THE DREAM that jerked Beach out of sleep was dark and hot and featured his erstwhile probation officer in ways that made his dick hard and his head swim. He just didn’t know if his head was swimming to or away from something. He threw off the sheet and duvet, and the air-conditioned chill dragged at least his little head back from the brink. Sprawled like a starfish across the king-sized mattress, he tried to pin down one of the dream fragments. But all the pieces were slippery, squirting away from his grasp like a handful of too much lube. Beach only knew he had been in them. Threat and promise in his commanding body, the growling voice.
And Beach didn’t even know his name. The probation-office listing had been for T. Samuel Fonoti. He tested the name. Sam.
Call me Sir and mean it with every bit of breath in your body. The words rumbled against Beach’s ears from inside his head, driving him fully awake, unable to drift back into his dream.
After rolling from bed, he staggered to the bar, a tumbler and bottle of Pappy Van Winkle in hand before he remembered the damned anklet. Treasuring a sniff of the caramel-praline scent, he put the bourbon carefully back on the bar and filled the tumbler with orange juice from the fridge. Naked but for the damned anklet, he pressed his forehead against the black glass separating him from his balcony.
I could have you strip off every stitch for me and put you out of the car. Public nudity didn’t hold a great deal of shame or interest for Beach. The thrill of hearing those words in his voice had been from the command. The implication that by following the order he might earn that grudging praise, hear that voice telling him it was good or sweet. That was what sent warmth rushing through his veins as surely as if he’d been sipping seventeen-year-old bourbon and not orange juice. Beach slid the door open and stepped out into the hot July night.
Five floors up and at 3:00 a.m., there wasn’t much potential for exhibitionism. No lighted boats prowling the harbor. But the buzz under his skin drove him back inside for his phone. Framing his nude body with the harbor at his back, he snapped a picture and keyed in the number for T. Samuel Fonoti with the text Ready when you are, Sir.
But his thumb hesitated over Send.
Beach knew only too well the futility of chasing a high. One perfect moment was all you got, and then things went downhill quicker than a knife fight in a phone booth.
But this, whatever this was, they’d barely scratched the surface. There were words for it, words he shied away from naming. Words he’d uttered with disdain or mockery for people who felt the need to complicate sex with silly games and costumes, when fucking was as simple and natural an act as breathing.
But what had happened, what he wanted to happen, touched more than just the happy pleasure parts, though they were certainly involved, he noted with a glance at his half-hard dick. Beach wasn’t one to be counted on for deep thoughts, but standing naked on his balcony at 3:00 a.m. seemed to dredge them up. Staring at the black water of the harbor, he had to admit those dizzying moments under the thrall of the other man’s authority had touched what Beach could only call his soul.
No way in hell was he going to have a bare taste and then spend the rest of his life wondering what might have been. He pressed Send as if he could reach through the phone and touch the man on the other end.
The thought tugged at his guts, then lower. If Sam—Sir?—were here now, if he sent back a hot demand…. Beach dropped the phone on the glass table and grabbed his dick, thumbing the slit to work out some precome. It wasn’t the risk of getting caught driving him but the imagined presence on the phone. Faster, tighter. Even if it burned. He shivered at the idea. How much sensation, how much pain would there be in chasing this high?
The thought of pain was almost always enough to send Beach running in the other direction, but all it did right now was make his dick harder, drag his nuts up.
No.
If Officer Fonoti called back, Beach could be waiting. Aching for it. He yanked his hand away like his dick was on fire, clenching his fist in frustration as the smooth build to orgasm turned into a knotted mess in his balls.
“Now would be good,” he whispered at his phone.
This was crazy. Sweating on the balcony with a chafed, aching dick when there was lube and air-conditioning on the other side of the glass. He was the only person in Baltimore awake.
His phone vibrated against the tabletop, and Beach dove for it.
Don’t contact me again.
The response might have been unequivocal to some people. To Beach, the quick answer meant a lot more.
Why? Beach’s finger shook when he tapped Send.
I can’t.
Beach smiled as he read the answer. The space between I can’t and I don’t want to held infinite possibilities.
GAVIN SMILED beatifically as he lowered the mimosa to the table. “Nothing like fresh-squeezed.”
Beach’s mouth watered at the thought. Miss Shirley’s did them right. It wasn’t the buzz he was missing. It would take more than the champagne bubbling through the orange juice to go to his head, but he wanted that taste. Could feel it at his lips, sliding over his tongue. How sensitive was the damned monitor? One little sip probably wouldn’t register.
Gavin tipped his glass back again, smile going wicked. “I’m sure they could make you a virgin mimosa.”
“The sweet tea is fine.” Beach gripped the tall glass and glared across the table. He knew the bastard had ordered the mimosa on purpose.
“I’m sure it is.”
Patronizing and smug. That prick of a cop was rubbing off on Beach’s oldest friend. “How long are you going to take it out on me for that little adventure?”
“To which adventure are you referring?” Gavin’s eyes and his grammar got serious. “The one where we both almost died going off the Key Bridge, or the one where you coerced me into criminal trespass out on Fort Carroll that nearly cost me my chance with—?” Gavin stopped himself as the waiter approached to take their orders.
Beach’s eyebrows shot up. It was that kind of serious with Sergeant Boyfriend—Jamie. Beach supposed he’d better get used to the idea and the name. “Your father will be thrilled to give you away at the wedding.”
For an instant the tightness in Gavin’s jaw made Beach remember exactly how it had felt when the ground had given way and he’d plunged into the hole on Fort Carroll, smashing his leg in the process. Then the corner of Gavin’s mouth twitched. “What a lovely photo op that would be.”
“Especially if they can capture your sister’s apoplexy.”
Gavin’s devotion to a family that treated him like a spare tire was something Beach would never understand.
“Ready?” The waiter looked expectantly at Beach.
“I’ll have the crab cake and fried green tomato Benedict. With grits.”
Gavin ordered the grilled salmon Florentine Benedict and handed off their menus.
“Grits for you too, hon?”
Gavin shook his head. “Hash browns.”
“Heathen,” Beach muttered.
Gavin smiled and sipped his mimosa. “You going to get his number or just meet him in the men’s room?”
Powerful arms pinning Beach’s to the window ledge while a thick cock speared him deep and hard. A gravelly no echoing off the bathroom tile.
“Uh?”
“Clean living is destroying your brain, Beach. The waiter.”
Beach leaned around a guy shoveling in whipped cream and bananas to get a look. Tall, dark, and cute gave him a wink.
Beach turned back to Gavin and shrugged. “Not my type.”
“As opposed to everyone else on the planet?”
Beach offered another shrug.
Gavin splayed his hands on the table. “So I see your face before eleven in the morning for the first time since prep school—”
“Not counting the times we never went to bed,” Beach pointed out.
Gavin leaned back. “I thought being out on the town all night would violate your probation’s curfew.”
He’d been paying attention? Beach didn’t know whether to be charmed or paranoid. He batted his eyes. “I didn’t know you cared that much, sugar.”
“With your epic whining, I couldn’t not know every detail of your probation.” Gavin gave a faint smile. “Besides, I’d rather not have to cut into my schedule to visit you in jail. Too depressing.”
“I had the impression that after Fort Carroll, you’d like me to rot there.”
“That would be Jamie’s fervent desire. I prefer to go on having something to hold over your head.”
“Thanks. I think.”
The waiter was back with their food. After sliding Gavin’s plate to the table, the waiter rested a warm hand on Beach’s shoulder while placing the stacks of crab and fried green tomato in front of him.
“Is there anything else I can get for you?” His voice had a nice resonance, like the purr of a cat.
“Not right now, but I’ll let you know,” Beach offered with a promise in his smile. The hand on his shoulder squeezed lightly as the waiter departed.
“That’s the Beach I know.” Gavin put knife and fork to his salmon.
“Thanks. Again.” Beach didn’t know why it irritated him so much.
“What’s causing the sudden concern for your reputation? I thought sex was still on the probation menu.”
“It is.”
Gavin lowered his silverware, brows arched. “Now we get to it.”
“What?”
“Why I’m weeding through your obfuscatory conversation and flirtation for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.”
“I invited you to breakfast. I am paying for your meal, but it’s not as if I strapped you into the chair.” Damn the flush that spilled from his throat up to his jaw. No way would Gavin miss that. But the echo of his words set off a string of images that had Beach shifting on his seat. Would Officer Fonoti want to do that with him? Bind him?
Gavin made an exasperated sound. “No. But I do have other plans today. So if you’re planning on—”
“All right.” Beach swallowed a forkful of perfectly seasoned heaven. “It’s difficult to explain. Even to you.”
Gavin’s eyes widened. “You’re pregnant.”
Beach stabbed at a piece of crab to keep from stabbing his friend in the throat.
“If you’re looking at me, the statute of limitations on that ran out almost twenty years ago.”
In spite of himself, Beach started to laugh. This was Gavin. His oldest friend in the world. Without Gavin, it would have taken Beach a lot longer to learn how hard he got off with a dick up his ass. That fucking a friend was as much fun as talking a girl out of her pants.
“Just tell me if we’re dealing with boy trouble or girl trouble.” Gavin’s voice held the smile that hadn’t made it to his face. “Because I’m not really much help with girls.”
“It’s more me. No, everything’s functioning fine, thank you,” Beach added to forestall Gavin’s amusement over any need for a little blue pill. “But….” Beach considered whether he’d want to do any of the things he’d looked at online with a woman being… dominant, and shook his head. “We are also talking about a man.”
Gavin didn’t say anything. With a nod he went back to slicing off bite-sized pieces of breakfast. The bastard.
But aside from the way he limited himself to only picking from one team, Gavin was the most sexually adventurous person Beach knew. If anyone had experience in the kind of thing Beach couldn’t stop thinking about, it was Gavin.
“Your cop—Jamie. He’s kind of bossy.”
“Oh shit, Beach. Jamie told me what you said. About the probation officer harassing you. I am so sorry for teasing you. If I thought—”
Beach waved that off. “That was only an annoyance. It’s been taken care of.”
“Good.” Gavin stopped with his fork on its way to his mouth. “So then what do you mean by Jamie being bossy?”
Gavin’s gaze made Beach feel as if he were pinned on the end of the fork. “I—Has he—? Do you—? Is he bossy about things in a sex way?”
Gavin’s eyes dipped in disappointment. “That’s it? You have a sudden kink for BDSM?”
It hadn’t felt like that, as easy to sum up in some initials used to label internet porn. The man’s command. The way Beach wanted to be with him. It wasn’t like anything he’d ever seen. And he’d seen plenty. “Not the leather and the whips. More”—Beach lowered his voice to a whisper—“about him taking charge. I mean. Of everything.”
“Leather or not, that’s what it is, Beach. I hear there’s plenty of it around.”
“Hear?”
“Sorry to disappoint. D/s isn’t part of my relationship with Jamie.”
“D is domination?”
“Did you bother to go on the computer before you dragged me out of bed?”
Beach shrugged and smiled. “You know I’ve always been a hands-on learner.”
Gavin sighed. Again. “D is domination. S in that sense is submission.” He looked up from where he was sawing through the spinach. “Really, Beach? I can’t see you submitting to a firm scolding, let alone a spanking.”
The flush went all the way up to Beach’s hairline, and he looked around to see if anyone was staring at them. “Spanking?” he croaked.
Gavin gave him a pitying smile. “Do you have plans for dinner?”
“I would, if I weren’t chained to sobriety and this tiny square of the map. Why?”
“You may have wasted a breakfast date on me, but I do know where we can find someone who has a lot of experience.”
WHICH WAS how Beach found himself at a Fourth of July barbecue in Mount Washington, scrutinizing the faces of some of Gavin’s new friends to see which might hold the key to information on this secret passion. Hell and hellfire, he sounded like a nineteenth-century novel. He wasn’t exactly sure how he felt about disclosing his newfound curiosity to complete strangers, but Gavin’s friends were at least easy enough to share a dinner with.
Kellan: tall, blond, and friendly. He would be Beach’s first choice. Not only would the man be easy to talk to, but he demonstrated a quiet ability to rein in his excitable boyfriend, Nate. Though if Nate took orders, that clearly only happened at home. So damned smart he was dumb from it, Beach’s gran would have said about Nate. An opinion about everything, and nothing in it but words. But when Kellan had a hand on Nate, he went softer and quieter in a way anybody could see.
The other couple—and that coupling was well-established when they did everything but fuck right on the patio table—was a bit trickier to get a read on. If you were going by looks, sure, Quinn was someone who could take charge and make things happen, but Beach had brought home more than one big and strong man and ended up doing more hard work than if he was with a girl. The connection between Quinn and his much younger boyfriend Eli—that took some figuring. The pale goth kid had a sweet-looking ass and a delicately featured face under long black bangs, but when he said jump, everyone asked how high.
Case in point, Eli had just sent Kellan and Marco—who was so innocent and childlike Beach had crossed him off the list the minute he saw the doe eyes under the brown curls—into the house to retrieve the desserts Beach had brought along.
Marco was dwarfed by a stack of two boxes, Kellan toting the other three and balancing paper plates and napkins on top. Beach supposed he had gone a bit overboard. But he’d panicked when he realized he couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t set off the monitor’s alarms by going into Grand Cru to pick up some wine for a gift.
“What’s in them?” Nate poked open one of the boxes like it had spiders in it rather than six custard tarts.
“Whatever the good people at Le Vol au Vent had left before they closed at noon,” Beach said. “Are you suffering on that gluten-free thing?” Having to give up so much might explain a lot.
“No.” Kellan lifted out a chocolate mousse cake with respectful care. “He’s just a vegetarian. And a pain in the ass.”
“Lucky for you,” Nate got out before his words were muffled. Beach couldn’t quite see behind Kellan’s broad shoulders when he faced Nate, but it sounded a little obscene. Beach hoped the only licking going on was from fingers.
“I’ve some strawberry Jell-O and Cool Whip in the fridge if you want that.” Eli smirked as he sliced the cake.
“Gelatin is from animal hooves,” Nate pointed out.
Kellan took the slice Eli handed him. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
“Oh, wait. I know.” Marco jumped up and ran to the back door. He returned a moment later with a wizened, spotted banana. “Here.”
“Perfect.” Kellan pulled the cake away and handed off the banana. “There you go, baby. Guaranteed vegetarian.”
A sense of humor to go with a controlling attitude? Beach was definitely hoping he’d been brought here to talk to Kellan.
“You brought all of this?” Marco selected a cream puff from one of the other boxes. Beach nodded.
Marco squirmed onto his lap, putting the cream puff to Beach’s mouth. “Are you anyone’s sugar daddy right now?”
“Uhmf.” Between the custard and the kiss Marco smushed onto Beach’s lips, it was difficult to answer. He looked to Gavin for help. All the bastard did was smile and shake his head. Beach had trouble picturing Jamie’s sour disposition around this crew. Quinn had dragged Eli into his lap and was being fed chocolate mousse.
“Marco, honey.” Beach leaned back and licked his lips. “I’m afraid you’re—”
“I’m not too young. I’m eighteen.”
“That’s not what I was going to say.” Beach put a finger to the child’s lips. “I’m afraid you’re too much man for me.”
Marco peered at him through narrowed eyes. “Don’t. No, qué? You aren’t gay?”
“I’m flexible.”
“Or as he likes to say, ‘any port in a storm,’” Gavin said.
“Bi pride, dude.” Kellan reached over with a fist bump.
“Oh. Both.” Marco accepted that easily. “So?”
As Beach tried to think of a way to extricate himself with the kid’s pride still intact, Marco wrapped his arms around Beach’s neck. “Can I just pretend? For a minute?”
It was downright heartbreaking. “Sure.” Beach tucked the kid against his chest.
“It’s not so wrong to want to get fucked, right?”
God, Beach had never been that young. And hell, he thought Gavin had been born jaded. Where was all the conversation that had been bouncing around the table all afternoon?
“Marco.” There was the firm voice Beach had suspected Quinn could bust out when he wanted to. Thank God someone was keeping track of this kid. One trip to a place like Grand Central and he’d be as cynical as the rest of them.
Marco clung a little tighter. “I’m so horny. And I’m surrounded by all this.” He nodded at either end of the table.
“Gavin’s alone too. What about him?” Beach murmured.
“His boyfriend is at work. He will get it later.”
Beach glanced at Gavin, who was suppressing laughter with tight lips. Okay, this sure beat a stuffy Montgomery dress-up party. Beach was starting to think it had one over on anything his friends down on Riviera Beach could dream up. He tried to find another way to let the kid down gently. “Can you keep a secret?”
Marco nodded.
Beach extracted a promise, then cupped his hands to Marco’s ear to whisper, “You’re very sexy, but when I’m with a guy, I only like to get it, if you know what I mean.” It was half true. And if he managed to overcome Officer Fonoti’s reservations, Beach expected it would be true more often than not.
He felt Marco nod and lifted his hands away. Marco shielded his lips as he whispered back, “How will I learn to tell?”
Beach kept up the secrecy. “Watch. See how they stand. If they want to fuck you, they take up more room. And listen to how they talk.” He pulled away. “Then you’ll feel it. Here.” He tapped Marco’s stomach.
“Not here?” Marco grabbed Beach’s hand and shoved it lower.
Beach yanked his hand free and dumped Marco off his lap, but at least the kid was grinning.
GAVIN WAS smooth, Beach had to give him that. He didn’t know how his friend had managed it, but Beach was alone in the kitchen with Eli, helping him with the few remaining dishes, and didn’t even know he’d been set up until Eli said, “So. Gavin said you wanted to talk to me.”
Beach dried off a pair of grill tongs while he tried to figure out how to swing this subject with a guy he’d just met.
“About figuring out you’re kinky.”
The tongs clattered to the floor. And on the other hand, Gavin could be as smooth as a sledgehammer.
“Bastard,” Beach muttered as he handed the tongs back to Eli.
Eli huffed a laugh. “He said you were a little shy about it. But if you want it, you’re going to have to figure out how to ask for it. Especially as a bottom.”
That sledgehammer kept right on swinging.
“Hey, it’s not like I’m judging you.” Eli handed over the tongs again. “I’ve been kinky—and queer—as long as I can remember.” He rinsed off a wooden spoon and smacked it against his palm. “I’m mostly a sensation bottom.” He whapped the spoon a few more times, sending water droplets flying up, misting over Beach’s flushed face.
“What does that mean?” Though he guessed he knew part of it from the spoon action.
“I love to get spanked. Hard. Fucked hard. Pain like that turns me on.”
“I—I don’t think that’s for me.” If he wasn’t worried about insulting Eli, Beach would have come down more firmly on the no-to-pain side. He’d been through surgery and a long recovery on his smashed leg. Pain was not a friend. He gave a side-eye to the spoon as Eli handed it to him.
“Don’t freak. We don’t use that one.”
If Beach had been alone, he might have tested it out. All the same, he was still pretty sure about this. His parents hadn’t been spankers, but when they exited Beach’s life and his uncle became his guardian, a brief period of adolescent smart-mouthing had made Beach all too familiar with the phrase, “Go cut me a switch, boy, and drop ’em.”
It had been a very brief period of smart-mouthing.
Still, two days ago Beach didn’t know it was worth putting up with the pain of having a dick fucking him after he’d come, worth it because someone demanded it, worth it to hear brief words of praise in a rough voice. Good. So good.
“Gavin said something about D/s. I’ve done a little of that before, and”—for the first time there was a catch in Eli’s voice, but it didn’t sound like shyness—“we’re playing with that some too.”
“I think I like the idea of being told what to do. Being controlled.”
“Because he wants it, yeah.” Eli’s voice held a warm rush of pleasure. “When he’s all focused on you and making you take more than you thought you could and you want to, for him.”
“Yes.” Relief sank deep, cozy as sunshine into Beach’s bones. That was exactly it. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t known about this before.
“Of course, it all really starts when you want it to stop. When you know you can’t take it, when it really does hurt, and he pushes you further.”
Eli had said pain turned him on. If there were parts of this where the pain was too much for him…. That was terrifying. So why did Beach want to jump into it, ache to know what Eli was talking about now?
“What I mean is, don’t safeword out too early. Not to discourage anyone from embracing their kink, but if you’re going to play as a sub, a Dom is going to deal you some pain. As punishment or control. You’ll probably be spanked. You should get your head around it before you play.”
Nothing had felt less like playing than what had happened inside Beach when Officer Fonoti had told Beach why his blackmail wouldn’t work. “And then when you two aren’t playing, everything is like the way you are now?”
“Quinn still has ways of making demands.” Eli grinned and handed over some silverware. “But yeah. We’re not into doing it full-time. Some people do, though. They call it a discipline relationship. Is that what you’re thinking of trying?”
“I—I’m not exactly sure what he wants.”
“Better ask. Right away. You really should negotiate up front. Make sure if you have any hard limits—things you would never ever do—he knows about them. Safewords, safety, all that stuff. If he doesn’t listen, then you need to get the hell out.”
Beach had asked. Sort of. Considering some people weren’t at their best in the wee hours of the morning, he’d given things another shot on the phone at the entirely respectable hour of nine. He hadn’t been surprised when his call went immediately to voicemail. He’d had his message planned.
“Please accept my apologies for—well, for everything that got us off on the wrong foot. I clearly overstepped. And you called my bluff. I would never have followed through. I respect—” No need to complicate things with a lie. Authority wasn’t high on Beach’s list. “I just wouldn’t. So I was thinking we could start things off better. Perhaps even with an apologetic blow job. My treat, of course.”
Armed with Eli’s information, Beach supposed his message should have been I want to be your sub. We should negotiate what you expect. I don’t know what my hard limits are because I don’t know what you’d ask. A blow job is definitely not on the limits list. Spanking might be.
“It’s all theoretical at present. I’m not sure I have his attention.”
“Don’t worry about that. If there’s one thing I can help you with, it’s getting a guy’s attention.” Eli reached for a glass bowl, then looked at Beach. “Do you think I can trust you with something breakable now?”
NO BADGE, no gun, no Jez. Tai felt naked walking into Gina’s Fourth of July barbecue. From the way the two dozen people in the yard stared, he might as well have been. He was about to check to see if his cargo shorts were still on when a guided missile hit him in the thigh.
“Hi, Daddy Tai. That rhymes.”
The sweet giggle made the whole damned mess worth it. Ignoring the stares, he scooped Sammie up into a hug. “It does. You’re pretty smart. How come you’re so smart if school is over?”
Sammie’s sigh was exactly like her mom’s, and so was the patient lecture in her voice. “It doesn’t go away once you learn it. That’s the whole point of school.”
“Good to know.” He drank in the sight of her face. How could her round little cheeks already be starting to sharpen? He hoped Gina didn’t have her on some crazy diet.
“Where’s Jezebel?” Sammie’s heels drummed his bottom ribs.
“She wanted to stay home. She doesn’t like fireworks.” Getting Jez to remain completely calm no matter what Sammie did to her had been Tai’s top priority. Now Sammie could probably cut off an ear and Jez would simply lick her face, but the combination of random bangs and strangers wasn’t something Tai was willing to test.
“Okay.” Her feet kicked harder, and she squirmed.
Daddy Tai was only as interesting as his dog. He put her down, and she squeezed out a hug before running off where some kids were chasing each other around a tree.
He didn’t turn as Gina came up to stand beside him. “She’s still happy to see you.”
Tai shoved his hands in his pockets. Being around Gina made him feel like a giant with a Barbie doll. “What’s going on with her hair?”
“She wants to grow locs.” Gina’s tone didn’t give Tai much of a hint on whether it was a good or bad development.
Tai glanced at Gina’s relaxed-to-her-shoulders hair. He’d worn his own long since leaving high school, and it ran curly or straight depending on the weather. He kept it scraped back in a tight knot for work.
Gina’s chin poked out. “It’s her hair.”
“No defense moves necessary. I’m glad she gets to do what she wants with it.”
Gina relaxed. “Beats fighting her with a comb to get it into braids. She’s so damned tender-headed.”
“I bet.”
“What would you know?” But there was laughter in her voice. “I’ve seen her hair after a week with you. You’d cut your heart out rather than fight with her on anything.”
True. He’d been in awe of Sammie from the instant he held her. Couldn’t believe the tiny little squirming ball had grown into a baby, then a toddler, now a child. That she’d been his.
Except she wasn’t. Even if she looked exactly like baby pictures of his mom.
The man whose DNA profile proved he was 99.9 percent more likely to have given Sammie half her DNA than Tai strode over and offered a cold bottle of beer and an all-but-subliminal nod.
Tai took the beer.
“Glad you made it.” Josh’s words weren’t close to a decent lie. “Got some ribs on.”
“Thanks. Smells great.” Which was the truth, damn it. Tai’s mouth had been watering two steps from the car.
There was a rise in noise from the picnic table, and Gina slipped away. Tai knocked back some beer in the long silence. He and Josh had been friends once. Teammates. UM Terps. And Tai didn’t hate Josh so much for coming back. He hated him for leaving in the first place. Leaving Gina so broken and miserable that something that had seemed like a good idea after too much rum at a party had led them here.
“You don’t have to keep sending checks, man.” Josh started the same conversation they’d been having for the past two years.
Tai might not be obligated for child support, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want Sammie to have the best. “Save it for college, then.”
“Or her wedding.”
Their simultaneous shudders of horror provoked an actual nod of understanding. “Tai, I’m taking care of them,” Josh said in exactly the tone of voice guaranteed to make Tai want to prove he still had enough defensive tackle in him to drop Josh straight to hell before he could take another step back to his precious grill.
Where the fuck had he been when Gina had morning sickness—all day—for two months, when she needed someone to hold on to while her body pushed out the baby, when Sammie cried with colic and teething? Tai had pointed that all out to Gina when Josh came back, in the only screaming fight they’d ever had. I know all that. But he’s here now. It’s my life, Tai. My decision.
And the worst of it was, Josh was taking care of them. Tai couldn’t argue with a solid brick detached three-bedroom in the suburbs and a yard big enough for a swing set and cousins to chase around, and grandparents and aunts and uncles at the picnic table.
“Hey.”
Tai blinked and Gina was there, planted in front of him as if she knew how slippery his grip on his temper was.
“Hey.” He shifted his beer to his other hand but didn’t drink any.
“Want me to introduce you around?”
Tai was sure the whole fucked-up story had already made the rounds of Josh’s family. “I’m good.”
“Uh-huh.” Gina nodded. “Anything new in your life?”
Anyone, she meant. Gina knew, of course. Knew before the party of rum and bad decisions, knew before Tai had worked up enough nerve to confess it. But back then he’d had his head, heart, and soul set on an NFL career, and gay guys didn’t get drafted, didn’t get signed. Maybe a kicker someday, but not a defensive end. Two-time All-American or not.
With that question hanging between them, his phone took on a little extra weight, as if from the voicemail he hadn’t listened to but hadn’t deleted either. “Same old, same old.”
“How’s your mom?”
“She’s good.” Tai grabbed the escape handed to him and ran with it. “She and Phillip are doing the barbecue thing in Woodlawn. I think I’ll stop up there and say hi.”
“Don’t forget to say goodbye to Sammie.”
TAI NEVER made it out to Woodlawn to see Mom and Phillip the Pharmacist. A trip to Harris Teeter outfitted him with ribs and beer. The ribs weren’t half as good as the smell from Josh’s grill, but the Flying Dog Pale Ale—and the lack of certain company—made up for it. He spent the evening mindlessly clicking through the nothing on cable until a quick triple knock bounced off the apartment door.
Jez raised her head, tipped it for a couple seconds, then stood up with a stretch. That usually meant someone she knew.
Tai patted her head, set down his beer, and discovered with surprise it had four empty companions lined up across the coffee table. He wasn’t lit, he noticed when he stood up, but he was feeling it.
Jez stuck to her training and sat in the living room doorway as Tai went to the door and opened it.
A completely naked David Beauchamp knelt in the hall.