I swore my parents’ house was getting farther away. It didn’t help that Logan was sleeping in and I had to make the long drive on my own, through pouring-down rain, without even his voice to serenade me—because no way in hell was I waking him up early just to talk to me on my trip down.
No, my only company was the knowledge that coming out to my parents would solve a lot of my complaints. All of my complaints, actually. Not that I spent the entire drive thinking about it.
Nope, definitely not.
The weather began to cooperate as I got closer to their place, with the rain stopping and the clouds overhead clearing. It was downright sunny when I pulled into their driveway. I parked next to my sister’s car, grabbed my father’s present, and headed inside.
Same thing, different day. I wasn’t inside more than a minute before Mom was harping that I didn’t wrap the present right—Sue and I shared a look—she complained that she had to do all the cooking—Sue and I shared another look—and my father grumbled about his computer acting up.
So, being the not-completely-terrible son that I am, I offered to check it out.
“Nah, you’re here as a guest. I don’t want to waste your time.”
“It’s no big deal. I’m sure I’ll be able to tell if it’s an issue you should go into the shop for or if it’s something I can fix in a jiffy.”
“Don’t you think if it was easy that I would have figured it out?” Dad snapped.
“Um, I spend a lot of time around computers, so I thought—”
“It ain’t an easy fix!” he shouted.
“Certainly. Sorry.” My stomach churned and tension strung my shoulders up tight. “Uh, good luck with it, then.”
“Least the Best Buy won’t have some damned Oriental helping me,” Dad grumbled, and Sue and I winced. “I tried calling that help line, and it was a complete waste of time. Couldn’t understand a goddamn word.”
I was reminded of why I tried to avoid starting conversations with my dad. “I had a similar problem when I called— Well, I can’t remember what it was for, but the person who answered had a Deep South accent. Sweet as could be, but I had to ask a thousand times for her to repeat herself!”
I laughed—only a bit forced—because gosh darn, couldn’t thick accents just happen all over?
“She was probably black.”
My laugh died. “Since it wasn’t a Skype call, I couldn’t tell you. So Sue, did you have a nice drive here?”
Maybe we switched conversations on Dad a bit too often, because he didn’t even blink at the sudden change.
Sue launched into an overly detailed description of her drive and the traffic and the construction, and I’d never been more enthralled to hear about the potholes that had sprung up around her town over the winter. Finally we were distracted by the arrival of snacks. It was a godsend.
Mom littered the table with chips, dip, crackers, and nuts, then went back to the counter for a second round, because obviously what she’d provided wasn’t enough for four people. I shook my head and reached for a paper plate.
“Whoops!”
Something hit my back, and the unmistakable feeling of cold wetness soaked through my shirt. I glanced over my shoulder as Mom peeled off the plate she was holding, which contained a smashed brick of cream cheese that had once been covered in cocktail sauce. The red offered a nice contrast to my sky-blue shirt.
“Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry!” She set aside the plate and began attacking me with paper towels, which got the worst of it off but seemed to be grinding some of it in. “C’mon, if we’re quick and throw it in the wash, I bet it won’t even stain.” She held out her hand.
Grateful to get the wet, sticky thing off, I slunk out of it, trying my best to avoid smearing sauce all over myself. I held up the shirt once I was free and grimaced at the mark. The shirt seemed doomed, but I handed it over, and Mom bustled away to do a bit of laundering.
“What the fuck is on your back?”
Sue gasped, although it probably wasn’t because she’d seen the black ink trailing down my spine.
Play it cool, play it cool, play it cool, I told myself as I turned around. Dad’s face was red and his lip twitched in its grimace. I tried on the innocent smile I hadn’t worn since I was a teen trying to get out of trouble. “My tattoo?”
“Yes, your goddamn tattoo,” Dad snarled. “When the hell did that happen!” Not so much a question as an accusation. His eyes flickered down and narrowed. “What the hell are those?”
I dropped my gaze down to my nipple piercings. Goddamn motherfucking shit. I cleared my throat. “Yeah, I got these and the tattoo a couple years ago,” I said, flooding my voice with confusion. “I thought I told you guys about them.”
“You most certainly did not!” He highlighted this fact by standing and slamming his palms against the kitchen table, which creaked under the weight. I forced myself not to flinch. “Why would you mark yourself with something so fucking queer?”
So the whole world will know I’m gay, Dad.
Because I am fucking queer.
There were options for me to take this and run with it. Pull all the Band-Aids off at once, as it were. But as I met my dad’s glaring blue eyes, my cowardice once again took front and center. Being shirtless didn’t help, and I had to struggle not to cover myself and cower. “Dad, tattoos and piercings aren’t ‘queer.’ Lots of people have them these days.”
“Yeah, bikers and rapists. Like that waste-of-space Logan your sister brought home,” he growled, taking a step toward me.
“Hey! Don’t talk sh— Uh. Be nice about Logan. He’s my friend.” My heart raced. As if my dad would pick up on the inflection on the word friend and realize how much of a friend he was.
“And mine.” Sue moved to stand next to me, creating a united front. I wanted to sag against her. Hell, I wanted to hide behind her. Instead, I leaned slightly so our shoulders brushed, and I took what comfort I could from that.
Outnumbered, Dad shrugged, still huffing. “I don’t see why you’d do that to yourself. Paint yourself as one of those people.”
I wasn’t going to ask which group of people I was painting myself as. Maybe just as a person who had tattoos. Who the fuck knew. “I like the way it looks.”
That was easier than saying I’d gotten it when my first boyfriend broke up with me. Not as a reminder of him, but that I had a spine and all pain healed over. Plus I did like the art.
Dad snorted. “We’ll see how you feel about it when you’re sixty and can’t find a woman who will take you like that.”
“Dad,” I said, perfectly calmly, as if this conversation wasn’t making my palms sweat, “lots of people with tattoos get together. Maybe the person I’ll end up with will have tattoos.”
I could almost feel Sue fighting the urge to roll her eyes.
“Well, I don’t like it. And you’ve broken your mother’s heart.” Dad stepped back and returned to his seat, as if the conversation was done. And maybe it was. He’d said his part; he’d shown me the errors of my ways. Nothing else he could do since he couldn’t take me over his knee anymore.
I sighed in relief.
“What was all that yelling about?” Mom asked as she emerged from the basement where the laundry machines were. I didn’t get a chance to turn around—as if flashing my piercings instead of the tattoo would be better—before she gasped. “Oh, baby, what did you do to yourself?”
“Actually a tattoo artist did it,” I said, because I couldn’t seem to control myself. Logan would have laughed and given me a kiss, if only to shut me up.
Sue rolled her eyes so hard the axis of the planet changed.
Mom huffed. “You know what I mean.”
“Uh, well, I got a tattoo and piercings. I could have sworn I told you. Do you like them?” I asked, knowing she wouldn’t. But she also wouldn’t react like Dad, ready to skin my hide, so it was safe to ask and play the fool.
“It’s not what I would have done, dear.” She sighed the sigh of all put-upon mothers. “But it’s your body. As long as you’re ready to live with them for the rest of your life.”
I never understood why people said that. Did they assume most people got tattoos so that they’d go away? I mean, I understood the thought, You won’t want this when you’re older. But my line of thinking was that there were going to be a lot of things I didn’t like when I got older, so I certainly wasn’t going to regret a little bit of ink on my skin.
The old saying got it wrong: live fast, die young, and leave a good-looking corpse. Nah, I want my corpse to be well lived in.
Mom probably wouldn’t want us talking about death at my dad’s birthday though. “I’m hoping it lasts a very long time, personally.”
She sniffed. “Well, we should probably cover you up. Wouldn’t be proper at the dinner table. Rupert, get him a T-shirt, would you?”
My father shoved a salsa-drenched chip in his mouth and grumbled around it as he stood and left the kitchen.
“Thanks, Dad!”
I heard the grumbling echo down the hall. I tried really hard not to smile. Sue elbowed me in the side.
“Ow!”
“Now, now, that’s no way to behave,” Mom chided before I could exact my revenge.
I narrowed my eyes at Sue. “You better watch it.”
“Oooh, whatcha gonna do?”
I opened my mouth, paused, then closed it, smiling widely. “Nothing at all.”
She went from playful to suspicious in an instant, and I fought off a wider smile. Paranoia was a wonderful tool for revenge.
Dad came back down and handed me a . . . well, I’ll call it a shirt. It had to be his oldest, rattiest, mow-the-lawn-and-work-in-the-garage shirt. Once white, it was now pale gray, although translucent was a better description. Tiny holes lined the hem, and brownish stains hugged the armpits. It was going to be more disgusting to have to stare at this than my bare chest.
Sue leaned over, smug joy on her face, and whispered, “If you’d like, I think I have a spare shirt in my car.”
She was at least two sizes smaller than me, but I was really tempted to take her up on the offer. Instead I gritted my teeth and pulled the shirt on. Despite appearances, it felt clean, though it sagged around me like a sad hospital gown.
“Thanks, Dad.” I hoped he couldn’t hear the grimace in my voice or see the one I was keeping off my face.
“Yeah, just try not to get it dirty.”
“Definitely not.” I glanced down at the revolting shirt and had the sudden urge to send Logan a selfie. This torture might just make up for everything else I’d done.
I did end up sneaking into the bathroom and sending Logan a picture. He was all sympathy, although I could practically hear his attempts to hold back his laughter. He kept me sane as the day went, forwarding GIFs and videos, telling me of his own minor frustrations with a personal project he was working on, possibly blowing them out of proportion to make me smile.
My mom noticed my focus on the phone, of course, and immediately began harping on me about it and warming up for the “sins of ignoring your family in favor of your phone” speech. I wasn’t sure if Sue was saving me when she told Mom, “Obviously he’s in love.”
“You have a girlfriend!” Mom screeched, which made Dad complain and turn up the volume on an infomercial. Why did I get in trouble for checking my phone when he was in the room next to us not participating in our conversation at all? I’d have said it was because it was his birthday (and he could ignore us if he wanted), but it was par for the course.
“Um,” I said in reply to Mom. “I’m seeing someone. Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you bring her?” It sounded more like an accusation than a question. I probably deserved having to deal with this questioning at home and here.
“We weren’t ready yet, Mom. You know how intense it is to meet the family.”
Mom sniffed. “You and Sue make it sound like bringing someone here is like running the gauntlet.”
“That’s because it is. You didn’t even like Logan and you asked if he wanted children and how many!”
“I want little grandbabies. You guys aren’t getting any younger.”
“It is a certainty of time,” I muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I sighed. “Mom, if we get happily wedded off, it’s still not guaranteed that you’re going to have grandchildren anytime soon. If at all.”
She gaped at me as if I’d ritualistically slaughtered a puppy in front of her and was now eating the entrails. If the puppy was her hopes and dreams, it was sort of true. Sue didn’t disagree with me, but she didn’t come to my rescue either. I couldn’t blame her. I already regretted telling Mom the hard truths.
“Why wouldn’t you give me grandchildren?”
Roe and their English degree could probably dissect that sentence into an entire thesis, although it likely would require help from Jenna’s psychology and sociology research. I had the benefit of none of these and, honestly, I didn’t want to think too hard about the fact that Mom only wanted us to have kids in order for her to have grandchildren, not for us to experience the delights of child-rearing.
“Some people aren’t meant to be parents,” I told her.
“You can always adopt.”
As if pure physical capabilities were what would stop us. “I’m sure we’ll keep it in mind. I’m just saying that you shouldn’t hang all your hopes on grandkids, okay?”
She didn’t appear very happy with this pronouncement, but she let it go—although she favored Sue in all conversation after that. Which, really, wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened. I escaped into the living room with Dad, and we watched a rerun of a football game from 1978. I kid you the fuck not. But at least he didn’t care that I spent the whole time texting, as long as my notifications were on silent.
Eventually we had cake and ice cream and gave him his presents. Then I got my shirt back and Sue and I escaped.
By some magic, I got home in record time. And by home, I meant Logan’s place, since that was where he was, hunched over his drawing tablet, headphones on. Thankfully he heard me knock on the door of his office, because sneaking up on him would probably result in being stabbed with the stylus.
Instead he threw down his electronics and swooped me up in a hug.
He lifted me easily with his bulging muscles, and I laughed as he spun me around once. I hooked my arms around his neck and met his lips for a kiss, grateful for the warmth and familiarity there. God, how wonderful would it be to be greeted like this every time I came home?
Or, my mind not-so-helpfully supplied, he could have joined you for the entire day and you wouldn’t need to crumble into his support now.
I pushed aside the thought. Not ready. Not yet. Right now I simply wanted to enjoy the strength he was wrapping me in.
We were both a little breathless with kisses and laughter when he set me down again.
“Welcome home,” he murmured against my lips.
I kissed those perfect lips. “Glad to be home. Did you have a good day?”
“I went for a ride, worked, got frustrated, went to the gym, worked, got frustrated, went for a ride.”
“Texted me constantly to keep me from committing, um, patricide but both parents.”
“Parricide.”
I quirked my brow. “I’m not going to ask.”
“It was on Jeopardy.”
“What, today?” When he shook his head, I gaped. “Your memory is impressive.”
“I had a vision that I would need the word sometime in the future.”
“Ha-ha.”
He kissed my nose, then pulled back so he could wrap an arm around my shoulders and lead us out of the office and into the living room. “It sounded like you had a shit day.”
I sighed. “It could have been worse. They actually handled my tattoo and piercings pretty well. My dad was only completely disgusted, not horribly disgusted, and Mom just felt like I’d mutilated my body and no one would ever love me.”
Logan growled, manhandled me to the couch, and seated me sideways so he could sit behind me. At first I wasn’t sure why, since this wasn’t comfortable for the snuggling—and sex—I wanted, especially since he’d left a good amount of distance between us. Then he leaned over and kissed the faint brownish-red stain on the back of my shirt. “We need to get you a new shirt.”
“Uh, sure?”
He nipped at my neck—at least, I thought that was what he was doing. Then I felt him take the neck of my shirt in two fists. In movies, you always see the guy rip his shirt off to reveal his rippling, bulging muscles. I’d read somewhere that ripping shirts like that is actually really hard, so I expected Logan to try and then us to have a laugh, and I’d take my shirt off like a normal person.
Riiiiiiiip.
There was a reason ripping off shirts was so popular in fiction. It was fucking hot—even if it choked me a little when he first pulled. Suddenly the cool air was brushing my skin, the tattered edges of the shirt tickling me as he reached the bottom and dropped the two flaps.
Holy fuck. I wanted to turn around, straddle his waist, and ride his dick. Like now. Immediately.
Before I could begin to put my plan into action though, his lips touched the top of my back, on my spine, where my circuit-board tree tattoo began.
“This is beautiful.” His warm breath whispered against my skin, and I broke out in goose bumps. “It’s not fucking mutilation.”
I shivered and closed my eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. “You might be biased, Mr. Full-sleeves.”
He traced a line of the circuit board with his tongue, then kissed the tip of the “leaves.” His words blew gently on the wet skin. “I’d rather be biased than bigoted.”
Without waiting for a reply, he continued tracing the lines that made up my tattoo, wiping away the hate it had been plastered with today and painting it in his kisses instead. It was so fucking cliché, and yet I could feel the weight that had dragged down my shoulders all day slowly falling away with each caress.
When he kissed the last root circuit, I exhaled deeply. The stress was gone. “You’re magic.”
He kissed my shoulder, my neck, then gripped my chin to draw my lips close enough to meet his. I was pulled backward, so my skin was against the cotton of his shirt, and he wrapped his other arm around me, holding me still as he claimed my mouth. I felt defenseless and laid bare, and I wasn’t afraid in the least.
I was free.
The hand on my chin stroked down my neck to my chest, pinning me to him. His forefinger teased over my nipple, trailing back and forth and catching on the stud as he deepened the kiss. I moaned, pushing off the couch, arching up into the contact.
The finger strumming my nipple stopped, and the hand slid down, hooked around my side, holding me secure. I didn’t want to seem needy, but his strength was so easy to fall into, to be comforted by. Plus it never made me feel weak. My whole body sighed contently, knowing here I was strong in relying on his strength.
When my muscles relaxed, my whole body softening in his embrace, he finally broke the kiss. “There you go.”
“Magic,” I repeated.
He hummed and shifted us slightly so we could both lie comfortably on the couch. His words were more solemn, though, when he spoke. “I know they’re your family, but you hate visiting them. They’re horrible to you. I don’t get why you’re so afraid of losing them.”
I tensed, but his arms tightened. Not trapping me, but holding me close. Like it was a promise that he wasn’t starting a fight but was telling me what he was thinking. He didn’t want to argue; he wanted to understand.
“They’re my parents. My family.”
It was probably a weak excuse, but it was the only thing I had.
“So? They don’t treat you like family should.”
I sighed. I didn’t want to argue about this, not right now. I didn’t even want to talk about it. “But they’re the one I’ve got.”
He opened his mouth, but must have seen something in my expression, because he closed it and kissed me instead. “Welcome home.”
A smile broke the tension that had started to form. It didn’t matter that we weren’t sharing a place, that this wasn’t my home. Because I was in his arms, and that was enough. “Nowhere else I’d rather be.”