Kickass Anthology (23 page)

“
Inshallah
, my wise friend.”

A DECADE passed. I never did return to Tunisia. Instead, two months before that fateful day of 9/11, I joined an archaeological team that was excavating just north of Rome. The eternal city captured my soul forever; I never set foot in North Africa again.

And here I was back in Rome, watching the late afternoon shadows gradually engulf this famous piazza. I closed my journal and sat back in my chair while tourists and horse-drawn carriages jostled for position in front of the Pantheon. A few scraggly pigeons descended upon the bistro table next to mine as noisy street vendors hawked their kitschy souvenirs: statues of the she-wolf suckling Romulus and Remus, miniature models of the Coliseum, and the ever-present replicas of a beautiful, bereaved Mary cradling the body of her dead son.

I swallowed a gulp of beer when my cell phone rang; I glanced down and smiled at the familiar city code.

London.

“Hey! How’s medical school? And more important—what’s this that you wrote in your last email about some cute English guy who’s won your heart? I want all the juicy details, Bashir.”

AUTHOR

JP Kenwood

When she doesn’t have her nose stuck in a dusty old history book, JP Kenwood relishes writing erotic m/m fiction. JP prefers plot-packed, sexy, and romantic tales that explore loyalty, trust, betrayal, and sacrifice. She is currently busy penning the second book in her alternate history series,
Dominus
. The second book—
Games of Rome
—follows our auburn-haired bastard of a protagonist, Gaius Fabius, and his gaggle of clients and pleasure slaves as they travel to Rome for love, laughs, and vengeance. JP has a terrible habit of posting preliminary drafts of chapters and snippets of her latest work to her online blog prior to publication.

Connect with JP:
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Feel free to drop me a note: [email protected]

ILLUSTRATOR

Fiona Fu’s
art covers many genres and cultural traditions, but the grace of her native Taiwan can be seen in the soft lines and subtle shadings. She’s the pen behind JP Kenwood’s brilliant book covers. Enjoy browsing through her work on her deviantArt account:

http://fionafu0402.deviantart.com/

Turnabout

by Jonathan Penn

I STUF
F
the box of Kashi into the lady’s canvas bag, alongside the other dry goods, and then gingerly place her bunch of Lacinato kale on top. When I hand over the bag, she smiles and walks away. Being a bagboy in a natural foods grocery isn’t exactly a dream job, but my degree in English doesn’t seem to be a particularly hot commodity. I’m only twenty-four, though, so I’ve got plenty of time to figure out something better. There are no more customers in line, and none at the other checkouts. It’s almost lunchtime, and I figure this is a good chance to make my escape.

Turning away, I slip off my apron, wadding it up in one hand on my way to the manager’s office. I tap on the glass, crack the door open, and stick my head in. “Excuse me, Ms. Havechuck.”

She slides her glasses halfway down her nose and smiles over them. “Heading to lunch?”

“I’m sorry. Is that alright, ma’am.”

“Sure.” She gives her head a little shake. “You don’t have to apologize, Bobby. When do you think you’ll be back?”

“One at the latest? If that’s okay?”

“Fine. It’s been a slow morning. Go enjoy your lunch, and tell Cam I send my best wishes.” She pushes her glasses back into place and returns to the sea of papers spread across the desk.

As I walk over to the deli section, I’m astonished all over again by how nice “management” is being about my situation. Since Cam’s accident, they’ve let me cut back my number of shifts, but keep my benefits. They’re also letting me take extra-long lunch breaks so I can go home and check on him.

I peruse the pre-made sandwiches and shake my head. It’s a damn good thing I work here—I couldn’t afford any of this stuff if it wasn’t for the employee discount, which makes it bearable. Almost. I manage not to roll my eyes as I grab a couple of certified-organic, grass-fed, registered-Angus roast beef sandwiches and a bag of chips that I suspect were hand-fried one at a time.

After paying—dearly—for the food, and hanging my apron, I head out the front doors and step into the most glorious midday sunshine this spring has offered so far. I can’t help myself—I just stop where I am, close my eyes, and turn my face up to the warmth. I can’t decide if it’s the sun or the thought of going home to Cam that gets my smile going.

Cam is the big strong guy who swept into my life two years ago and whisked me away on his valiant charger. Okay, perhaps I overdramatize. People have said that, and worse, about me. But he really did come to my rescue. A couple of thugs had pulled me into an alley and were shoving me back and forth between them. Who knows how bad it might have gotten, but Cam happened along, heard the ruckus, and chased them off before they had a chance to beat the crap out of me. My life changed forever the day I met Cam Lowell, and I’ve never looked back.

Satisfied by the sun, I open my eyes and head across the parking lot.

I’m still trying to wrap my head around the idea that a guy like him would even notice a guy like me, but he says he loves me, and he’s never done anything to make me think different. In fact, he does things you wouldn’t expect from a great big slab of beefcake like Cam—nothing dramatic, just little gestures that let me know I’m special to him. I kinda feel like he’s put me on the path to learning that I’m a real person, and I deserve all the things other real people have.

When I moved in with him, only three weeks after we met, some of my friends accused us of being lesbians. My lesbian friends didn’t think that was funny. Lately, I’ve noticed I’m a lot less worried what people think.

I step over the low wall at the edge of the parking lot and wait on the sidewalk for the light to change.

Last month—right after we’d celebrated our second anniversary—I’d been pinching myself, wondering when the honeymoon phase was going to end. Despite my relative youth, I’ve been around the block enough to know that it always does, sooner or later. The blow came two weeks ago when some scaffolding on his job site collapsed. I was eating my lunch in the employee lounge when the local station interrupted with breaking coverage. The words “construction accident” were still trying to weave their way into my brain when “One dead, several seriously injured” smacked me upside the head. My sandwich fell from my hands when I looked up at the screen and recognized the office building Cam had been working on the past few months. I stood and walked over to the TV, watching shaky helicopter video of swarming emergency crews. My heart almost stopped when I saw them lifting a man onto a stretcher—he was wearing a red shirt. Cam had worn his red shirt to work that day.

I’m startled by a sudden blast of air behind an ambulance rushing down the street. No siren or lights, but he sure is going fast. Despite the sun’s warmth, that one chilly gust makes me shiver.

I called Steve from the phone in the lounge and told him what I was afraid had happened. If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never forget my moment-by-moment impressions as he drove me to the hospital. It was all I could do to breathe. I had to fight for each breath and, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to force the air into my lungs. The outside world swirled past the windows while my world vanished into a void.

Once I got to the ER, it took the nurse a long time to calm me down. She kept telling me over and over that it was just broken bones, that everything would heal.

Just broken bones!

Thinking about it now… it still makes me shudder.

By the time they finally let me in to see him, I had managed to pull myself together and “put my game face on”. That’s funny—I remember how that’s one of the things Cam always says when he’s trying to convince me that I’m stronger than I think I am. He says I have a great game face. I dunno, maybe he’s right.

The doctor came in and gave us the news. It could have been much worse. Both of Cam’s femurs had snapped cleanly, as had several bones in his right arm. Their only concern—mind you, I had plenty of my own—was his right ankle, which the doctor said had sustained a spiral fracture and, if he was ever going to walk again, would probably need surgery. It turned out it didn’t, but… I’ve never really been sick, let alone set foot in a hospital, so no single word had ever struck such abject terror into my heart as that one.

Surgery!

I turn the corner at Maple Avenue and head down the last few blocks toward home. As I pass the elementary school, I can’t help noticing a group of boys engaged in some rough-and-tumble game on the playground. A few yards away, another boy stands watching them. His cheeks are flushed and there’s a pained expression on his face. He reminds me a lot of me at that age.

Cam is about six years older than me and, now that I think about it, maybe I’ve let that fact lead me to see him as the grown-up in our relationship. Mine was not what you’d call an “easy” childhood. I’m not complaining—my parents loved me and provided for me—but I knew early on that something was wrong. I didn’t like the boys in our neighborhood. They always wanted to go outside and get dirty. I preferred staying indoors with my sisters, playing house or dress-up or, later on, learning how to cook and sew. By the time I was school-aged, my differences were obvious to everyone. I was bullied for being effeminate and passive. Probably nothing will ever change that girly part of me, but Cam’s taught me a lot about being assertive. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I wonder who this person is and what he’s done with Bobby.

It’s been a gradual process, though. So gradual I didn’t even notice it happening until Cam’s accident shoved my face in it. Maybe I’m finally beginning to understand something I heard a long time ago. Somebody said that if you go out for a walk in a light mist, it feels cool and refreshing. You don’t notice that you’re getting wet. When you get home, you walk inside and discover you’re soaked to the skin. I guess that’s what it’s been like these two years with Cam—finally growing up, without noticing I’ve been doing it.

Cam’s parents had died long before I met him, and he doesn’t have any other family so, when he was suddenly disabled, I found myself thrust into the role of sole caregiver. All my life, I’ve coped with difficulties by withdrawing or, when things got really bad, running away. Now, being the one Cam relies on for… well, pretty much everything, is showing me that there are better ways to deal. Like making sure I’ve done my best and given my all. And if that’s not good enough, managing to not be ashamed, and to ask for help. It’s been quite the experience; it’s made me take stock. I’ve learned a few things about myself and maybe done a little more growing up in the last two weeks.

The church down the block from the school is of the fundamentalist stripe. Every Friday, on the big sign out front, they post new words of hope and encouragement to smooth the troubled waters of souls in torment. As it comes into view, I squint to read this week’s uplifting message: “GAY IS NOT OKAY”. Well. That’s a first. I’ve never seen them use the word “gay” before. They prefer “homosexual”.

Maybe that’s progress?

You’d think even a smallish American city in the twenty-first century would have moved on from crap like this. I mean, we’ve even had our own Pride parade the last few summers. But I guess, in the South, some things may never change. Seems like most people are fine with it. But the ones who aren’t… well, they’re not content with mere disapproval. It seems to push some people right over the brink of sanity. There’ve been some beatings over the last year, and even a couple of home invasions.

I used to walk the other way around this block, so I didn’t have to look at the sign. That changed about a month ago when a group of punks started hanging out in front of the gas station. I’ve got nothing against bald heads and tattoos, though, personally, I try to look “normal” and fit in. I don’t wear flashy clothes or dye my hair odd colors. Heck, I don’t even own a pair skinny jeans. It doesn’t seem to matter how conservatively I dress, somehow, everybody can just tell.

So, about a month ago, these guys started congregating. Maybe the second or third time I walked by, one of them noticed me and gave me the stink eye. It was chilling enough that, the next day, I crossed the street and walked down the other side. But even at that distance, I could see this one guy glowering at me. From then on, I’ve gone the other way around the block. It’s the same distance, and I try to avoid trouble where I can.

I don’t know why this one skinhead seems to have it out for me in particular. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he just hates all gay people. I wonder sometimes if there’s not a direct connection between people preaching hate from the pulpit, and people out on the streets doing the hating. Me? I’m pretty sure God doesn’t have anything to do with hate. I don’t think it was a mistake He made me this way. I think God is love, and if you’re a loving person, you’re doing okay. I didn’t pray much when I was younger, but now I take a little time each day to thank God for bringing Cam and me together. When I think about what a mess I was just a few years ago—

“Hey, Faggot!”

I about jump out of my skin at the sound from behind me. It feels like a butcher’s knife slicing between my shoulder blades.

Oh God, please… Not this!

I shoot a glance over my shoulder just long enough to register pale skin stretched over big muscles, a black wife-beater, and sunlight glistening on a shaved head.

Not now! I need to get home to Cam. His lunch… Fuck!

I’ll never get used to bullies, but, back in the day, this is the point where I would have frozen like a deer in the headlights. Well, okay, maybe more like a rabbit. And speaking of rabbits, I may be small and wiry, but I’m fast. I break out running and bolt the rest of the way down the block to the auto body shop on the next corner. I swing around into the first open bay, and the sandwiches almost go flying when I slam headlong into Steve. It’s a lot like slamming into a brick wall.

“Whoa, Lil’ Bob!” Steve rests his hands on my shoulders, steadying me. “What’s got into you?” I draw a breath to reply, but just as I meet his concerned gaze, his head snaps up and I hear the skinhead asshole skidding to a halt at the bay door. I look over my shoulder and see him breathing hard and shooting daggers with his eyes.

“Is there a problem?”

God, Steve’s voice is amazing! It’s so deep and powerful. I feel it rumbling where my shoulder presses into his chest.

“Just playin’ with the little faggot there…” The fuckwad’s voice trails off as he looks up past me and takes in Steve’s size.

What a loser! All macho-man chasing after a defenseless victim, but no balls at all when there’s a real challenge.

“Well,” Steve says as he turns me in his arms and crosses his hands over my tummy, hugging me back against his chest and resting his chin on top of my head. “This little faggot doesn’t like playing with boys like you.”

I try—I really, really try—but I can’t help the shit-eating grin that sneaks across my lips.

“Yeah… Whatever…” Mister Neo-Jerk huffs as he turns and slouches out of view.

“Sorry about that, Steve,” I say as I wriggle out of his grasp and check to make sure the chips aren’t crushed. They’re fine, and I want desperately to change the subject. “You and Belinda still coming for dinner on Sunday?”

“If that’s what you wanna call it. Me and Cam call it watchin’ the game.”

“Oh yeah, it’s that March Madness thing, isn’t it?” Steve grins and nods his head. I still can’t figure out why this guy seems to like me so much, but I sure do love teasing him. “Now… is that the one with the brown oblong ball, or the round orange ball?”