownie. He could indulge a little.

  Ethan scoped out the scene in the half-empty seating area. This was college, he reminded himself. Nobody cared where you sat. He spotted some guys from his dorm at a table in the center, guys he knew and said hi to in the bathroom, but was he good enough friends with them to just walk over and join their table? Ethan wasn’t sure of the etiquette, and he didn’t want to risk the awkward looks if he asked.

  Why risk it? All I’m doing is eating.

  He grabbed a table against the wall, under a photograph of students from the 1950s. Ethan wondered when men stopped wearing blazers all the time.

  He dug into his salad and savored the tangy flavor of the chicken, wa
tching the last bits of sun drift below the horizon. It was a relaxing end to a very eventful day.

  Or so Ethan thought.

  “Hey, is this seat taken?” Preston asked, fingers tapping against the chair right next to Ethan.

  He nearly choked on his salad, but he forced his head to nod. Preston smiled with gratitude, and he couldn’t help notice what a benign and kind smile Preston had. He was a good guy. Not like Greg’s know-it-all smirk.

  “Yeah. Go for it.” Ethan moved his water glass and brushed aside any stray crumbs, everything short of rolling out a red carpet.

  Preston set down his tray and sat mere inches away. Ethan couldn’t believe his luck. He had to seize this opportunity.

  “I lucked out. The stir-fry chef is here tonight. I always forget which day he’s here,” Preston said.

  “Monday and Thursday.”

  Preston mixed his vegetables with his rice. “Thank goodness it’s Thursday.”

  Ethan nodded. And here’s where his mind went blank, as it always did. So many sharp opening lines, so many comments and conversation starters circled inside his head. But it was like they were spinning so fast that they all mushed together to form this indecipherable gray matter. Ethan did not lose the irony of his gray matter running around in his brain’s gray matter. At least he could entertain himself.

  “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with dining hall food,” Preston said. He wiped the corners of his mouth after taking a huge bite. He wolfed down food with such class.

  “Did you know that the company that provides the dining hall catering also services the Pennsylvania prison system?” Ethan didn’t know how he remembered that, but he’d pulled it out of some dusty drawer in his memory.

  “Ha! That makes a lot of sense actually.” Preston laughed to himself as he took a drink of his water.

  I made Preston laugh! Everything is happening!

  Ethan tried to keep the momentum going. I’ll bet my parents would love knowing I eat as well as prisoners, he thought. But instead, it came out like, “I mean, it’s funny because prisoners are eating the same food as us, but we’re paying tuition.”