Luis
“When are you gonna fight again?”
“Aw, come on, Duffy,” I groaned. “Can’t you just make my food without causing me to have an existential crisis at ten in the morning?”
The man behind the counter puffed out his barrel chest with a scowl. “Save your big words for my daughter, bud. Just give me the info on your next fight so I can root for you in person.”
“Duff, I’m literally done competing. I’ve found other things to do with my time.”
“Uh-huh, yeah, sure, so how come you haven’t started doing your personal trainer thing yet?”
I rolled my eyes up at the ceiling and sighed with exasperation, but I was smiling the whole time. If anyone ever would have suggested one of the first people on Staten Island to befriend me would be a fifty-something Irish American good ole’ boy who owned a bagel shop, I’d have said they were nuts. But here we were.
I tended to pop into Hot Bagels after rush hour, so I was used to Big Duff’s brand of prying during the mid-morning lull. Bagel shop owner, coffee connoisseur, and boxing fanatic—the dude was into all my favorite things. He even had a bisexual son, which he’d been quick to share because, apparently, word of my “scandal” had made the rounds in online boxing forums.
“I just haven’t gotten around to it,” I said, looking over the counter to watch him put the finishing touches—salt, pepper, and ketchup—on my breakfast sandwich. “I’m making good money doing what I’m doing right now, and having fun for the first fucking time ever, sooo…”
“Yeah, having fun shaking your ass like Magic Mike down at Male Revue.” Duffy shook his head, scowling, and folded my sandwich up neatly with wax paper and foil. “Or wearing funny costumes with that burlesque crap—”
“Hey! No dissing the boylesque. The troupe makes me way happier than my homophobic ass boxing team did, man. C’mon. Let me live.”
Duffy’s face softened at that, and he heaved another big sigh as he trudged over to the register. “All right, fine. But I sure hope you’re saving the tips and dollar bills to open your gym, kiddo.”
“That’s the plan.”
The plan would be a lot easier if I had a roommate to split costs with so I could afford to rent a studio or private gym to start training. I’d already had tons of followers on social media from boxing, and many of those people had reached out to ask about training and prices after my Instagram had transitioned from pictures and videos of me fighting to me working out. Unfortunately, the idea of giving up my first solo apartment and the beauty of privacy was rough.
Besides, dancing was fun, even though my stripping had been one of many things that had finally sealed the deal on rumors about me liking dick. My good mood dampened at the thought of the shitstorm that had rained down on me at my old boxing club in the Bronx, and the way social media had very briefly been a nightmare of constant homophobic backlash. There wasn’t much that could get me shook, but having people I’d grown up with suddenly turn on me, drag me, and threaten me had been fucking traumatic.
The bell above the door jingled, signaling another customer to distract Duffy from his interrogation. Relieved, I went up to the counter to pay for my sandwich and coffee. His daughter greeted me with a smile even as she texted.
“What’s up Adr—”
The words died on my tongue when I realized it was Charles who had entered. I stared at him like he was a mirage—a tall, long limbed, sinewy mirage with a cloud of dark curls, huge eyes, and the kind of style that was as abrasive as the expression on his face. His stonewash jeans were so full of gaping holes he was showing more skin than denim, and he had on a white tank top with a plunging neckline and arm holes that was embroidered with a rainbow-colored marijuana leaf.
He stopped in his tracks after catching sight of me, lips curling down. I wished I could see his eyes, but they were hidden beneath huge sunglasses.
“Hey baby,” I said, grinning.
Charles cringed with his entire body and marched over to the bagel counter without giving me a second glance. It was an indicator to leave the man the fuck alone, but I wasn’t too good at directions or taking cues even when I understood them, so I glanced back at him. Those skintight jeans were encasing his ass, and my God that culo was a thing of beauty. I wanted to see him naked more than I wanted my breakfast sandwich. I wanted to eat him. I’d feast on that ass of his all day long.
“Eight bucks,” Adriana said from behind the register.
I ripped my gaze off Charles, who was standing tensely and growling out an order that Duffy had to lean forward to hear, and peeled a bunch of singles off a ridiculously thick wad. Adriana smirked knowingly.
“So, what’s that my dad said about Male Revue…?”
“Twenty-one and older to get in,” I said with a wink. “Meaning—Duffy’s kid isn’t allowed.”
“Too bad. I could bring my boyfriend. He’d find it hilarious.”
“How is the boyfriend?” I tried not to glance back at Charles even though my body was fully tuned into his presence. Somehow, I knew he’d already ordered. And I knew he was hanging back and waiting for me to leave before he could pay for whatever he’d ordered. “Still at MIT?”
“Yep. He just finished finals, and I’m picking him up next week.”
“Nice little road trip for you two.” After she nodded and looked back at her phone, I collected my brown paper bag and coffee. “I’ll see you later. Tell your pops I said bye. And…” I leaned forward, lowering my voice and shoving another wad of bills at her. “I’m paying for the dude behind me.”
“Um.”
I was flashing a deuce and walking out of the bagel shop before Adriana could protest or ask her father how much to charge me for Charles’ order. Something told me to haul ass, so I speed walked across the street and walked even faster up the hill. I’d made it nearly halfway back to the house before I heard a voice yell after me. A voice that was yelling something that vaguely sounded like, get your ass back here, motherfucker.
I didn’t stop, but I slowed down to a leisurely stroll as Charles’ long legs allowed him to catch up with me in only a few seconds.
“What the fuck is your problem?”
“Problem?” I cocked my head. “It’s a beautiful day, I have a bagel sandwich and a cup of coffee—what would be the problem?”
“What’s your problem with me, dickhead? Are you trying to piss me off on purpose?”
It was so absurd that I snorted out a laugh. His hand slammed down on my shoulder and dragged me to a stop three houses down from the one we shared. Not that he knew he was my upstairs neighbor just yet.
I let him spin me around, mostly because I liked the feel of his big hand clenching on my shoulder, and smiled. It was hard not to smile. Even while holding a greasy paper bag and an iced coffee, he was a beautifully enraged force of nature. Anger rolled off him and washed up against me in a way that would usually feel like a challenge. But instead of making me buck up defensively like I would have to just about anyone else, I struggled not to blatantly stare him down.
“I bought you breakfast. That’s what makes you mad?”
“No, jerkoff, the guy who was fucking my boyfriend trying to pay his way to a guilt free conscience makes me mad,” he snapped, voice echoing up and down the block. “I don’t give a fuck about how bad you feel—”
“Ah-ah.” I wagged my finger at him. “My conscience is as smooth and clear as my skin. I didn’t know he had a man, and it’s that simple. Every time I meet someone on Grindr, I ask them outright if they’re involved. He lied. Not my fault.”
Charles’ face flushed, but he didn’t deny it. “And that means I’m supposed to be your fucking friend? Because fuck that all the way to Tottenville.”
“Nah, I don’t want to be your friend.”
“Oh that’s right.” Charles forced his voice to go higher into a mocking falsetto before jerking right back down to his typically deep register. “You were just so kindly going to let me ride or suck y
our cock.’
“I could suck yours if it would make you feel better.”
“I wouldn’t let you touch me even if you were trying to save my life. I don’t need your help or your dick or your fucking money.”
Charles’ jaw clenched so tight I could probably use it to cut glass.
His anger was no joke. It wasn’t a flirtatious challenge. If I smiled again, he was going to physically assault me. I could feel it the way I could feel a coming punch in the ring. There was a lot of energy building inside of him that needed to release somewhere, and I had a feeling he wanted it to release in my face with a closed fist.
I’d never expected a pretty hipster dude to be so quick to throw hands, but he had the same simmer of aggression as some of the guys I’d known at the gym. Guys who’d started going to the gym so they’d figure out how to channel it. And of course, there were the other guys who didn’t want to channel it, and who unleashed their rage on street corners and parks.
I wondered how Charles released all of that pent-up energy. How he worked it out. Was it fighting, fucking, or maybe dancing? Whatever it was—he needed that physical therapy. STAT.
It took me a minute to realize we’d been staring each other down in silence. He exhaled loudly and squeezed the iced coffee tight enough for the plastic to make a crinkling sound.
“Take the money,” he rasped. “And leave me alone.”
“Afraid I can’t do that.”
Charles shoved his sunglasses up to his forehead. He glared at me with such genuine hostility that I felt myself squaring my shoulders a bit, tilting my chin up, and waiting for him to do something silly. What a weird fucking situation to be in. He was taking all his Landon shit out on me, and it was ridiculous. Unfair even. I could verbally shred him if I wanted. Stun him with a list of reasons why he was throwing repeated tantrums at the wrong asshole. But I didn’t because attraction aside, something about him was a little too familiar, and it drew me in. He reminded me of about a dozen angry young men I’d grown up with, who had zero control of their home lives and spent all their time taking out that frustration on the nearest target.
“Why the fuck is that?” he demanded, growing more belligerent and rough with each F bomb he dropped. “Are you a masochist? You want me to tell you how much I hate you on a regular basis?”
“Maybe. Maybe it turns me on.” When he kept glaring at me with those flashing dark eyes, I jerked my chin at the house and the Dominican flag hanging at the bottom of the big picture window on the first floor. “And sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but… I live downstairs from you. Moved in around the holidays.”
Charles turned to stone before me, an eerie calm falling over him before all that fury came roaring back. He fumbled in his pockets with jerky movements, face flushed even redder by the time he yanked out a handful of balled up bills and change.
“Take the fucking money.”
“I don’t need it.”
“Take it!”
His shout echoed on the quiet street and, this time, I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
Charles’ nostrils flared, his lip curling. “Then take the fucking drink.”
It didn’t click until his arm jerked back and then forward, splashing iced coffee all over the front of my white T-shirt. I was so stunned that I could do nothing but stand there and stare silently as he turned on his heel and fled to the house. When he jerked the door open, I rallied.
“I see you kept that bagel, though!”
“Fuck you.”
Charles threw one last furious look at me, shoved his sunglasses back into place, and stormed inside. He slammed the door shut, and I was left wondering why I was so into someone who was so not into me. But that tended to be my curse. Whether I was fantasizing about a guy at the boxing club, or Ashton fucking Townsend, I tended to want people who would never actually give me the time of day.
Pointless crushes were so much easier than dedicated relationships and real dating, though. Or, that’s what I’d always told myself. I’d come up blowing random dudes in stairwells and rooftops of the Butler Housing Projects, so I knew a lot about pointless crushes. Every guy I’d hooked up with for the past decade had ranged from straight-acting guys who would never come out and be with me for real since they were either secretly married or had a girl, or feared getting their fucking asses whooped by other people in the neighborhood. It had always been quick and dirty sex at random in the shadows where no one would ever see.
Having an actual boyfriend had seemed as impossible and pointless as waking up straight. I’d never known any other guy who was openly gay or bi except my former boxing rival Valdrin Leka, and even he’d never copped to it until his Hollywood boyfriend had come along. So, meeting Charles, who was out and proud and fucking loud, combined with his hot temper and quick tongue, was… different. Really different. It just made me want to know more about him.
I looked down at my shirt and pondered the lightness of the coffee and Charles’ over usage of creamer. There were a number of innuendos I could have made about that had I been quicker with the wits and less focused on the heated staring.
A cackle exploded from across the street. Mrs. Hernandez was standing there in one of the neon sweatsuits she wore to go jogging in Willowbrook Park, and she was grinning from ear-to-ear.
I jerked a thumb at the mess. “This amuses you, vieja?”
She nodded, still dimpling at me from across the street. “You should have stayed away from that boy.”
That smelled like information that needed to make it to my open ears, so I crossed the street as if I wasn’t a mess, and casually sipped my own coffee as if I wasn’t covered with somebody else’s. “I’m an innocent in this. I didn’t know he existed let alone that he was a boyfriend.”
“Oh, so innocent.” She snorted at me. Up close, she wasn’t much of a vieja after all—even though she acted like a grumpy old person, she looked my mom’s age. Mid-forties at the latest. She also had dyed blond hair like my mom. “You’ve had boys in and out of your apartment since you moved in, plus the loud music every night.”
“You have me all wrong, mami. Swear to God. Seventy-five percent of those guys are guys from my dance troupe. And that music? Me practicing.” She eyeballed me suspiciously, and I grinned. “Besides, what do you care?”
“I don’t,” she said bluntly. “But messing with those two was stupid. Everyone on the block could have told you they fight nonstop. Everyone hears. A couple of times, I nearly called the cops because it sounded violent.”
I looked back at the house and up to the windows in Charles’ sun room. “No one did anything?”
“What were we supposed to do?” Mrs. Hernandez twisted her mouth skeptically, one eyebrow shooting up. “The one time my son tried, it was because the other one chased the gay one—”
“Mami, they’re both gay.”
She waved her hand. “The stupid asshole who got his clothes thrown out chased that one—” she pointed one fingernail up to the apartment. “—down the street while screaming at him about how often he goes out. They had it out right there by the light.”
“Had it out as in they came to blows?” My voice rose at the very thought, and adrenaline pumped through me as if there was anything I could do about it now. “That motherfucker.”
Mrs. Hernandez looked at me sideways for a moment, her mouth quirking up. “No, they didn’t fight, but the other one was trying to force the one with the hair back into the house. My son went and broke them up, and he nearly got into it with that asshole. I’m glad he’s gone.”
“Yeah, me too. Fuck him.”
Thinking back to the day he’d jumped in his Uber, I regretted not saying or doing more. Hindsight was twenty-twenty and all that, but in hindsight I should have kicked his ass. Not that Charles wanted me to be his hero. He didn’t even want me to buy him coffee or look in his direction.
“From an objective point of view,” I said to Mrs. Hernandez while looking up at those windows again. “How
likely is it that the one with the hair will ever be cool with me?”
“He’s more likely to set your ass on fire.”
She was not wrong.
This is the last post for March, and the next several posts have all also been pre-scheduled. In April, the number of content posted has been doubled. Chapters from North Shore are scheduled to begin posting on Mondays and chapters from another book are scheduled to begin posting on Fridays.
==
She was not wrong.
North Shore ch 5
Chapter Five
Charles
The dancing boy figurine was sitting outside my door in the middle of the landing.
At first, I thought it had to be a hallucination. Or maybe it wasn’t the same figurine. I’d accidentally smashed it to bits while spinning out of control in my wildest meltdown to date, and had assumed Caleb swept the pieces away. The delicate porcelain statue being gone had hurt me almost as badly as Landon.
Not only was it beautiful, but it symbolized so much in my life. The dancer was androgynous with long hair tied in a bun and slender limbs, wearing a tutu and leotard, and flawless makeup, but he was a boy. As a young person, I had been awed that an artist had spent time creating something that meant so much to me, as if they’d created it with me in mind. But even more so, it’d meant everything that my grandmother had found it and gifted it to me. Her acceptance, in a sea of turned faces and shame, had meant the world.
I gingerly picked it up, examining it closely, and realized someone had glued it back together. There were some pieces missing—the tiny length of a finger and an ear—but my dancing boy was in one piece. I could not imagine the time and patience it must have taken to recreate the figurine. I equally couldn’t imagine who would have done it.
I backtracked into the apartment, cupping the tiny porcelain statue before returning it to its place on the bookshelf. As I dragged the pad of my finger along the carefully pushed together pieces, signs of someone hunching over this pastel chunk of my childhood and waiting for glue to dry, I smiled for the first time in days.
North Shore Page 4
