Chapter Five

Finding Cinder-fella

BRENDON

 

“Why the hell are you circling me?” My bitter mood sours the tone of my voice.

“Hey, beefcake. Whose photo is pinned on the punching bag?”

“Bugger off.” I take a fake jab at Eddy. He is the blind-side flanker, and James plays the right-wing. He joins James and me for our daily workout session in the gym near our house. Both are a few centimeters shorter than me but make the deficit up with their width. Both are solid blokes. They don’t give a damn about hanging out with their gay friend. Ed or Eddy is our dark-skinned beauty with a strong first nation history on his father’s side. James is our blond James Bond.

“Don’t mess with him, Ed. He has a spidey up his arse.” James rests his elbow on Eddy’s shoulder. The goofballs stand smirking at me.

I flip them the bird once my hand is out of the glove. “Jamey, boy, want me to scratch your itch?” With a swift move, I grab James’s head in my arm.

“You stink, Bree boy.” James scrunches his nose as he wrestles himself free from under my arm. “And you know I don’t play for your team.”

“Want your mug plastered to the wall? Why don’t you mind your own business?” I snarl, fastening my boxing gloves after wiping the sweat from my face and neck, making sure the two twats catch the full impact of my scowl from across the full-length mirrors fixed on the exposed brick wall.

“You are right, James. Our boy has his jockstraps in a twist. What’s your problem, Bree? Didn’t the booty call go right last night?”

“You girls here to gossip?” I swat their arms. “Piss off.” They step aside, twisting their faces at me, and move on with their exercises, leaving me alone to deal with the voices in my head. The catchy synth riff of DJ Avicii’s “Levels” comes on the music system. Perfect timing.

The punching bag and I have a score to settle. Jab-jab-cross. A slight shift of weight sets the left hook up after my right hand lands smack on the bag at about the height of an imaginary face. The sweat from over an hour’s intense workout should wash away my sullen mood and numb the hangover from one of the best kisses of my life so far.

My buddies leave me alone for the two hours we spend in the gym. Eddy confronts me in the locker room after our showers. “Your handsome mug is in the news again, mate.” He throws his phone on my thigh.

“Swear to god, one day I will drop this, and you will regret it.” I open his phone and swipe the password. We have been partners in crime in the rugby world for three years now, both at the club and national level. We share everything from our living quarters in London to our deepest secrets and phone passwords.

I get to the pic he wants me to see. My eyebrows shoot upward when I read his Twitter feed. The pic is of me kissing Shy outside the pub and a tagline—Bree-boy at it again. The pic reminds me of Shy’s soft lips. Feathers running across mine—light pecks turned to sucking and biting as our tongues tangled. The red wine mixed with Shy’s citrus fragrance turned me on. We would have rutted on the street if Shy had not tried to pull away. His panic should have alerted me. But he had me hooked, making me lose my mind.

The hesitant, timid, unsure vibe coming off the bloke drew me to him. Hell, I should wipe the night from my memory. It is one thing to let the dick make the short passes but another to rush the heart into a crash tackle. No way. Stop sprinting down the lust pitch, Bree. Protect the heart—my motto since Mike.

Ed preps his shake, smirking at me.

“Wipe the smugness off your boat.”

“Someone’s still cranky.” He walks over. “Isn’t he the bloke you were baiting yesterday at the pub? What’s his name?” Eddy sits beside me with his protein shake. The fucker will not leave me alone. At least now, I only need to deal with Ed. James rushed out after the gym session to meet his latest girlfriend. I frown and grab the shake from Eddy.

“Damn, Ed, how do you drink this muck?” I have nothing against the mix of caramel and chocolate, but hazing Ed on his favorite flavor is a pet peeve and comes in handy to rile him. After I take another sip, he snatches the flask from me.

“This is better than the yucky stuff you drink. Quit stalling.” Eddy’s eye demands a response.

“Hm, the Shy-guy. He is a nobody.”

Eddy turns to face me. “Dodgy.” He takes a sip of his shake. “Are we keeping secrets, mate? The way you are eating the bloke’s face.” The cheeky sod beams. “Nah, something’s itching in your underdaks, mate. You never kiss booty calls.”

Yeah, so what. I never kiss random guys I pick up at bars. Those full dark lips, eyes brimming with desire, and vulnerability did me in. Every time my fingers tiptoed on him, the shiver on Shy’s skin lured me into playing him like a guitar. The fingers are craving for the sensation since last night. What have I got myself into? I sigh. “What can I say? The bloke bolted.”

“Not bad for you, mate. Why are you pissed? You weren’t out for snogging.” Eddy shakes me by the shoulders. “Cheer up, we will find someone tonight for you to have a naughty.”

I shake my head as I zip my gym bag. “Shouldn’t have taken the man home. Not repeating the mistake.” Shoulders hunched and eyes on the floor, I avoid Eddy’s gaze. I may dismiss last night as a one-off, but I spent a whole night tossing in bed, yearning for a stranger. The night held such promise in the arms of an absolute hoot of a man. The cockiness in Shy’s words matching the fiery pull of his lips. What a waste.

Why the hell did he run is the splinter I am struggling to remove from my brain. The question buries deeper the more I try to get rid of it. I don’t wish for a relationship at this stage of my life, but I am not a selfish jerk. What mistake did I make? We were two horny buggers rutting against each other till he panicked. What pissed him off?

Eddy grabs my face, examines both sides. “Nah. Not a mistake. He left a mark on you, lad.” Eddy pokes a finger below my neck.

Shit, the hickey. “Rack-off, keep your hands away.” I punch him in the chest.

“Ouch” He fakes a cough. “There is defo something going on. The bug up your arse still itching. Fart it out, mate.”

I sigh and give up, telling him about the night with Shy.

“What do you reckon happened?” Eddy takes a break from sipping his shake.

I shrug my shoulders. “No clue.”

“Best for you. Forget and move on. Plenty of men out there.” Eddy winks and leaves.

The whole point of my one-night stands. No names, no attachments, and no kisses. None of the sappy mess. But fuck, Shy’s kiss did me in. With the first brush of his lips, my world exploded in fireworks. Set alight into millions of sparklers like the New Year Eve’s display at the Sydney Harbor bridge. The tender unsure, inhibited yearning turned into giving caresses. The tentative exploration ended up as a deep dive when he let my tongue savor him.

The needy whimpers transformed into thankful moans and burned down my hookup manual—no kissing, no bringing strangers to my room on a booty call. Yeah, I broke all those rules for Shy. James is right; the shy guy is an itch. A few drinks and a random hookup will wash Shy out of my system.

I text James and Eddy. ‘Let’s hit the pub tonight. First drinks on me.’

*

Three drinks down, time to stop the eye fucking and get some real action. I step up to the guy in the black T-shirt on the dance floor, grooving to the beats of Machinedrum’s “DDD.”

“Hi, hot pants.” I place my hand on his waist, matching the swaying of his hips. The guy is skinny. A small nose ring adorns his face. Tattoos peek out from the neckline of his T-shirt. Intricate tribal designs are inked on both his arms extending to the wrists. He is not my type. Good. The witty, shy, innocent kinds are troublesome. They scratch my heart. Right, remember the itch. The whole reason I am here tonight.

“Hi,” The guy’s eyes move from my face to my waist—the perfect reaction for a quickie. I move my hand over his thigh. No need for small talk. “Thirsty for a quick drink.” I nod my head toward the hallway at the backside of the pub. The shoddy pickup line does the trick today.

“I was hoping you would ask.” The guy licks his lips.

I grab his hand and move us to the restrooms down the hallway, weaving our way through people making out under dim blue lights, amidst cigarette smoke and the heavy stench of alcohol. We are lucky to find an empty stall. Once inside, I lock the door.

“You’re fast, and I am horny.” He pushes me to the wall and rises on his toes.

I stop him. “Whoa, no kissing.” Not about to make the same mistake twice.

He frowns. “Whatever.”

One last check. “Are you clean?”

“I am on PrEP.” He goes down on his knees. When he struggles to open my belt, I help him out.

“Ooh, you are thick.” He admires the sight before him.

“Hungry, eh?”

He takes me in, licking before his lips engulf my girth. I hold his head in my hands and close my eyes, lost in the sensations. “Mmm, Shy. More.”

The man stops and pulls out. “Hey, I am not shy.”

Shit, I open my eyes and stare at the man below me. What am I doing? Frothing over a smart mouth from yesterday. I shake off the memory and focus on the tatted blonde kneeling before me.

“Kidding, mate.” A wink returns his mouth to work. But the images of the wisecrack hottie from yesterday reappear. Fuck. Use the fantasy, Bree boy. The devil inside speaks. With eyes squeezed tight and pursed lips, I grip the man’s hair and thrust hard in hopes of flushing the need out of my system, and fail miserably. For some strange reason, the act gnaws at my mind. Giving up, I pull the man to his feet and push him out of the stall. “I need to take a leak.” When I finish and come out, I rush out the door. Thank heavens the man is gone. I move out of the restroom to join James and Eddy.

“I am heading out.” I pay for my drinks.

“I’ll join you.” Eddy pays his tab and walks with me to the exit. James stays, hinting he has to catch up with his girlfriend. Ed and I hail a cab.

“Still grumpy, Bree boy.” Ed nudges me.

“Nah.”

“So, why are you still wearing the frown? Didn’t the root today work out?” When I don’t respond, Ed shakes my shoulder.

“What? Leave me alone.”

“Not happening. So, vomit. What’s bothering you?” Ed persists. “It’s the guy from yesterday, isn’t it?”

I squeeze my eyes. “Yeah,” I admit. “Can’t stop thinking. Shy’s eyes held so much—excitement and warmth.” And a subtle vulnerability waking up my protective and territorial instincts. Shy, the burbly brook to my bear desperate to mark him. Burbly brook? The description suits Shy. “Never had so much fun flirting.” In a moment, the fun turned into fear. The sparks were doused by the black streaks on his face. Shy’s disguise makes me question his entire act. But for what and from whom? Dammit.

“Stop mooning. Go find your guy.” Ed shoves my shoulder.

“Where? No name. No address. I am not even sure he is local.” Ed is my best bet to talk this through. “The guy has burrowed himself in my mind.”

“That bad, huh.”

“The worst part is, the bloke is a closet case. I shouldn’t even be interested.”

“Bree, you should not hold a grudge against him. The world is still not a safe place for many LGBTQ people.”

“You’re right.” I have no right to hold the ‘closet’ grouse against Shy. His situation reminds me of my struggle to come out. I spent my high school faking things with girls to avoid ridicule. The first time with Hannah is the experiment never to be spoken of again. The images of a particular rugby player from a rival school team kept my dick hard. Hell, why did I even try? After the near humiliation, Ella, Barbara, or the other alphabets never got to lay eyes on junior Mr. Brendon down under. All skin contacts ended above the belt.

But I had dreams. Right from the day dad gave me a rugby ball for Christmas. Aware of the locker-room banter and the bullying of the few gay kids who were brave enough to be out, I stayed in the closet, hiding the truth from my family, unsure about how they would react.

Ed reminds me of my own predicament. “You came out only five years ago when you had signed contacts with professional rugby clubs. You had a safety net.”

I glare at Ed. “So?”

He raises his hands, “Sorry. I meant you don’t know what the chap is going through in his life. Was telling the world easy for you? No. Are things easy after coming out? No. The locker room trash talk and slurs in the stadium did not disappear. It is never easy.” Ed pats my hand. “Relax. The shy guy will become an old memory.”

Ed’s tirade opens up the worm box. I rest my head on the cab seat and close my eyes. At college, things were difficult with sharp social divisions fueled by the gay rights movement. Instead of living my true self, I focused on getting into professional rugby and the Wallabies.

My hopes and dreams were almost shattered. I met Scott at a college rugby camp. We were thick as thieves until one night, we broke the friendship barrier and ended up in bed. Scott completed the missing piece of my sexual needs. We spent two years together, making sure we got the same room during our rugby tour for the college league. Things were going smooth till Scott asked for money. At first his requests were for small amounts, but when his demands became frequent, things turned ugly.

I came out to my parents sitting in a prison cell waiting for my bail, accused of a crime I did not commit. The memory will always remain fresh. Mum and Dad on either side. The chill of the room. The dread of being abandoned. But Dad put his arm over my shoulder, pulling me closer to his side, and whispered, “You’re our boy, Bree. Nothing is going to change our love for you.”

We cried together, wiping each other’s tears. Their worries were justified—the word gay is synonymous with bashings, murders, and suicides. Dad extracted two promises. Finish college to get a degree in finance. The second, to keep things a secret until the world became more accepting.

The memories bring tears every time. Ed and I don’t speak further during the rest of the ride. Once inside our house, I go to my bedroom and collapse. For a distraction, I open my phone to see the sports section and catch up on the Olympic news. Sarah is competing tomorrow in the swimming events of the Olympics. A news bit pops up in front of me, a picture of a badminton player in midair connecting the shot, about to smash the shuttlecock. I chuckle, remembering Shy’s business, and read the article. The player is from India.

The reporter is stoked about the shots and court coverage of this player. The photo is a side profile, so the face is not clear. Something about the waves of black hair and the body of the player appears familiar. I expand the image. The peacock feather tattoo wound around the right arm above the elbow is unmistakable. Hmm, I bite my lip. “Gotcha.”

His name is difficult to pronounce, so I spell the letters in my mind. ‘S-a-a-r-a-n-s-h’. I Google him. Oh boy, the shy, funny, and cocky fake businessman is at a whole different level in badminton. Ranked number six in the world rankings.

I close the link to dial Sarah’s number. “Hi, sis. How is the preparation for tomorrow?”

“Who is this? Do I know you?” she mocks.

I have earned this so might as well own up for being a shite brother and calling only a day before her first race. We haven’t spoken since she arrived. “Sorry, Sarah.” She calls me on my bullshit.

“What do you want, Bree?”

“I need a favor. Can you get me a phone number?” My request triggers an interrogation. I manage to navigate her intrigue without divulging too many details. By the time I switch off the lights, the number is in my text box.

Time to find if the glass slipper fits. Or, in our case, his shirt, which I found on the chair in my bedroom in the morning.