by Barbara Bell
“Good.” She hauled her box towards a spot on the shelf. “Give us a hand, would ya?”
You’re not fired. That’s all that matters. That’s all that should matter. He sucked in a breath, straightened, and finally took a good look at what Becca was doing. “Those are Kate’s sex toys.”
“Yeah. How did you know?”
“Lucky guess.” He abandoned the counter, walked towards her, and stopped by the box to pull out a lumpy malformed hunk of glass. Kate hadn’t been lying. It was bad. Really bad. Yet there was Becca, forcing a grin as if they were the newest vibrators shipped over from Germany.
“They’re kinda funky, right?” Becca said.
Funky. Not the word he would use. He put the mangled dildo back in the box. “I didn’t think it was possible to make glass this ugly.”
“Hey! No! It’s . . . well.” She made a face. “Okay, I know, I just want to make her happy. Making these are what made her want to open a sex shop in the first place, and now she can’t even have them out in the open anymore because of the baby.” The idea that Kate wouldn’t be able to have a shelf full of homemade glass dildos seemed to truly be tragic in Becca’s eyes. “Can’t you help me put them on display? Who knows? Maybe someone will buy them all.”
“Wow,” he said. “You’re in love with Kate.”
“What? I am not!”
“Yeah, you are. You’re planning on displaying and buying a bunch of really freaky toys just to make her happy. Don’t try to deny it. I know you. I know the way you think.”
Becca’s expression could have been printed in the dictionary beside the definition of guilty. “I . . . I guess I . . .”
He rubbed his brows. “Talk to her. Seriously.”
“It’s not—”
“It is. It seriously is that easy.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Becca snapped. “You don’t get to lecture me on not talking to people. You’re the one who didn’t know you were going on a date until—I assume—the guy shoved his tongue down your throat.”
“It wasn—”
“And this isn’t Mr. Cute-Eyes we’re talking about. This isn’t some new pretty face you can seduce with a pride parade. This is Kate. And I don’t mean that in an ‘oh my gosh, she’s my boss’ sort of way. I mean it in a—”
Quickly, “Mick isn’t just a pretty face.”
“Come on. You don’t know who he is. I know Kate. I—”
“I know who he is.”
“No, you don’t and, hell, this isn’t important.” She sighed and her shoulders slumped, the anger ebbing out of her as quickly as it had come. “The last thing I want to do is fight with you, Joey. I just want to make Kate happy. That’s the reason why I took these.”
“And that’s the reason why she let you take them,” Joey said sharply, not as finished with this fight as she was. “She knows you’re trying to make her happy. She knows you don’t like them or the beer. She knows everything except whether or not you like her, so why don’t you tell her how much you dig her instead of getting me to lie for you?”
“You don’t—”
“I do know that! And you know how? Because she just told me.”
Becca looked stunned. “She just told you . . . Wait. What did she tell you?”
“That she likes you. That she doesn’t know if you like her.”
“She . . . Oh.” Becca didn’t look stunned anymore. She looked utterly floored. “Oh.”
“All you need to do is tell her you like her. You do that, and all this bullshit goes away. That’s all you need to—” The words caught in his throat and echoed in his head with a cold brutal honesty. Do it and all this bullshit goes away.
She was staring at him. “Joey?”
He shoved his hands into his pockets and started towards the door.
“Joey. Wait, I—”
He strode down the steps, stepped onto the street, and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He didn’t text Mick. He called him.
Mick answered on the first ring. “Hey, Joey. I—”
“I like you.”
He heard Mick’s inhale over the speakers.
“I do,” he pushed on before Mick could say anything. “I like you. I’ve liked you since the first moment you looked at me. I’m not kidding, all you had to do was look at me and I was finished.” A deep breath. “But you didn’t just look at me. You came back, you talked to me, you took me to Mardi Gras, and now I know you’re a whole lot more than a sexy pair of eyes. You’re smart and fun and dorky and it’s messing me up because I’m not sure if I’m allowed to be telling you these things. I’m not sure if I’m even allowed to be feeling these things. I’m not sure I’m allowed to like you. I mean, what are we doing?” His voice was tight. “You have a boyfriend.”
“Joey,” Mick said. “It’s . . . It’s not like that.”
“What is it like?”
“I—” Mick was struggling. “I—I don’t—”
“You and your boyfriend are long-distance now, right?” Joey asked, hating the small spark of hope he could hear in his voice. “Is this, like, an arrangement you made? You can see other people while you’re apart?”
“No.” Mick said the word with unambiguous finality, and Joey’s heart sunk. It wasn’t that he wanted to be an agreed-upon extra in Mick’s relationship. It was that the other option was worse. Much worse.
“It’s not what you think,” Mick continued. “It really isn’t. I—I just—”
“Wait.” Joey stopped him. “I need you to listen to this.” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “I work in a sex shop.”
Mick sounded confused. “I know.”
“Sometimes where I work gives people ideas about who I am,” Joey said. “And . . . and I just want you to know that I’m not that guy. Sure, I try to be fun and friendly, and I’m not exactly a virgin or anything but—”
“Joey.”
“—I’m not the guy you can cheat on your boyfriend with.” Except he was. It had happened. There was no changing that. “I don’t want to be that guy,” he amended, quieter. “And if that’s what we’re doing, if that’s what we are, then I don’t think—”
“Joey.” There was something different about the way Mick said his name this time. Not louder. Just . . . different.
Joey stopped.
“That’s not what you are.” Mick’s voice crackled over the speaker. “That’s . . . Shit. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I . . . This is such a mess.”
Joey’s heart was in his stomach.
“I will explain everything,” Mick told him in a voice that sounded like he was talking as much to himself as he was to Joey. “I promise. I can’t do it right now.”
“Why?”
“I just can’t.”
“Why?”
“I—I just can’t. Please, Joey. You have to trust me here.” Trust me. Those were the words he had said before they’d had sex on the showroom floor.
“When?”
“Tonight.” Mick seemed relieved at the reprieve. “I’ll come to Cutie Pies after work and tell you everything. I promise.”
Joey stayed in the shop longer than usual, waiting for Mick. For the first ten minutes, he really did think Mick would show up. For the second, he wasn’t so sure. When the clock ticked over to half past, he quietly resigned himself to the fact that Mick wasn’t coming.
Well, at least that’s the end of that.
It disturbed him how disappointed he was as he pulled his backpack out from behind the counter, turned off the lights, and walked down the steps in the dark. He shouldn’t be. Mick didn’t owe him anything. They had been on exactly one date and that date had been to the Mardi Gras Parade. Perhaps it had been the celebration of love and sexuality, perhaps it was being able to walk through streets crowded with queer people, or perhaps it had just been the bright colours and loud music. Mardi Gras had a way of stripping back inhibitions and making people do things, and even feel things, in the heat of the moment that weren’t true the next day.
&
nbsp; It’d felt like something real when he’d kissed Mick, like something powerful when they’d fallen to the floor together. But that didn’t mean it had been.
For Mick, it was probably a regret. A mistake he would put aside so he could be with his boyfriend. It’s better this way, Joey thought grimly. He was too young and dumb to keep up with Mick anyway.
He was outside and cursing under his breath at the sticky lock when he felt it. A small tap on his shoulder.
He looked up and there, standing on the pavement, was Mick. Geeky oversized T-shirt, scruffy blue jeans, and dark eyes. Mick.
Mick smiled. “Hey.”
“Fuck. Mick.” A surge of warmth. “I didn’t think you were . . .” Joey abandoned the lock and stepped forward, one arm reaching for the other man. Then, all at once, his brain caught up with his body, and he froze. What was he doing? Was he stepping forward for a hug? A kiss? A handshake? Which of those things, if any, would Mick welcome?
But now he was hesitating, and that was even worse because it meant he was standing, arm halfway extended like an idiot.
Mick’s smile slipped away. “Are you okay?”
“Yep!” Joey said, voice a little high. “Fine. Just fine.”
Okay, Mick was definitely looking at him weirdly now. Time to pull back and regroup.
“Hold on just one sec.” Joey spun around to face the door. He took his time locking it and then making sure it was locked. When he finally turned back to Mick, he was composed. Or as composed as he was going to get. “So, eh, I guess we’ve got some things to talk about.”
“I guess so.”
“So do you—”
“Can I say something?”
“Sure.”
“I . . . I just . . .” Mick was blushing again. “I’m sorry. You’ve been nothing but amazing to me, and I feel like I’ve done nothing but screw up with you. The truth is, I’ve been going through some stuff, and I . . . well . . .” That blush was getting darker. “I didn’t expect to meet you. I didn’t expect to like you. I really didn’t expect you to like me. I didn’t expect any of this.”
A pause.
A long pause.
A pause that Joey was starting to suspect might be his cue to speak, when Mick opened his mouth. “Do you want to get dinner? My treat.”
Joey blinked. “Huh?”
“Dinner,” Mick said again. “Do you want to? I understand if you don’t. I know there is a lot we still have to talk about. I just thought it would be nice to do it at a restaurant. We’ve never sat down somewhere quiet, and I think I would like to.” His eyes were studying Joey’s face. “If that’s okay with you.”
“Um.” Somehow this was not how he had imagined this going. “Yeah. Okay,” he said, uncertain. “Somewhere quiet. That could be nice.”
Ten minutes later, they were standing in Oxford Street’s very own tiki bar, complete with scary Hawaiian masks, bamboo benches, and cocktails with little umbrellas in them. A waitress with a flower chain around her neck led them to a crocodile-themed booth and took their orders on a notepad shaped like a banana leaf.
“So . . .” Joey said as the woman walked away. “This is your idea of quiet?”
“No.” Mick looked mortified, not to mention tiny thanks to the too-low seat and the too-high table. “I’m sorry. I’ve never come here before. This is—”
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!” a large man in a bright shirt called from a makeshift stage at the back of the venue. “Hope you’re having a great Monday night. Here’s some music to help get you party people in the mood.” He picked up a tired ukulele, closed his eyes, and—to Joey’s horror—began to sing the first few chords of Blue Hawaii.
“—a bit more than I expected,” Mick finished with a sigh. “Sorry. I just Googled places near where you work and this one seemed a bit more low-key.”
“Hm.” Joey pursed his lips and considered the garish decorations, over-the-top theme, and the not-quite Elvis singing on stage. “Yeah. If low-key was what you were going for, I think you might have missed the mark.” He forced his eyes and ears away from everything else and focused his attention on Mick. “But, hey, I don’t think anyone’s going to notice us here, so I guess it kind of works.”
“I guess.”
“So . . .” He leaned on the table. “You said we could talk?”
Mick bowed his head. “I did.”
“Cool. So . . .” Joey wasn’t sure what to say. He felt like a turtle on its back. Dumb, lost, and helpless. “You said your boyfriend didn’t care about us,” he began. “Is that like . . . an arrangement you guys have or . . .”
Mick slowly shook his head.
Joey’s heart sank. “Um. Okay. So, honestly, are you cheating on him with me right now?”
Mick opened his mouth, hesitated, then, again, shook his head.
Joey took some time to process that.
Mick waited.
“Is he real?” Joey finally asked. “I mean, if he isn’t, I’m not going to judge you. It’s a little weird, lying about a partner, but you were buying a dildo and—”
“He’s real,” Mick promised, voice grave.
“Oh . . .” Joey didn’t know what else to ask.
Mick sighed. “The truth is, my boyfriend isn’t . . . well . . . he hasn’t always been the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Something about the way Mick said that, about the way he had clearly changed the wording halfway through the sentence, settled like a rock in the pit of Joey’s stomach.
“And,” Mick continued, “I never told him I was moving to Sydney. I just left. I kept thinking he would miss me and call to ask where I was.” His eyes dropped to the table. “It’s been six weeks. Nothing yet.”
The table dipped into silence. Joey realised he was holding his breath and deliberately let it out.
“So,” Mick said with what sounded like forced nonchalance, “I guess what I told you before was true. He doesn’t care.”
“Shit, Mick, that’s—”
The waitress chose that moment to return with two drinks balanced on an oversized tray. Mick was given an iced tea with one-too-many mint leaves floating in it, and Joey an orange juice served in a coconut shell. Because that made sense.
“It sounds silly,” Mick said as the waitress retreated. “Me being angry at him not calling. It’s such a minor issue, especially compared to some of the other things. But I can’t keep fighting for him. I can’t. Especially if he’s not going to fight for me. So, the truth is, I don’t have a boyfriend. Not anymore.”
Joey had a feeling he would regret asking. “What other things?”
Mick’s gaze met his, then flicked down. “You want to know?”
Yes. No. I don’t know. “Yes.”
Mick bit his lip. “Okay. Um.” A pause. “I told you I met him online, right? I didn’t tell you that he . . . well . . . he catfished me.”
“Catfished?” Joey echoed.
“Yeah.” Mick nodded. “Like the TV show. I met him when I was a teenager, and we talked for almost a year before we actually saw each other in person. Long-distance, you know. I was in the country and he was in the city. He sent me pictures and told me they were him but—”
“Let me guess, he was a creepy old guy?”
“No.” Mick shook his head. “It wasn’t like that. He didn’t lie about his age. Just… some other things.”
“What other things?”
Mick looked uncomfortable. “Nothing important. Like, he told me his parents had died and that he was Aboriginal and—”
Joey sat up. “He lied about his race?”
“I . . . I mean . . . yeah.” Mick admitted awkwardly. “But he only did it because I’m Aboriginal, and he thought it would make me more comfortable if he said he was Aboriginal too.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“No, it—”
“Yes, it is,” Joey insisted. “You’re making excuses for him.”
Mick opened his mouth to protest, and then clos
ed it. “I know,” he finally said. “I can’t help it. I always make excuses for him. If he lied to me, I would always tell myself that he was under a lot of pressure or trying to make me feel better. If he said something that was hurtful, I—”
Something inside Joey tensed. “He said hurtful stuff?”
“Sometimes,” Mick answered, voice low. “Nothing really bad. And it was better than being ignored. I moved to the city he lived in about a year ago. It was great at first, but these last few months he barely said anything to me. We would meet up, have sex, and then he would have to leave. I kept messaging him but he . . . well . . .”
“Did you confront him about it?”
“Yes. A couple of times. He said I wasn’t good at sex and that was why he was being distant.”
Not good at sex. Mick. The guy who’d given Joey the single best orgasm of his life. Joey wanted to laugh but wasn’t sure if he could, not with the churning mix of emotions sitting low in his belly. “So you left and came to Sydney.”
“I got a job offer here,” Mick told him. “Better pay. Better work. I wasn’t going to take it, but my mum convinced me to give Sydney a shot, even phoned some Gadigal elders and asked them to look out for me. It was rough at first. I didn’t know anyone, and my job here is harder than my old one. But now . . .” His eyes danced to Joey. “I think she was right. I like it here more.”
“That’s good,” Joey said and was surprised by how heavy and thick the words felt in his throat. He was angry, he realised. Angry at a man he’d never met for being a liar, a coward, and a neglectful piece of shit. Angry that someone could have Mick and not be everything he needed them to be.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Joey rasped. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Mick studied him for a long time, then finally picked up his drink. He drained at least half of the glass at once. If Joey hadn’t heard him order it, he would have thought there might be something in that glass besides iced tea.
“I’m sorry,” Mick said when he came up for air. “I’m sorry I told you I had a boyfriend. I’m sorry I didn’t come clean sooner. I’m sorry. I really am. You’re a good guy, Joey. And I’ve been a jerk.”
“Hey . . . no . . .” Joey tried. “It’s not that. I’m not angry at you.”
