Kickass Anthology (24 page)

Steve barks out a robust laugh. “You are one funny little dude, you know that?” He shakes his head as he ruffles my hair. I fucking hate that! I am not a little boy!

As brooding as I tend to be, I can’t stay mad at Steve; he’s a great guy. He and Cam were best friends all through high school. They took Woodshop and Auto Repair together. Cam told me that coming out to Steve was the hardest thing he’d ever done ’cause he was afraid he’d lose his best buddy. But Steve had been cool with it, just like he’s cool about everything. His fiancé is as laid back as he is. As much time as she and I spend together as “sports widows” it would totally suck if she was uptight. At our place or theirs, the two of us always seem to gravitate to the kitchen, where we listen to our guys hooting and hollering in the other room. Come to think of it, maybe that’s one of the reasons Steve’s so fond of me. Lately, I’ve been using that time to help Belinda improve her marginal cooking skills.

I push his hand away and try to smooth down my hair. “I’d better be heading home. You know how Cam gets when he’s hungry.”

“Want me to walk with you, Bob?”

I consider it for a second. It’s tempting. That idiot was big and scary. But then I think of how often Cam encourages me to “swing out” or “take the bull by the horns” or any other of a number of phrases that would piss me off if someone else uttered them, but when they fall from his lips I go all warm and fuzzy inside.

“Nah, I’m good.” I throw my shoulders back and raise my chin. “Besides, Mister Fag-Hater headed back the way he came. And the way he was huffing and puffing after half a block, I’m damn sure I can outrun him if I need to.”

“That’s my man!” Steve says. “Stay safe.”

“Will do!” I reach out and give him a firm handshake. “Thanks, Steve. See ya Sunday.” I walk over to the bay door and lean out, looking up and down the street. No sign of Tall, Dark, and Homophobic, so I step out onto the sidewalk. As I turn toward home, the new sign posted on the front of the shop catches my eye. It’s a reminder that two weeks from now, the business is moving to new digs across town. I hadn’t thought about it till now, but that means I’ll be losing a safe haven between work and home. Guess I’m gonna have to “rise to the occasion”, as Cam says. I strike out for home at a lively clip. It’s only two more blocks, but the hair on the back of my neck is bristling, and I have to keep resisting the urge to check over my shoulder and make sure trouble isn’t sneaking up behind me.

I get to the house and decide to go in through the side door to the garage; if Cam’s sleeping, I don’t want to wake him till I’ve got lunch ready. As I pass, I run my fingers along the sleek lines of his powder-blue 1965 Mustang convertible. It took him and Steve more than a year to restore it to mint condition. The hardest part had been finding someone to make a replacement for the white soft-top. There’s a smudge on the otherwise gleaming chrome of the side mirror. I lean down and huff a hot breath over the spot, then rub it away with my shirt tail. I step back to assess my results.

Cherry!

Cam keeps trying to get me to drive the thing. I can imagine having all that untamed power surging beneath my control, but I’m not quite ready yet.

I go from the garage into the kitchen, put the bag down, and grab a couple of plates from the cupboard.

A groggy, “Babe? That you?” wafts from the far end of the house.

Not sleeping.

“Sorry I woke you, Babe!” I holler down the hall. “Be right in! I’ve got lunch!” I rush to put sandwiches and chips onto plates, and then fish a couple of kosher dills out of the gigantic jar in the fridge. Cam lives for pickles.

Go figure.

I carry the plates down the hall and then pause in the doorway. There aren't many benefits to Cam being racked up for another month, but I savor the one I’m looking at now. The cast on his right arm makes it a real hassle to get a shirt on and off, so every time I walk into our bedroom, he’s lying there with his chest exposed in all its glory.

Oh, that chest!

I could spend hours just tracing my palms over the form of his pecs and combing my fingers through that dark, silky hair. I had a cat growing up, and petting her was a great comfort, but rubbing the fur on my man’s chest is so much more satisfying! Times when I rest my head there and listen to his heartbeat… Cam’s chest feels like home.

I tuck one leg under me as I sit on the bed and grab his good arm to help him sit up. Then I jam some pillows behind him. He takes his plate, balances it on his thighs, and digs in as best anyone can with only one working hand.

While he chews, I tell him about what went down on my way home. When I mention how scared I felt, he swallows and says, “Yeah, but you knew what to do, right? You saw that help was nearby, and you went for it. Nothing wrong with that.”

I’m not sure it’s a benefit, but another thing I’m noticing with Cam being out of commission is some of the ways I’ve had to man up. A lot of guys in construction have nothing but worker’s comp; we’re lucky that Cam’s company provides insurance. They’re paying for a home health aide to come in three times a week, and a nurse stops by on Tuesdays and Fridays. Between them, they take care of some of the dicier aspects of his “personal care”, but I definitely had to strap on a pair to learn how to help him with the urinal and the bedpan. I was sure I was gonna blow chunks the first time, but the aide was so kind and patient, and Cam loves me so much, I managed to dig down deep and find a strength and calm I doubt I’d ever have discovered otherwise.

Anyway, when he came home from the hospital, we decided to switch sides of the bed, because that would put him closer to the bathroom. Not like he’s going in there anytime soon—it’s all he can do to roll over part way with both his legs in casts. I guess it makes it easier for those of us who’re carrying stuff back and forth. But it also puts his left arm—the one he can use—on the side toward the middle of the bed. I thought that was a bad idea, because he wouldn’t be able to reach things on the nightstand. I tried to make my case, but he was adamant. It didn’t take long that first night for me to figure out that, after being apart for five days, there were other things he was far more interested in being able to reach.

“I reminded Steve about dinner Sunday.”

He swallows again and grins. “You cooking?”

“So the two of you can shovel it into your pie holes while you drool at the TV?” I like teasing Cam, too. “I don’t think so. I’m not casting my pearls before swine!”

“Aw, Bobby, you know how much I love your cooking.”

“And you know I love doing it, but if I’m gonna make something for you, it deserves your full attention.”

There’s me, being assertive. Ha!

He doesn’t look happy, so I try to placate him. “I was thinking I’d order pizza. Unless you want Chinese?”

“Pizza’s good. Goes better with beer.” He must notice the ferocity with which my eyebrows shoot up, because he doesn’t skip a beat. “I know, I know, no beer with the pain meds. I can dream, can’t I?” He waggles his eyebrows, then pouts and makes puppy-dog eyes. As usual, I melt into his supplicant gaze.

“Alrighty, then…” I glance at the alarm clock. “I’d better be getting back to work.”

“Not so fast, Bobby Greenwell.” Cam wraps the fingers of his left hand around my bicep.

God, I can’t believe it’ll be a month before he can wrap both those hands around me!

“You can’t leave without giving me a little sugar first.”

I lean in and press my lips to his. If Cam’s chest is my home, then his lips must be my… my…

Damn!

Metaphor flies right out the window as the tip of his tongue glides between my lips and probes at my teeth.

Get away now, or they’ll be sending out a search party when you don’t show up for three days!

I pull back, and he looks as bereft as I feel at the loss of contact.

As I climb off the bed, he asks with syrupy sweetness, “When you come home tonight, will you bring me my favorite treat?”

I turn to face him, grabbing a big fistful of my crotch and giving it a good squeeze. “You can have that right now, Bay-beeeee!” I flash him my most over-the-top wink.

He lays his head back, laughing. “Okay, Bobby. Ya got me. But I meant my favorite goody from your store.”

I walk around to his—well, my—side of the bed and lean down, planting one chaste smooch in the center of his forehead. Then I turn and flee, snicking the bedroom door shut behind me before there can be any chance of things going further.

“THANK you, ma’am.” I smile and nod my head as I lower this lady’s last bag into her cart. When I turn back to the conveyor, I see that the next customer has made a serious attempt at emptying out the store. The clock over the office door swears it’s two minutes till five, but I have yet to see the kid who’s supposed to be here replacing me. I try to hide my groan as I start bagging more groceries than I could buy with two weeks’ wages. I have to bring over a second cart to hold all the bags. Just as I’m pasting on a smile to bid the woman good evening, my replacement, Gardner, steps up, beams obsequiously at the lady, and says, “Thank you for your patronage, madam.” I almost never feel like punching anybody, but right now I’m tempted. Still, he’s here, and that means I can go.

I hang up my apron, enter my code into the time clock, and slide my hand onto the pad. It decides this actually is me. Its green light comes on. It beeps.

Ah! The sweet, sweet sound of freedom!

I rush out the front doors, eager to see how Cam is doing, and then it hits me.

His goody! I forgot to get his ice cream!

He’s never asked much of me. Even being stuck in bed the last couple weeks, he hardly ever complains. I’d be a total schmuck to deny him this one simple request. I take a deep breath and blow it out, razzing my lips as I roll my eyes heavenward. Spring may be here, but it’s already almost dark. I can’t wait for Daylight Saving Time to start next Sunday, ’cause, even with streetlights, I hate walking home at night. But for Cam, I will.

I head back in and go to the frozen section to grab a pint of Pumpkin Cheesecake.

Seriously?

Don’t get me wrong—I love pumpkin, and I adore cheesecake, but together? And in ice cream? I admire almost everything about Cam, but there are some things I will simply never understand.

All the lanes are open, but there’s a long line at each, and it takes forever to pay and get the hell out of there. Clutching my bag of frozen temptation, I set a brisk pace. Not just because I’m still rattled over my earlier walk home, but because I love Cam, and it hurts my heart that he’s in pain and stuck alone inside four walls all day every day. I make the best time I can without looking like I’m speed-walking. As I pass the body shop, the sign reminds me again that I’ll soon have one less friend in the camp, as it were.

The house comes into view, and I notice the front porch light is on. I’m relieved to see Mr. Johnson at the door. He’s a widower who lives two houses down and has been coming over to look in on Cam the days when I’m at the…

Wait a minute, Mr. Johnson has hair…

And wouldn’t be caught dead in a tank top…

A black one…

Fuck!

It’s him!

I almost drop the ice cream.

How the fuck?

He must have followed me home before…

I step into the shadow of a bush and put the bag down on the sidewalk, digging out my phone. The screen comes to life, and I enter three digits. While the call connects, I watch the skinhead pressing his ear to the door, then fiddling with the knob.

“Nine-One-One, what is your emergency?”

“There’s somebody trying to break into my house…” I just manage to croak it out, the words making it all too real.

“What is your address, sir?”

I rattle it off. As I finish, our front door swings open, and he steps inside.

The hand with the phone sinks away from my ear as the voice says, “Please stay on the line, sir, while we…” The phone clatters to the pavement, and some force I’ve never encountered before moves my feet forward. Before I know what’s happening, I’m darting across the lawn to the garage.

Cam!

I slip through the side door and flip the switch. The fluorescent over the workbench lights up, but the other one flickers on and off, bouncing bright white flashes off the roof of the car. The strobe effect jars me to an instant, painful awareness that my breath is coming hard and fast, my heart pounding a mile a minute.

Cam’s crowbar is lying on the bench.

That’s crazy!

Cam always puts his tools away. Always!

Is it some kind of… sign?

The cement floor begins to tremble and roll beneath my feet.

What the fuck? There hasn’t been an earthquake here since the eighteen-hundreds!

I realize it’s not the floor trembling.

My palms are sweaty, so I wipe them on my jeans before I pick up the crowbar. The thing is cold in my hand and feels like it weighs more than I do.

Somebody—I guess it must be me—walks over to the kitchen door and inches it open, one eye peering through the crack. Everything looks like it did when I left for work. There’s no movement. No sound. I step into the kitchen, and then I hear a creak from somewhere on the other end of the house.