THROUGHOUT HIS life, Jackson has been broken up with several times. In a variety of ways. He’s been let down gently over awkward dinners. He’s received text messages, e-mails, and voice mails. Once there was even a note. He’s gone days without hearing from a boyfriend or girlfriend, only to see them out and about with someone else. He had his heart stomped on and bruised, handed back to him with no-thank-yous attached. And it sucks. Without fail. But he keeps going because he’s young, and this is all part of it, or so he’s told.
He’s not so young anymore, though, and he was never really in it for the fun of it all. He’s looking for Mr. or Ms. Right. They don’t have to be perfect—and Jackson’s current possibility is far from it. But he’s confident about them, and he feels like they’re in a good place.
He’s not living with Angel, though they do have keys to each other’s apartments (and he thinks Angel might ask to move in soon). For the last two weeks, he’s been in Atlanta for work, doing makeup for a small television production. He’s back a day early, wants to drop his stuff off, and then go over to Angel’s and surprise him. They’ve been together for a little over six months now. In his mind, things are serious. He’s thinking about just how he wants to surprise Angel when he sticks his key in the door and opens it.
His ears are assaulted by a wave of moaning. Loud, unrepentant, obnoxious moaning. For half a second, he’s willing to believe that maybe Angel missed him and is having an enthusiastic solo session. It would be weird. He could overlook it, though. But he wasn’t born yesterday, and his naïve days are long past. So when the distinct sound of a second voice chimes in, he’s not all that surprised.
Upset, hurt, disgusted? Yes. Surprised it’s happening at all? Definitely. Shocked by the second voice? Nope.
This time—this soon-to-be breakup—might take the cake for worst one yet. For a couple of different reasons. He thinks it might be the final straw. He can’t keep doing this if each time is going to be worse.
He lets his bag drop to the floor. The moaning doesn’t stop. He can hear his headboard hitting the wall. The creak of his bedsprings that only happens when the sex really gets going. His stomach rolls. He has a guest bedroom, and he wonders, somewhat hysterically, why Angel didn’t have the courtesy to at least use it. It’s bad enough he’s doing this in Jackson’s place at all. He’s going to have to burn his bed now.
The moaning turns into grunting and gasped cries of more and yes and please. He gags.
Numbly, he heads in the direction of his room. He doesn’t want to see it—hearing it is bad enough—but the thought of them finishing in his bed makes him sick. He loves the comforter and his sheets. He’s going to have to toss them. Maybe he can find the same exact ones on Amazon or something.
The door is wide open, and his view of the proceedings isn’t hindered in any way. His soft, peacock-colored down comforter is bunched at the end of the bed. His head pillow is underneath Angel’s plump ass. Which is currently being pounded into by someone else’s porn-star dick. His gray Egyptian cotton sheets are bunched around them, shaking with each movement. He thinks his headboard might leave a dent in the wall—there goes his security deposit. The shelves he has around the room are all rattling from the force.
He clears his throat.
They don’t notice him.
He could clear his throat louder. But…. He turns and goes to the kitchen, calmly removes the flowers from the vase in the center of his island, and fills the vase with ice-cold water. He goes back to his bedroom and throws the water on the two naked men in his bed. He makes sure to get both of them good, makes sure they’re fully covered.
If the situation were different, he’d laugh at their startled cries and the way they scramble around. The man on top almost falls off the bed, and Angel gives a loud yell when he pulls out so fast.
But all in all, it’s not really a laughing matter.
“Hello,” he says, voice carefully blank. He hopes his face is just as emotionless. He doesn’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing how distraught he is. “Would anyone care to explain?”
Angel looks at him with wide brown eyes. His black hair is matted to his scalp. “You weren’t supposed to be home till tomorrow,” he says and has the nerve to look irritated.
“I thought I’d surprise you,” says Jackson. He smiles tightly. “I guess the joke’s on me.”
Angel sighs and points to the naked man beside him. He’s ripped, with a broad face, thick eyebrows, a bushy beard, and not a hair on his dark head. “This is Carl. We’ve been doing this for a couple months now.”
Since he gave him a key. Fantastic. “This as in sleeping together, or this as in fucking in my bed?”
“Both,” says Angel, shrugging—like it’s nothing. “You’ve got a really nice pad.”
Jackson can’t even believe it. He’s tempted to look around for cameras because surely this has to be a really bad joke for a show or something. “I think you should go,” he says. He needs to call a Realtor and find a new place. He’s not going to be staying here.
Angel looks miffed and glances down at his still hard dick. “Can’t we finish?”
“No,” says Jackson, flatly. His life has become a nightmare. This is nothing but a horrible delusion. “I’m going to call the cops if you don’t leave right now.”
He watches them pick up their clothes and make for the door. He’s tempted to toss them out naked, but he doesn’t want to punish his neighbors or innocent bystanders.
“Do you want your stuff back?” asks Angel, hovering outside the doorway. His shoes are in his hands. They’re hideous loafers.
“Keep it.” Jackson doesn’t want back any of the clothes or personal items he’s left at Angel’s. He slams the door in his face. He’d like to collapse on his couch, but his whole apartment feels tainted. He doesn’t know what’s been touched by them. His skin crawls. It’s been tainted for months, and he hasn’t known. He wants to jump in the shower—not his—and scrub till his skin is raw. Can he afford to burn everything in his place and start over?
Scrubbing his hands over his face, he takes a deep, steadying breath and fishes his phone out of his pocket. He calls Georgina, his sister, because she doesn’t live with a partner, and she’s in the area. Two of his brothers are shacked up (he’s so not in the mood to deal with happy couples) and the other two are somewhere in California having pictures taken of them.
She picks up on the third ring, voice cheery and surprised. “Wasn’t expecting to hear from you for a couple of days. How’s the shoot going?”
“I need a place to stay.”
Georgina goes quiet, and after a long moment she asks, “You’re home? Did something happen to your apartment?”
Nothing happened like what she’s thinking, but in a way something very heinous did indeed happen. “I came home early. Angel’s been having sex with another man in it,” he says. “For a while now, apparently. In my bed. Am I the only one who thinks that’s wrong? ’Cause he didn’t seem to think so.” He hears how empty his voice sounds, but he can’t seem to do anything about it. He wonders if this is what true shock feels like.
Her breath whistles as she sucks it in. “Take a cab over,” she says. “I’ll run to the store and get some candy.” He hears rustling as she gets up, the jingle of her keys as she grabs them. “I’ll call Dad and have him call that Realtor he knows.”
He loves her so much right now. Thanking her quietly, feeling his throat strain as he fights back the mix of emotions bubbling in his chest, he hangs up and grabs his bag. He’ll send someone else to get more of his stuff later. Or maybe not. He really might get all new stuff. He doesn’t want to risk being icked out by his own belongings.
By the time he gets to Georgina’s, she’s returned from the store and lets him in, enveloping him in a bracing hug before anything else. She doesn’t let go for several minutes, and they stand like that in her doorway, swaying back and forth slightly.
“I bought chocolate,” she says softly. “And those Sour Skittles you like. Caramel apples. And donuts. I know that’s not candy, but they’re good. They’re an assortment.”
He buries his face against her shoulder, heaves in a shuddering breath. She takes a step back, drawing him in with her. He hears the door click shut behind them. “We’re going to slash his tires,” she says. “They’ll never be able to prove who did it.”
He laughs wetly. Shakes his head.
They’ve only just settled on the couch, Jackson with his head in Georgina’s lap as she pets his hair, when the door opens. He turns to look, and in walks James, unaccompanied by his other half. Laurence follows him, minus his wife. They both look pissed.
“You’ve got a key to his house, right?” asks James.
“We’re going to trash it,” says Laurence vehemently.
Jackson knuckles at his wet eyes and smiles weakly. “You can’t trash his apartment.”
“Yes, we can,” says James. “He trashed yours. It’s called being fair.” He cracks his knuckles. “Bastien knows a lot of chefs. He’s going to put the word out, and this guy isn’t going to get good service ever again.”
His family is absolutely insane, and he loves them to pieces. “You can do that,” he says, a tiny genuine smile lifting his lips. “But you can’t break into his home.”
Laurence gets a speculative look on his face. “What if we give the key to someone else to trash it? There’s a hooker who hangs around the bar on 11th. We could give her the key and tell her she can have a blast.”
“I’m going to get in trouble if someone trashes his place,” says Jackson patiently. “So as appealing as that sounds, I’m going to have to say no.” Though he does think it’s a fantastic idea. One of the best Laurence ever had. Unfortunately, it’s just not feasible.
James takes a seat on the couch, lifting his legs and draping them over his lap. Laurence sits on the floor, his arm on the couch, brushing along Jackson’s back. He rubs between his shoulder blades.
“Candy and a film?” Laurence asks. “We can watch something you worked on and compliment your living art.”
Jackson huffs a laugh, running a hand through his messy blond hair. He needs a haircut. “That sounds good,” he says. He reaches over his head for where Georgina has the sweets stacked, and she hands him a jumbo bag of Sour Skittles. He rolls to face the large flat-screen television and settles in to listen to his family tell him how amazing he is at his job.
He may not have a significant other anymore, but he thinks he doesn’t need one when he has his family.