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“Can’t,” Kipp says, checking the time on his phone. “I have to get going, like, now.”
“Okay,” I say, pouring the syrup over my pancakes. Kipp doesn’t make a single move to leave, only stands less than a foot away, staring at me as I cut into my meal. I bring a bite to my mouth and give an approving moan. Kipp wasn’t kidding. He makes a mean pancake.
“Good?” he asks quietly, eyes on my lips.
“Mhm. Perfect. Thank you.”
“Yeah,” he breathes, eyes still on my mouth.
I make a show of my next bite, groaning low as I pull the fork tines from between my lips. Kipp’s mouth pops open. “So. Good,” I say slowly.
He exhales. “Yeah.”
“You okay?” I ask, licking some syrup off my thumb.
Kipp whimpers.
“Don’t you have to go?” I remind him, enjoying this far too much.
“Do I, though?” he whines.
I hum. “I think so.”
He groans. “Then you’ve gotta stop making porn noises, Teddy. I mean, Christ, how am I supposed to walk away when, at any moment, you’re bound to invite your lonely neighbor in who needs a cup of sugar, you’ll say sorry, no sugar, sugar, but I’ve got syrup, he’ll say swell, and then you’ll rail him against the counter while he jerks himself off with the good dark amber syrup that you should have had stocked in your fridge in the first place? You really expect me to miss that?”
It takes me a moment to respond, so many different thoughts cycling through my head. One stands out the most. “Why wouldn’t it be you?”
“Pardon?” Kipp asks, looking dazed.
“Why wouldn’t I be railing you in this fantasy?”
“Because it’s porn,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Porn isn’t real life. It’s fiction. And you would never treat me with anything but honesty.”
The way my breath punches from my lungs.
“You’re right, though,” he says, grabbing his keys off the counter. “I do need to go. I’m probably already going to be a few minutes late, which, not a big deal, but still.” He leans in and smacks a kiss against my cheek. “Enjoy your orgasm pancakes, honey. Later.”
And then he’s out the door.
I sit there for a long minute, reeling. “And you would never treat me with anything but honesty.”
When I finish my thoughtfully made breakfast, I clean up and pull out my notes for Phillip’s case. I’m hoping his landlord will agree to a settlement, but whether or not we take him to court, Phillip shouldn’t have to remain in that building. It takes most of the morning to find a suitable alternative: an apartment with similar cost of rent in an area that would be safe enough for an eighteen-year-old kid. I make an appointment with the realtor to check it out this afternoon.
When I call Scott to make sure I’m not overstepping, he insists I’m not and that it’s a good idea. He also says he’ll join me for the viewing.
“You don’t have to,” I tell him.
“I know that, but if the idea comes from me, Phillip might be more agreeable to moving. This way, I can say I checked out the place and approved,” he says, which I can’t really argue.
And that’s how I find myself inside a shoebox apartment a few hours later with Scott and the realtor, Allison.
“It’s small,” Scott points out.
“So was his last place,” I note. I looked up the building online.
He nods, walking around the tiny living space and peeking out the window. “Decent neighborhood.”
“It is,” Allison puts in, a collection of information about the apartment on a clipboard in her hands. “Low crime rate, lots of older couples nearby or families starting out. Are you shopping for your son?”
