Sharp Edges: An Urban Gay Romance

by Moreau, Lenore

  "Mr. Gio, do you want some pancakes? Ollie's making pancakes." I stare at her while she grabs my arm, swinging it up and down. What am I supposed to do with this?

  "Um. Sure." She tugs at me until I follow her into the kitchen. Seth trails close behind, chattering on and on about some kid's show I've never heard of. I try to nod along at the right times and they don't seem to care much if I'm paying attention as long as I'm looking at them. Kids baffle me. I'm good with babies. Babies are easy. Kids... kids need something more than just food and a clean diaper from you. They need all that emotional shit that I suck at. Lily and Seth just haven't realized I suck at it yet. They will. They're smart. Still, I can't help but feel needed as they chatter all the way to the kitchen. Kelly smirks at me and slides a plate of pancakes to me across the counter. I grab the syrup and douse them. Kelly hands me a mug full of steaming black liquid and I thank the coffee gods.

  "You know you snore?" he asks. I glance around at the kids. They're old enough to know what that means. I glare at him, but the kids don't even seem to notice. Maybe they're just that oblivious. Maybe it's less of a big deal than I'm making it. My heart pounds. If this gets back to my dad... But we barely know the Kellys. It won't get back to him.

  "Fuck off, you heard yourself," I say, taking a sip of coffee as I sit down on the couch next to Lily. "Not me. I don't snore."

  "Yeah you do," Kelly says in an infuriatingly smug voice. "All night long."

  "Lily, you don't think I snore, do you?" I ask Lily, pointedly ignoring her brother. She shakes her head solemnly and I give her a high-five. "How'd you sleep?"

  "Bad dreams," she says, but she doesn't seem too bothered. "And Seth woke me up to watch PBS."

  "Can't miss early morning cartoons," Kelly says, sitting beside me. Our knees are only inches apart, and I tense, wondering if he's going to try to breach the distance. He doesn't. "Seth, clean up your shit. I can see three of your shirts on the floor from here." Seth grabs the clothes off the floor, looking righteously guilty as he scoots into his room. His head pokes into the hallway. "And you better not just move them to a different floor. That doesn't count as cleaning them up." His head disappears again and I smile. Kelly rolls his eyes. "Fucking kids will be the death of me, man."

  "You're good with them," I say before I can stop myself. "They adore you."

  "You should see em when they're in trouble. They don't like me then." His leg brushes against mine, then pulls away. "You don't have to stay for the memorial if you don't want to. I'm good now." He's putting on that stupid brave face while the panic still glitters behind his eyes. He's not good.

  "I'll stay," I say. I don't know why I say it. He's giving me an out. I want to blame it on what happened when my mom died. My dad went out for weeks, and Marco and I had to make all the arrangements. Not to mention take care of four kids under ten. That wasn't a great time. And funerals are shit, no matter what way you look at it. They're an ending, and no matter whose end they celebrate, they remind me that soon I'll be in a wood box, six feet under a pile of dirt. And fucking nobody wants to think about that.

  My dad didn't even show up. I think that was the day Marco and I became the heads of the family. That day if we didn't have each others' backs, I don't think either of us would have made it. Manny was a sweet kid, too sweet to deal with shit like funeral planning. So even though he's a year older than me, he spent most of the time in his room, grieving however he grieved.

  So maybe that's part of why I don't want to leave. I see Christian and Benny in the faces of Seth and Lily. But if I'm being honest with myself, that's not the only reason. I don't want to examine the other reasons so I push them back into the dark corners of my brain and ignore them. Fuck em anyway. They're not useful. They won't make whatever happens today any easier for Kelly. Or, honestly, for me.

  "Okay. Can you make a liquor store run? Some of the neighborhood guys are coming."

  I take his car. It's been so long since I've driven a car that I worry I'm going to crash. For once, I go slow, following the speed-limits and staying a good three car-lengths behind the nearest car. My heart's pounding by the time I get there. Here I am getting a fucking adrenaline rush from driving a car. I need to get out more. I grab a few bottles of hard liquor, then on impulse a twelve-pack of beer as well, using the money Kelly gave me as well as some of my own. I smoke two full cigarettes before heading back, letting the smoke perk up my lungs.

  On the drive back I'm less cautious. I roll down the window to feel the rush of air brush across my face, squinting my eyes as the strong breeze hits me. I accelerate down the empty neighborhood street, and a wild laugh escapes my lips. Moving fast- there's something about it that thrills every fucking nerve in my body. Especially when I can feel the wind on my face. I miss my bike. I had an old Harley, maybe would have been a classic if it was in better shape. Had to sell it a few years back.

  I slow down after just a minute or two. There are kids that play in these streets, and I don't want to spend twenty years locked up. Or, really, deal with hitting a kid. When I pull up to Kelly's house, I really look at it for the first time. It's a decent house. Falling apart a bit. The paints chipping in some places and the door has whole swaths of paint missing. The roof's sagging. I should tell Kelly to fix that before it falls. But still not bad for Upper East. Two stories is almost unheard of on some streets. And a backyard with a shed. Maybe at some point, Kelly's parents had money.

  I lug the liquor inside, pausing at the scene. A woman who can only be Kelly's mother sits sobbing on the couch, her arms full with Arden's younger baby and Lily. Her eyes are red and drawn, lined with thick bags, but beneath that, they're the same bright green I've gotten so used to on Oliver.

  "I thought she was in prison," I mutter to Kelly, softly setting the bags down on the counter. His face is drawn and white, unreadable.

  "I thought so too. She got out last week I guess. Went to visit her sister before coming home." Under the counter, his hand finds mine and grips it tight. I grip back because no one can see. "I don't know if she'll stay out. Or if she'll stay at all." The woman turns to look at us, her eyes widening.

  "Hello," she says softly. There's an unspoken question there, but it's hidden well. She's not what I expected. When Kelly told me his mom was in jail, I assumed she'd be a hard-ass bitch who made life hell on her kids without apology. She looks- well, she looks like a junkie but she doesn't look like a bitch. The way she looks at Oliver is wary, but affectionate behind that, and her hand clinging protectively to Lily is white with tension. It's like she's waiting for one of em to tell her to get out. I guess I was expecting someone like my mom.

  "Hey," I offer, nodding at her.

  "That's Gio, mom. Gio, this is Starla, my mom."

  "Congrats on your freedom," I say. Gio's still staring at her, wary. I'd kill to find out what he's thinking right now. Starla wipes her eyes and gives me an awkward smile.

  "Thank you. I'm not used to it yet. I haven't had a chance to-" a few more tears slipped down her cheeks. She brushes them away without shame. "I haven't had a chance to really enjoy it yet. If you'll excuse me-" She walks upstairs with Lily and the baby, leaving them alone.

  "Shit," I say in disbelief. Oliver lets out a hysterical laugh of agreement.

  "This is how shit goes for me. Calm until everything goes to shit. Then literally fucking everything goes to shit. You might want to get out while you can."

  "Fuck that shit. I didn't buy all that liquor just to leave it for you." He opens his mouth to say something else, but I don't want to hear it. I don't want him to say anything else or apologize for his family when mine's a million times worse. So I do the only thing I can think of to shut him up. I push him against the fridge, pin his wrists to his sides and kiss him.

  It's not like the first time when desperation clung to our breaths and we were still half-fighting each other. This time starts out clumsy. Oliver's mouth is open in surprise, and for a moment he freezes there. Then his lips move against min
e, hesitant, unsure. I lose myself in the feel of him, the press of his body as it yields to mine, his lips hard and soft in equal measure as he kisses me back. I feel him growing hard against me, answering my erection with his own. Anyone could walk in right now. Kelly's expecting people to show up. But I'm so lost in the moment that I don't care. I'm lost in him.

  I let go of his wrists and he wraps his arms around me, crushing me into him. My hands clasp behind his neck and our faces are forced even closer together. He finally pulls back, staring at me with wide, shocked eyes. Our arms still frame each other's bodies. I stroke the skin behind his ear absently, feeling our bodies meld against each other. I can feel just the fringes of his soft hair.

  "Fuck, Gio," he says after a moment. I lean forward to kiss him again, but the door flies open and we fly apart. I fix my hair, praying my hard cock isn't too noticeable. The men that come in acknowledge me with a nod and greet Oliver, clasping him by the shoulders and muttering their apologies. More of them arrive soon after, filing into the house. Some of them bring booze of their own, most come empty-handed. But a lot of them come. A surprising number of people apparently cared about the drunk asshole that ruined Oliver's life. I hate them on principle, but manage to keep my mouth shut and my face neutral. Some of them are guys my dad rolls with. Most of them, though, I don't know. Maybe they're like Oliver- the more upstanding guys of Upper East.

  The kids come back down with Starla, clinging to her like mold to tile. She pours herself a big glass of vodka, mixing it with dollar-store orange juice. The guests come up to her one by one, murmuring their sympathies and talking in soft voices. Oliver stays beside me, watching. He's quiet, his arrogant features a mask of indifference. But occasionally the corners of his lips turn downward, betraying him. His eyes never leave his mother's form, warily tracking her around the room. Finally, she clears her throat and turns off the music. All eyes turn to her where she stands in front of the stairs. She's pulled herself together now, and I'm struck by the resemblance between her and Oliver. She carries herself the same way, with a self-assurance in her step, head up and proud. Even though she just got out of prison, she looks like a queen.

  "Thank you all for coming. I guess I just want to say a few words. Lenny wasn't a perfect guy. He made a lot of mistakes. But he loved his family, and whenever he could he tried to do right by us. When he was around, he was the best kind of man you could imagine. I know a lot of you know that he'd have given you the shirt off his back. With some of you, he did. So thank you for coming. To remember him. He'll be missed. I know I'll miss him." The room falls silent, and a fat man I've seen around walks to where Starla stands.

  "He was always good for a laugh. He used to come into the room with this look on his face- you just knew he was gonna have a story. And god knows, he knew how to tell a story. Man could make walking across the street into an adventure. Rest in peace, ya old bastard."

  "He coached my soccer team one summer," Billy, Oliver's teenage brother says. "And he always showed up, even if he was totally trashed. He showed up and we learned shit anyway."

  "He sang to me," Lily pipes up. Her thumb disappears back into her mouth.

  "He could down a six-pack in ten minutes," someone else shouts. The room laughs.

  "He ruined my fucking childhood and left me to take care of these kids," a female voice rings out, clear and sharp. The few side conversations stop. Arden's eyes are narrowed and her cheeks are red. My respect for her grows. "He was a heroin addict that brought that shit home and left it around where any of the kids could have grabbed it. And he was a fucking drunk. When he was home he was sleeping. He never did the shit he said he would. And then he disappeared- apparently to get high in Utah- leaving us without him. And now he's fucking dead."

  "Arden-" Oliver says softly. She waves him off.

  "No. Fuck you and fuck anyone who says he was this great guy. Fuck all of you fucking telling stories about him like he was a fucking hero. To his kids, he wasn't. So he didn't fucking beat us- so what? Is that the fucking gold standard for a good father around here? Because that's pathetic. He ruined our lives- yours more than anyone, Oliver, and you sit there defending him-"

  "I'm not defending him," Oliver says, his jaw tightening and his hands clenching into fists. "I hated him. But now he's dead. What the fuck are we supposed to do, spit on his grave? He's dead."

  "That's the worst of it, though, isn't it?" Arden says. Her eyes shine unusually bright. "He fucking died after all that." Oliver steps toward her, but she shoves him off, grabbing her kids and storming out the door. Her cheeks are wet and gleaming. What a fucking badass. But Oliver looks hurt. All I want to do is embrace him, to try to make shit better like I did last night. But there are too many people around. Silence covers the room, suffocating us all. A few people leave. Starla downs the rest of her drink and pours herself another.

  "Please, stay as long as you like," she says to the room at large. I glance at Oliver. His eyes are bright and his mouth is set in that stubborn line again. If he doesn't get out of here, he's going to lose it.

  "Let's go," I say. We walk out the door and into the streets.

  12

  Oliver's hands twist around the hem of his shirt, wrinkling it into unrecognizable shapes.

  "Where are we going?" he asks. I shrug.

  So we walk down his street, past mine, across the city we both know so well. We don't talk. We don't touch. We just walk together, on and on until I'm no longer sure where we're at. And then we keep walking. A few miles in and my thighs start to burn. It's a good feeling, a healthy sort of burn that tells me I need to stop skipping leg day. Oliver seems to feel the same. Slowly his hands unclench, his jaw relaxes. His eyes grow clear, the touch of tired red lines making them look greener than ever.

  It takes hours, but we reach the city limits. The bay shines ahead of us and we both sit along the empty shore, watching cars drive along the bridge far away. My legs ache like hell, and I have no idea how the fuck we're going to walk back. But the stillness is worth it. Our hands clasp together. I don't know who does it, me or him. It could have been either of us. I want him closer, more. Seeing him handle today- something about it turns me on like fucking crazy.

  It's that composure of his. I don't know how he fucking does it, but it's incredible to watch. And it's incredible to know that he dropped that composure the last two nights, just for me. We stare across the water. Neither of us has said a word in hours. We don't need to. After a moment, he grabs my face and pulls me to him. His teeth pull at my lower lip hard enough to hurt, but I don't care. I kiss him back, and I don't have a fucking thought in my head. No need to think. Just to feel. I climb on top of him, crying out as his lips move down to my neck and bite down. He breaks the skin. I feel wet blood beside his mouth, dripping down my neck. It hurts, but somehow the sensation goes straight to my cock and I fucking love it.

  Oliver's lips suck down on the mark in a sort of apology. My hands grab his hair, pulling his face away hard. His eyes are wild as I kiss him once more, then we're both fighting for control, our hands scratching at each other, teeth clawing against one another's skin. I pin him to the rock for a second, then he's flipping me over, throwing me so hard onto the sand that the breath flies from my body. I cough, trying to recover as he climbs on top of me, biting a line down my throat to my shoulder. Pain and pleasure twist together as they spark in my veins, and I can no longer tell which is which. I don't think I want to. I taste copper and salt as my arms reach up to him, to throw him off or pull him closer, I'm not sure. I settle for gripping his shirt and pulling it from both ends until it rips apart with a loud crack.

  He shrugs the remains off of him, letting them float to the ground. He falls on top of me, his weight holding me into the coarse sand. He has one hand around my throat, stroking it as he rubs himself against me, thrusting onto me through our clothes. His other hand tugs at my shirt, and I try to lean forward to help him get it off. He holds me firmly down, and soon my shirt follows his to t
he ground in pieces. I can feel how hard he is as he rubs against my stomach. Finally he lets go of me and rolls to the side, yanking his pants down. I follow, and then we're naked on the dark beach. We look at each other for just a moment, then I'm atop him, pulling him down, landing on top of him. I pin his arms above his head and use my thighs to hold his legs still. He struggles, his eyes bright and mouth curled into a feral grin as he looks up at me. His knees catch me by surprise, pushing my body back. He follows.

  Once again I'm under his mercy. I fucking love that thought. He could do anything to me right now and I couldn't do shit to stop it. Compared to him, I'm weak and inexperienced. Compared to him, I might as well be a plastic doll. I don't know how he does it, but he holds me helpless with a scary ease. The sand digs into my skin, a million tiny cuts forming where it's rubbed against me. I don't give a shit. He holds my arms down with one hand, spitting into the other. He strokes his cock, watching my face. I can't take my eyes off him. I only wait as he sticks two fingers into my lips without warning. My instinct is to bite down, but I ignore it. Instead, I finally submit, letting my body go limp as I suck his fingers into my mouth, staring into his eyes. Carnal lust floods his features and he pulls his fingers away, pushing them up against my hole and sliding them inside. I hiss at the expected burn, but Oliver leans down, bringing our lips together once more, softly this time.

  A rush of contradicting feelings fight within me. His lips are soft and placating as his fingers roughly work me open. He isn't concerned with the fact that it hurts, he's concerned with making a place for himself within me. His lips, though. They make the pain bearable. They keep my cock hard despite the pain. The fingers move and I yelp at the sensation of them pulling out, each callous on them scraping against my ass. His grin is gone. Only the feral hunger remains.