Between the Shadow and the Soul - 1. Moving in, Moving on

April 23, 2016

"Yum." I smacked my lips for emphasis.

Nate frowned at me, one black eyebrow cocked. "It's just Starbucks."

As if. 'Just Starbucks' indeed. Who'd say such a thing?

Giving him a quick don't-be-daft scowl, I corrected him saying, "Blasphemer! It's never just Starbucks. That's like saying it's just the Taj Mahal or it's just the winning lottery ticket. Have you no sense of proportion?" Turning back to the road lest I drive us into someone's lawn, I added, "Besides, I wasn't talking about the coffee," which I punctuated with a quick sip of my venti latte.

His eyebrow slid back into a normal position, though he continued staring at me. "Okay, I'll bite. Yum what?"

I hit the garage door opener as I pulled into our driveway. "Just some kid bouncing a basketball in the garage down the street."

"Was she hot?"

"Your heterosexuality is showing again." With that, I pulled into the garage and parked the car.

"So you're saying the basketball player's not a girl?" His faux incredulity was laughable, but not laughable enough for me to... um... laugh.

Carrying a box into the house, I called over my shoulder, "Stop being selfish! You already have some eye candy with Malinda across the street, so don't begrudge me the jail-bait boy toy a few doors down. Besides," I continued as he walked in behind me with another box, "we just moved in and I'm still browsing the neighborhood goods, so he's just a stopgap."

"I'm sure you'd like to stop his gap."

"Groan..." Although, in deference to full disclosure, I snickered after I said that.

We put our boxes in the dining room and returned to the garage to continue unpacking the car.

"So he's hot?"

"How am I supposed to know? We drove by at twenty miles an hour in the rain and I caught a quick glimpse of some kid bouncing a basketball in a very uncluttered garage."

"Uncluttered?" He surveyed our garage, half of it full of stacked boxes and other relocation debris, then added, "Clearly they're not moving in right now."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious."

He fetched his coffee from the front seat before closing the passenger door. Giving me an exaggeratedly beseeching look over the roof of the car, he then asked, "You responded to said basketball player with a distinct 'yum.' Was that based on fantasy or reality?"

"Oh, there was definitely some fantasy involved." Following him back into the chaotic house where a tornado had just dropped all our belongings, along the way I hit the button to close the garage door before kicking shut the kitchen door. "Really, all I saw was a guy in basketball shorts and a sleeveless jersey casually dribbling a ball. He appeared to have all the right pieces and parts and the brief view gave me the impression of defined arms and legs. So yum it is until evidence to the contrary is submitted for review."

"But you called him jail bait."

"Because in the nanosecond I had to see him as we drove by in a moving automobile on a dark and dreary rainy day, he appeared—nay, not that I saw enough to know how he appeared,so let me correct myself—I assumed he was young."

"Because he wasn't dribbling the ball between the legs of a walker?"

"Har har. You're funny for a straight boy."

"Yes, I am. Thank you for noticing. But back to the dribbler. You really think he's jail bait?"

"Maybe."

"And you're not a chicken hawk."

"No, I'm not. But looking's not a crime."

"Was he butch?"

"I don't know. I didn't notice if it was a swishy dribble or not."

Nate stopped unpacking dishes long enough to stare at me. Then he burst into laughter about the same time I did.

"Swishy dribble?" He chuckled as he loaded plates into the dishwasher. "Now there's a visual..."

"Keep in mind a swishy dribble is very much unlike a nelly dribble."

"How so?"

"One's swishy and one's nelly."

A kitchen towel smacked me in the face. I threw it back before picking up a box of his bedroom sundries to take upstairs.

* * * * *

"Dude, what the hell?"

I banged my head against the window when I jumped, then I spun around to see Nate standing in his bedroom doorway holding a box and wearing a knowing smirk.

"You've been up here for fifteen minutes. Are you still scoping the goods down the street or have you discovered someone new?"

Fifteen minutes? How embarrassing. I could have sworn I just came in and put the box on his bed.

My best friend cocked his head and narrowed his eyes as he stared at me. "Have you really been standing here for fifteen minutes staring at the guy?"

"Shit," I muttered as I wiped my hand down my face. Had I? Really? "I guess so."

He dropped the box on the bed before stopping beside me at the window. Facing the direction I had been staring, he could plainly see the basketball kid.

The rain had stopped by the time I glanced out the window, and what to my wandering eyes should appear but none other than Mr. Yum down the street, standing at the end of his driveway playing on his cell phone with the basketball tucked under an arm. Though seen at an odd angle through the window and across the distance of three intervening houses, this somewhat better view had clearly entranced me.

"Not a circuit boy or a jock for sure, but not a twink either. Too much definition. What's the cross between a twink and a hunk? That'd make him a twunk, right?"

Pedantic blathering on where our neighbor fit within the gay body-type taxonomy was a clear admission that I had indeed been standing there for a quarter of an hour ogling the boy three doors down.

Cutting my eyes toward Nate revealed my best friend holding back a chuckle with a bemused smirk.

I shrugged and added, "Anyway, I suppose I got lost in the view."

"It's all good. You're entitled. It's been a while for you, so give your hand some new material to work with."

"Asshole!" I yelled as I punched him in the arm before heading down the hall toward my own room.

* * * * *

Nate and I stood in the driveway enjoying the quiet night and a brief bit of rest after our day spent unpacking, moving furniture, unpacking more, and moving furniture again. At least we were mostly settled, although we still faced several days of finding the right place for every little thing and then trying to remember where we put every little thing.

After taking a pull of beer, Nate glanced at me and said, "Listen, Greg, I was serious earlier when I said it's been a while for you and you're entitled to look. Hell, you're entitled to do more than look."

"I know. That's why we're here. I'm moving on, turning over a new leaf, starting fresh, yadda yadda yadda, remember?"

I considered the neighborhood and congratulated myself on this real estate coup. Two stories, two-car garage, three bedrooms and two and a half bathrooms, and large yards with beautiful landscaping front and back. It had been on the market for only a day when I stumbled across it in an online listing. I dragged Nate to see it that very afternoon and made an offer the next morning. A few weeks later and here we stood.

At thirty years old, I was making six figures working in senior management for a telecommunications company.

Having grown up frugal but not cheap, I'd lived my adult life the same way, earning more than I spent and squirreling away every extra dollar. When I hit thirty a few months ago, I decided it was time to move on and live a little. Not over the top, but a wee bit more than I had been.

So I ordered a custom Lexus and paid cash for it, bought a really nice house in a new development on the city's fringes, and tried to put all thoughts of The Fiend behind me.

I'd let the man ruin my life fifteen years ago and I'd let those memories control me ever since, drawing me into two more unhealthy relationships while leaving my heart lonely and lost. It was time to put him in the past so I could find a new future.

"You think the kid's hot?"

I swallowed the beer in my mouth while staring at Nate with consideration before replying, "Seems like it, I guess. Or I'm just desperate for a distraction."

He chuckled, slammed down the last of his beer, then said, "I don't think you're desperate. Horny, yes, but you're a guy, so that comes with the territory. Besides, there's always Brandon."

"Um, so, like, Brandon's married and stuff. Like, to Malinda. Maybe you remember her?"

"I'm just talking about eye candy, you bonehead. Never hurts to look."

We both chuckled as he headed back through the garage into the house. Before he closed the kitchen door he looked over his shoulder and asked, "So how old do you think the basketball boy is?"

"Hell if I know," I replied before taking another sip of my beer.

Hell if I know is right. If he's legal, awesome, and if he's not, he might be fun to look at while I search elsewhere.

* * * * *

May 21, 2016

"Dude, what the hell?"

Without turning away from the window I rolled my eyes and, with all the snark I could muster, told Nate that it was time for him to get out of bed anyway. To prove my point, I gestured toward the clock on the nightstand. Never you mind that I was standing in his bedroom looking out his window while he slept.

"So what if it's noon. Some of us are getting out and getting some, which means we maybe didn't get to bed until early this morning. If you'd try dating once in a while, you'd understand."

The bed covers rustled, his feet hit the floor, then he was standing beside me. In his naked glory. Damn hot straight boy, that's what my best friend was. Chocolate skin, black hair trimmed short, a ripped gym build, six feet tall, dark brown eyes, and kissable lips.

Oh, and he had a really nice dick, too, but it would be stereotypical of a gay man to fixate on that, so I only mentioned it because you were already wondering.

He peeked through the blinds. Then he huffed. Then he turned and walked out while mumbling, "How hard is it to talk to the kid? Are you scared or just a stalker?"

"I'm not a stalker," I whispered too quietly for him to hear.

"Then you're scared!" he shouted from the bathroom while he pissed.

"Damn bionic hearing."

"And you'd be wise to remember that," he declared over the toilet flushing, then continued as he started the shower, "We've been here a month, G-Man. You ogle Basketball Boy every chance you get and you mumble about the nasty things you want to do to and with him—stuff I don't want to hear, by the way. And you still haven't been close enough to know if he has all his teeth.

"Meanwhile," he said in a louder voice as stepped into the shower, "you won't date anyone more than twice and you don't seem to get any—or enough anyway. All you do is go to the gym while the sun is over Moscow, go to the office and work from sunup to sundown, come home, hope to catch a glimpse of Basketball Boy, eat, drink, read, smoke a fatty or two, maybe watch the news or a movie, go to bed, then get up the next morning and do it all over again."

"Except on the weekends," I muttered.

"Right, except on the weekends, asshole!" he yelled.

We both erupted with boisterous laughter.

Damn bionic hearing.

* * * * *

May 22, 2016

My car crept along the street at thirty miles per hour as I stared at Basketball Boy standing in his driveway talking to a couple of other kids. They appeared to be around his age, possibly in high school, which would mean my fantasies were for naught.

As if reading my mind, Nate said, "You need to get laid."

"Not everyone on this planet is a man whore like you. You know, sometimes it's hard to understand how you hook up with so many women. Are you paying them?"

He hit me.

"Best friend abuse!" I wailed.

He hit me again.

Glancing out the window as we approached, he asked, "Do you even know his name?"

"Nope."

As we passed him and his friends, Basketball Boy turned toward us, then he said—mouthed, rather, from our perspective, since we couldn't hear him—"Wow." It's a monosyllabic word with a distinctive mouth shape, so I was pretty sure that's what he said.

"Dude, he's looking right at you!" Nate gushed with the enthusiasm of a preteen on Christmas morning.

"Dude, he's looking right at the car!" I mocked.

"Shit. Sometimes the obvious escapes me."

"Sometimes?"

You guessed it. He hit me.

* * * * *

May 28, 2016

"How'd your date go?"

My hangover was monumental, so I stared at Nate over the rim of my coffee cup and grunted. But I coupled it with a knowing smirk that he read like a book.

"Did you pitch or catch? Wait! Don't answer. I don't want to know."

I waited.

"Alright, inquiring minds want to know. Which was it?"

He always wanted to know. Despite being straight, my best friend was not only comfortable with his sexuality, but he was also comfortable with mine. We discussed everything, even what we had no interest in doing or seeing. Sometimes I thought it was like watching a train wreck. You knew the outcome would be horrible yet you couldn't tear your eyes away.

"Pitched."

"Did you practice safe sex, Greg?"

"Yes, Mom."

He smiled as he sipped his own coffee. We looked out for each other even when it was annoying. Appreciated, but still annoying.

"Plan to see him again?"

I gave that question careful consideration. Did I want to see the guy again? No one could deny the man was terribly hot and quite handsome.

Yet he struck me as cocky, like I dared not refuse him a date, and he wouldn't relent on the sex thing.

Not that I'm complaining. It had been a few months and I needed to feel another body, skin against skin, lips pressed together, holding someone and being held by someone, passion—or at least lust—between the sheets.

Nevertheless, even after two exquisite rounds, once with him riding and once with me driving, he practically asked for a sexual promissory note, wanting to know how soon we could see each other again, how often I could spend time with him, if it could be an exclusive thing because he really didn't want to share.

I found myself dressing quickly and making my escape before I found myself bound and gagged in his basement. Assuming he had a basement.

"No," I said in a tone that brooked no argument, "because he reminds me of Andrew and Marc. And The Fiend. I don't need more of that in my life."

* * * * *

June 4, 2016

Stoned enough to be content, we stood outside drinking beer and watching rabbits scamper about as if they hadn't a single care or concern. The housing development was new and surrounded by grassy fields, remnants of the prairies that once filled this part of Texas, so wildlife wasn't yet scarce.

Across the street, Malinda and Brandon's door opened and the beautiful couple walked out, the sudden activity sending our furry entertainment running away. Noticing us standing in the driveway, the neighbors headed for us. She had a glass of wine and he had a beer.

"Holy hell, he's beautiful," I murmured to Nate.

Brandon stood six feet six inches and probably weighed 230 pounds, give or take, and muscle made up every bit of that. He should've been a model. Shirtless in shorts, he was so flawlessly proportioned and so unabashedly handsome that he seemed too good to be true.

Well matched, Malinda, his wife, stood a full head shorter than her husband and, wearing a tight white tank top and black short shorts, looked good enough to eat. Her curves were in all the right places and of all the right proportions. She was hot enough to almost make me turn straight.

Almost.

Nevertheless, that girl was something else. Her husband was more of a something else in my opinion, but still it was obvious why Nate thought she was God's gift to men.

"Not as beautiful as she is," he replied under his breath, "but even I can admit he's doable."

Yes, my best friend was so comfortable with sexuality that he was capable of appreciating both genders despite his poor choice of sexuality.

"Greg, Nate, how're you boys this evening?" Malinda asked as she hugged my best friend then me.

"Doing good," I replied before hugging Brandon. They were a tactile pair, always touching and hugging and showing affection. "How are you two?"

Brandon moaned. "Just finished packing for our trip to New York."

"I love my family but hate the travel," Malinda added.

"Air travel is like torture."

"I mean, why don't they pack us in cans and ship us like real sardines?" She snorted in disgust as she wrapped her arm around her husband's bare torso. I wanted to trade places with her.

"How long will you be gone?" Nate asked.

"Two weeks," she replied, then kissed her husband's chest before snuggling her cheek against his delectable nipple. I really wanted to trade places with her.

"We'll watch the place for you as usual."

"Thanks, Greg," Brandon replied while pulling me close so he could massage the back of my neck as he held me against his side.

Malinda looked at me with unadulterated devilry in her eyes before turning her head and licking his nipple. She had the audacity to turn back to me and wink.

"Wench!" I hissed with all the fake disdain I could muster.

A mischievous smile spread across her face before she whispered loudly, "There are two of them."

Uproarious laughter filled the night.

* * * * *

June 5, 2016

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you had a chance with Brandon. With his wife's approval."

Nate lay on the couch with his head in my lap as he watched television. I had a book propped on the armrest.

"It's all in jest. Besides, that wouldn't happen. I'm not a homewrecker. Well, wouldn't happen unless she approved, then I'd be all over that shit."

We both laughed.

"He's so good looking it's almost like he's not real," I mused.

He huffed in mock annoyance before asking, "Which are you this time, the pot or the kettle?"

The heat of a blush spread through my face as I lightly smacked him on the side of the head with my book. "Shut up, you."

"Whatever," he mumbled. Then louder he added, "He reminds me of The Fiend."

I froze. We tried to avoid discussing The Fiend. He used me, broke my heart, destroyed my teenage years, wrecked me emotionally, landed me in the hospital with permanent physical scars, and nearly destroyed my friendship with Nate.

Turning over so he could see my face, Nate reached up and patted my cheek while adding, "I don't mean like they're at all the same, dufus, but I mean physically Brandon reminds me of him. Maybe that kind of guy is your type."

"You mean like you?"

He grinned. "Well, that didn't work out, but you can't say we didn't try."

We did try. Twice. It proved Nate was straight, albeit adaptable if he set his mind to it. It proved we knew how to have a good time together, amazingly and satisfyingly good for an experiment.

It also proved neither of us could see the other as anything different than a best friend who was more family than friend. Most importantly, it proved our relationship was too strong to be hurt by such foolishness.

"Technically I don't have a type. At least not one I've found yet. That you and The Fiend are hot, handsome black men is a coincidence. Besides, Marc is Hispanic and Andrew is white. Clearly I don't have a type."

"Maybe you do. Maybe it's Basketball Boy."

I stood up so fast I dumped him on the floor. My laughter echoed off the walls as he cried foul.

Heading up the stairs I shouted, "I don't have a type! And Basketball Boy is eye candy, nothing more!"