Happy (4 page)

Happy |
Chris Scully

19

was a dimly burning porch lamp. He stumbled once, but didn’t go down.

At the door he fumbled in his pocket for a long time, and then he bent over.

After that, he didn’t get back up.

With a sigh, Louie turned the engine off and got out to help.

He found Peter seated on the ground in front of the door, half his face

hidden by shadows and the other half looking dejected under the glow of the

lamp. “Wow, you’re really in bad shape, aren’t you?”

“Can’t find the keys,” he said, sliding his hands uselessly over the

dark pavement. Louie used the glow from his cell phone to promptly locate

the missing key chain amid a scattering of old leaves. After a couple of tries,

he found the one that unlocked the door.

Peter didn’t budge from the ground. Instead, he held out his hand

expectantly, and Louie hauled him to his feet, stumbling a bit under the

weight. “Demetra so owes me for this,” he muttered. But as he draped

Peter’s heavy arm over his shoulder and hooked him around the waist, he

was smiling. He’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t enjoy the grappling

just a little bit. It wasn’t every day he got to feel up his teenage crush. Peter

felt nice and solid in his arms. Even his cologne, which had seemed so

overpowering in the car, smelled just right now. At this rate, he wouldn’t

need the porn at all when he got home.

With a little maneuvering and absolutely no help from the dead weight

in his arms, he managed to get them safely inside. He smothered a nervous

laugh as Peter’s hand fell from his shoulder to skate down his back and

graze his ass. “Jeez, Peter, you move pretty fast for a straight guy.”

The hand quickly vanished.

Louie felt along the wall until he located a light switch. When he

flicked it on, light flooded a basement. A well-appointed basement. The

space had been converted into a fully contained apartment with a kitchen

and everything. He gave a low whistle. “This is a sweet setup. No wonder

you’re in no hurry to leave.”

“Yeah?” Peter’s hot breath blew against his ear. “I’ll trade you.”

“Careful. I’m homeless at the moment, and I might take you up on

that. Where’s your bedroom, big guy?”

Peter’s body suddenly stiffened. He took an unsteady step away to

stand on his own. “I think I can take it from here.”

Happy |
Chris Scully

20

“Are you sure?” Louie reached out instinctively when Peter wobbled—

saw the way Peter flinched and drew back from his touch in a panic. His

face burned as though he’d been slapped.

“I’m good.” Peter wouldn’t meet Louie’s eyes. “I don’t need your help.”

Anger, hot and heavy flooded his veins at the telling reaction. Peter

was nothing but a fucking hypocrite—surrounded himself with gay friends

but got all freaked out when another man touched him.

“Suit yourself.”

Calmly, far more calmly than he was feeling, Louie set the keys down

on the nearby coffee table and let himself out.

THREE

Peter woke up horny—not an unusual condition for him, especially

when he’d been drinking, but this morning he was dreaming about strong

arms and hard, muscled bodies. An exotic scent he couldn’t quite place—

like sandalwood and oranges—teased his senses. A small part of his foggy

brain knew where this was going, and for a second he considered forcing

himself awake, but his dick had other ideas.

Still half-asleep, he rolled onto his stomach and ground his hips in slow

circles against the mattress. Somehow he’d managed to undress himself the

night before, and now he hummed at the pleasurable friction against his

naked skin. He reached down and wrapped his fingers around his length….

“
Panagiotis
?” His mother’s strident voice cut through Peter’s hangover

haze like a chainsaw cutting through a rotten tree branch. “
Panagiotis
? Are

you awake?”

He stopped his thrusting but didn’t release his grip. “It’s Peter, Ma,”

he mumbled in English, turning his face into the pillow. It didn’t matter if

she heard it or not. For as long as he could remember, he’d been repeating

the same thing, and she never listened; both his parents persisted in calling

him by his Greek name.

“It was good enough for my father,” his dad would say. “It’s good

enough for you.”

“You’ll be late for church,” she hollered, now outside his bedroom

door, still speaking Greek. Thirty years in this country and she stubbornly

refused to speak English unless dealing with customers at the restaurant.

How much was an act and how much was real, he never quite knew. Most

of the time she seemed to understand him just fine when he spoke English—

unless of course she didn’t
want
to understand him, and then she feigned

ignorance.

“I’m not going?” Peter muttered.

“I did not hear you.”

“I said I’m not going. I’m not feeling well.”

Happy |
Chris Scully

22

The door to his bedroom flew open. “Ay,” she said, seeing how he’d

dropped last night’s clothes on the floor. “What a mess.”

“Ma,” he cried in horror, flipping over and jerking the covers up to his

chin. He cupped himself for added protection. His morning wood wilted.

“You can’t just come in here.”

“
Pfft
,” she said, ignoring him. She carried his freshly laundered

clothes, which she hung in the closet before bending to pick up yesterday’s

pants, clucking her tongue as she neatly folded them over her arm. “Who do

you think changed your diapers?”

“It’s not the same,” he insisted to the back of her blonde head. “I’m an

adult now. What about privacy?”

“Why do you need privacy?” Tina Georgiou swiveled her head to

squint at him. “When you have a wife and a house of your own, you can

have privacy. Are you sick?”

“I have a headache.” That much was true.

“Your father always gets those too after a night at the social club. Too

many late nights,
Panagiotis
,” she scolded.

“I was with Demetra.” It was a lie, but he’d learned that he could get

away with almost anything if he blamed it on Demetra.

His mother’s harsh face transformed with a smile. “Good, good.

Things are going well? She’s a good girl. Don’t let her get away like the

others.”

“I won’t, Ma.”

“Soon, I will be too old to take care of your babies.”

“You’re not old.” He squirmed into a sitting position, still holding

the blankets to his chin and covering his bare chest. This was a familiar

conversation. He wasn’t even sure he wanted kids. But he didn’t dare bring

that up.

Peter’s father, Konstantinos, or Kosta to his friends, yelled down the

basement stairs, “Hurry it up. We’ll be late.”

“He says he’s not going,” his mother hollered back.

“Well, tell him not to forget he opens today.”

“I won’t, Pop,” Peter shouted tiredly, wincing at the pain in his head.

In three years he’d never been late opening the restaurant. He turned to his

mother who was filling the laundry basket with clothes from his hamper.

“See, I can’t go to church. I have to open at eleven.”

“You could come for Matins,” she suggested.

Happy |
Chris Scully

23

Working at the restaurant usually got him out of the full three-hour

service on Sundays, but he didn’t feel up to even the first half today. The

hammering in Peter’s head worsened. His mouth felt fuzzy. “I can’t, Ma,”

he moaned, falling back against the pillows and making a show of it.

She laid the back of her hand against his forehead. “Fine,” she sighed.

“Shall I make
tiganites
? I have extra batter from breakfast.” The fried pancakes

were his favorite, but this morning the last thing he wanted was food.

“I’m not hungry. And Ma, you know Pop is supposed to avoid fried

foods.”“Bah, a little won’t hurt. Some yogurt, then? With honey?”

“You’re going to be late for church,” he reminded her.

“But you need to eat something.”

He sighed. “Fine. I’ll grab a
koulouri
. Do we have any?” Her homemade

round bread rings covered with sesame seeds made a quick, delicious treat.

She smiled, pleased to have won the battle. “I baked some yesterday.

They are upstairs in the kitchen.”

“Thanks, Ma.”

The minute she left the room, he pulled the covers over his head and

groaned. Jesus, he had to get out of here before it was too late.

He stayed like that, cocooned beneath the covers, breathing in his own

stink until he heard their muffled footsteps overhead, then the sound of the

front door closing. A few minutes later, his dad’s Cadillac fired up. How that

thing still ran, he’d never know. It was just like his dad: old but too damn

stubborn to quit.

Peter flipped back the sheet and took a deep breath. He stared up at

the ceiling. How had he ended up here? Thirty-two and still living in his

parents’ basement. What a loser. Even
he
wouldn’t date him.

He’d almost escaped once. He had a letter of acceptance from an out-

of-town college and everything. And then Ma had broken down in front of

him, begged him not to go. Said that he was killing her. That she couldn’t

bear to live with her only child so far away. In the end he’d relented and

chosen the local college instead. They had refurbished the basement just for

him, and he had settled in without a word of protest.

He got his bachelor’s degree in business and then went on to his

master’s. He found a great job. He met Elena and got engaged. When it fell

apart after a couple of years, he went back to dating the women his mother

set him up with.

Happy |
Chris Scully

24

He tried again; lined up an apartment nearby as a compromise. Then

came Pop’s heart attack. It was a big one and took him nearly a year to fully

recover. Peter had been five years into a job he loved in the city’s Economic

Development Office when it happened. He knew what was expected of him;

they didn’t even need to say it this time. Ma just gave him a look, and the

plans to move out were gone. The restaurant was his family’s pride and

joy—open 362 days a year since 1985. Peter quit his job and took over

running the restaurant. He’d been there ever since.

With a heavy sigh, Peter rolled out of bed and stumbled down the

hall to the bathroom. He grabbed two Tylenol out of the medicine cabinet,

swallowing them with a chaser of Pepto-Bismol, and crawled into the

shower where he turned the shower head on pulse in an effort to sober up.

“Are you happy?”

The question made his shoulders tight.

He vaguely remembered Demetra’s brother bringing him home last

night and groaned. He hoped he hadn’t made a fool of himself. He didn’t

need Demetra thinking he was any more of a loser.

Under the warm spray, his muscles relaxed. He soaped himself slowly,

lathering up his penis and coaxing it back to hardness. He usually had to

be quick and quiet, but knowing he had the house to himself, he lingered,

stroking his chest, playing with his nipples until they were hard. With his

eyes closed, he worked his cock, lightly pinching his foreskin together over

the head for added stimulation the way he liked. A familiar fantasy took

root in the back of his mind; his fingers slid over his ass, slipped into his

crack, brushed his hole with featherlight touches. Peter held his breath as

he pressed one finger inside, not penetrating very deep—just enough to

make his erection jump in his hand and his toes curl against the plastic

shower pan. He left it there, gently moving in and out, while he stroked

himself harder, faster. His balls drew up tight; his cock pulsed in his hand

as he came hard. So hard he had to lean against the tiled wall until his head

stopped swimming and he could catch his breath.

By the time he stepped out of the shower, his headache had abated,

and he felt almost human again. With a towel knotted around his waist, he

wandered into the basement kitchen to brew a single cup of coffee.

As he waited for the water to run through, he had a vague recollection

of Demetra’s brother standing right there. And if he wasn’t mistaken, looking

Happy |
Chris Scully

25

pissed off too. No wonder. What an ass he’d been. Why hadn’t Demetra told

him they’d gone to school together?

He couldn’t say what prompted it, but coffee in hand, he began hunting

for his high school yearbook from senior year. He found it on the bottom

bookshelf in his bedroom and sat down on the bed with it splayed across his

lap as he leafed through the pages. Louie would have been two years behind

him, so first he went to the class photo section. He found Louie Papadakis

straightaway, looking like every other geeky, pimply faced kid back then.

He wore a white dress shirt, buttoned tight at the neck. His hair was cut

short on the sides with spiky, frosted tips on top.

Peter avoided his own class picture—no need to walk down that