Staying Together - 3. Chapter 3

“Where have you been?” my dad asked as I walked through the front door.

“Out looking for a new job,” I said with a shrug. I know it was dishonest, but what else could I say?

“I tried reaching you on your cell but it went straight to voicemail,” he said.

“Sorry, I forgot to turn it back on,” I told him. “I was applying at Farm Fresh and I got to talk to one of the managers today. I turned it off so it wouldn’t ring.”

Wow, I was getting good at lying to my dad. Just then I heard my mom call out from the kitchen, “Tell him that the dealership called.”

With a roll of his eyes, he said, “Good for you. I’m glad you’re being proactive about another job, son. I was calling to tell you that your car’s ready. Let’s go pick it up.”

With that, my ears perked up and I followed my dad out the door. As we pulled out of the driveway in his Silverado, I looked at the Grand Am and bid it a fond good riddance. On the way to the dealership, my dad turned the radio off to talk to me about a job prospect. The owner of a used car lot was looking for someone to detail cars that came from the auction. He was willing to start me at nine dollars an hour, which was way more than I was making at the car wash. There’d be no tips, but screw the tips. I told my dad I’d go talk to him right away.

When we got to the Chevy dealership, I hopped out of the truck before my dad even had a chance to come to a complete stop in the parking space and I practically ran to the service department, eager to reclaim my burgundy beauty. By the time my dad caught up to me, I had already spotted my car sitting in an adjacent lot, glistening in the sun. It somehow looked cleaner than it was when we had it towed in on Saturday, and I figured that they probably washed it when they were finished working on it. That’s what they did when they removed the white stripes that were originally on the car when we first picked it out. I wanted them gone, and they were so desperate to sell a car that they agreed to do the work for free and give me a loaner car to drive until it was ready.

Luckily, the car is brand new, and still under warranty, because it turns out that I had a bad coil and that two of my spark plugs were fouled. They replaced all six, plus the coil. I figured that the cost of six platinum plugs, a coil and the labor costs would be through the roof, but at the bottom of the invoice was a figure of zero dollars and zero cents. My dad signed it and I got my keys back from the cashier.

Before we left the dealership, my dad told me to drive straight to the used car lot and to talk to a man named Tom Stevens. For some reason, that name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. Maybe it was a commercial or something that I heard on the radio or saw on TV. Oh well, it wasn’t important, all that mattered was that I was on the fast track to a job that paid more money than I ever imagined making in my life.

Two days isn’t really that long to be separated from anyone or anything, but sometimes it can seem like an eternity. I was away from Andrew for two days, and it wrenched my heart to no end. When I went off to band camp for a month over the summer, I found myself missing Jarred, my family and my friends after only the first day. By the end of the second day, I was ready for everything to end so I could go home again.

But two days without my car was pure hell. Driving around in my dad’s hooptie wasn’t just humiliating, it was uncomfortable and eye opening. Because for the last month and a half, I’d come to take my brand new car for granted, assuming that as long as I was cautious and drove defensively, I’d always have her. Little did I know how one faulty engine component could affect my car’s performance, wreaking havoc and separating me from my burgundy beauty.

“What’s up man?” I said, greeting Kyle Porter by my locker.

“Same old shit,” he told me. “You see Kyle K today?”

“No, I thought he was out sick or something,” I answered. “I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

“I went by to pick him up this morning and he wasn’t there,” Kyle said, looking a little perplexed. “I tried calling but his phone was off. He hasn’t answered any of my texts, either.”

“Maybe he cut,” I said with a shrug.

“You think he’s with Andrew?” he asked, and I scratched my head.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Have you tried his cell?”

“Not yet,” he said. “It’s just not like him to miss school and not tell me what was going on.”

“He might not want to be disturbed,” I said with a grin, and Kyle rolled his eyes with a chuckle.

PE was basically a non-event in our day. Coach Maroni pretty much stayed in his office as long as we stayed occupied with something, though every once in a while he’d emerge with a bug up his ass. I followed Kyle to the weight room and sat on an incline bench to watch his work out. Every now and then, I’d get up to help him add more weight to the bar and ask if he needed me to spot, but he always waved off my offers and never seemed to struggle.

We had some friends that could bench well over three hundred pounds, and there was a senior who was damn close to breaking the four hundred pound barrier. I for one could hardly do ten reps at a hundred thirty five pounds. Jarred was a little stronger, but not by much. I watched him put one sixty-five up once, but he struggled with that. Kyle seemed to be building up, starting with one thirty five and working his way up to a hundred and eighty pounds, where he did eight reps and struggled to get the bar back on the bench.

From there he moved to his arm exercises, curling thirty pounds in each hand. I joined him for that, knocking out three sets of twenty before I was out of gas. While I moved to the stair climber, Kyle did crunches on the incline bench. Just as we were finishing up, a group of seniors came in and we cleared out so they could have the run of the equipment. Heading back into the locker room there was a commotion, so we quickly descended on the scene to see what was happening.

It was two freshmen, scrapping it out between the rows of lockers. Neither of them looked like much physically, and they looked like they were punching themselves out of gas more than landing effective blows. One finally managed to gain an upper hand by pulling the other’s shirt over his head and landing about two solid shots to the temple, but that was about it.

By the time Maroni got around to breaking it up, they were both clearly exhausted and we were all cracking jokes about their fighting style, or lack thereof.

“Okay, all of you hit the track!” he shouted angrily at us. “For the rest of the period and don’t let me catch even one of you walking!”

Kyle and I followed his instructions, running side-by-side and halfway chuckling because we could see coach hauling the two would be warriors to the office by the back of their shirts. There was less than ten minutes left in the period anyway, so we jogged it out while some of the guys were stopping and the majority of them were walking.

I’ve never understood how someone could be so lazy to not be able to run a few laps around the football field. I mean, I’m not the greatest physical specimen in the world, but I can sure as hell knock out a mile and even more. The aversion that so many have towards doing something as basic as running completely escapes me. I mean, if it’s that hard, then that means it’s time to put the junk food down and lace up your sneakers.

By the end of the day, the fight in fifth period PE was the talk of the school. When Jarred and I met up in the parking lot, he’d heard at least three different versions of what happened, and none of them was even remotely close to the truth. As we drove to his house, I filled him in on everything.

“It was a total pussy fight,” I told him. “Just a couple of little freshmen dudes who don’t know how to throw a punch. We spent most of the fight cracking jokes.”

With that, I purposely and dramatically threw the lamest, lightest punch I could at Jarred’s arm. Then I drew it back spastically for effect, and my boyfriend got the picture. He grinned at me and took my hand while we talked about more important matters.

“I scored a sack of green last night,” he told me.

“From who?” I asked.

“Kyle K,” he said, and I wondered to myself who else he would have gotten it from. True, we had other sources for weed, but Kyle always came through with the best green. The sacks were fat, the buds were frosty and there were never any seeds to speak of. Best of all, he always smoked a bowl with us first if it was something new so we knew what we were getting before we spent our money.

“Have you heard from him today?” I asked, and Jarred shook his head.

“He probably cut with Andrew,” he said, and I nodded in agreement.

“That’s what I told Porter,” I said. “He said he wasn’t answering his cell earlier.”

“I wouldn’t answer my cell either if I was doing the nasty,” Jarred said, wagging his eyebrows at me for effect.

“What is that a hint?” I asked him with a sly smile.

“It can be anything you want it to be,” he said seductively.

“Oh really?” I said, a hint of passion in my voice as we pulled up to his house, where his mom’s work van was already in the driveway.

Jarred let out a long sigh and said, “Will you take a rain check?”

“Maybe we don’t have to,” I told him, moving my hand to his thigh. “Wanna go for a ride with me? I can show you the lot I’ll be working at.”

“I’ll be right back,” he said, grabbing his backpack and getting out of the car. I watched him sprint to the front door and go in, and in a flash, he was closing the door behind him as he raced back to my car.

We made the drive from our neighborhood to the interstate, which took all of about seven minutes. Seven minutes that Jarred spent getting comfortable with his head in my lap. Once we turned right onto the ramp, I felt him unbutton my Khakis and reach through the fly of my boxers, taking my dick out and giving it a few good licks before he devoured it.

One peculiar similarity between Jarred and Andrew is that they both give head the same way. The way they slowly lick the head, running the very tip of their tongues around the crown, to the way they’re so apt to deepthroating. The reason for this is simple; Jarred taught Andrew how to suck dick, and Andrew picked it all up well. If there’s one thing I can say for Jarred, it’s that he’s excellent in bed. Not as selfish as one would think, and very talented with his tongue.

A few months ago, Jarred bottomed for me for the first time, and since then, we’ve traded off. I knew he was scared to try it, but I slowly eased him into it, and once he tried it, he was hooked. He’s a very capable top, too, and when I’m in the right mood, I love to let him have his way with me.

Andrew is a different story altogether. He doesn’t want his dick sucked or even touched. I’m not sure where that comes from, and I worry sometimes that I haven’t pleased him properly when we’re together, so I work extra hard at what he will let me do to him. Given his almost insatiable appetite for sex, though, I get the feeling that he appreciates my efforts. I have no idea what he and Kyle have done, but from what he tells me, it’s not that much. My guess is that he goes through hell between our romps, because we don’t get together near as much as we used to.

On this afternoon, as we careened down Interstate 264 Westbound at seventy miles an hour, Jarred was wide open, taking my entire length down the gullet and skillfully milking it. I knew I couldn’t last long, and I was starting to panic because even though I knew I needed to slow my car down to decrease the possibility of a crash, Jarred’s tongue was lapping at the base of my cock while he continued to deep throat it. All of that stimulation was actually sending a signal to my right leg to press down on the accelerator, not let up.

One of the worst things about living in Virginia Beach is the traffic. Getting down Virginia Beach Boulevard on any afternoon is hell, and this afternoon was no exception. As we drove passed Andrew’s school, Jarred and I both let our gazes travel to the sidewalk. I knew Andrew wasn’t there, but you never know.

Once we made it down to our side of town, I turned right onto Pacific and followed it all the way until it became General Booth Boulevard. I was about to turn left into our neighborhood when my cell went off. It was Andrew.

“Dude, you need to call Kyle Porter,” he said solemnly, causing my stomach to drop.

“Why, what’s wrong?” I asked nervously. “Is Kyle K okay?”

“He’s not hurt,” Andrew said. “But he’s at Kyle P’s house, and it’s not good news.”

“Tell me what it is,” I said, and I heard him swallow and take a deep breath before he gave me the news.

“It’s his dad,” he said.

“Did he come back around?” I asked.

“No,” Andrew said quietly. “He’s in the hospital. He’s dying, Phillip.”

“What’s wrong with him?” I asked, and I got the answer I was least expecting.

“It’s full blown AIDS,” Andrew said, and my heart almost stopped.

“We’re going over there right now,” I told him, and with that, I hung up the phone and broke the news to Jarred, who looked just as stunned as I felt as we hauled ass to Kyle Porter’s house.