Missy was able to give me the key at six and Pollux was practically dancing by the time I got him on the leash and down the stairs. He went straight for the hydrant and Mister Abramovich raised his eyebrow at me as Pollux relieved himself.
“This is not your dog?”
“No, sorry about the pee.”
“This is the other boy’s dog.”
“He got stuck at work.”
“Ah, so you help him out with the dog. Very good.”
Pollux trotted away from the hydrant and Mr. Abramovich hosed it off immediately.
“I’m really sorry—”
“Dogs pee, my friend. I wash this every day. You are good man for helping the other with the dog.” He nodded me onward, and Pollux seemed to know we were dismissed.
We headed halfway around Washington Square when I realized I really had to get home and the dog was romancing other dogs and bushes in equal amounts. He’d been done peeing for half the time. I cut through the park, and headed back to the apartment.
The irony of me walking the very beast that was making me rearrange my whole apartment was not lost on me. Ushering him back in the apartment, I realized I had to feed and water Pollux too.
I filled his water bowl and he went to town on it, and quickly found the food and food bowl. I didn’t know how much to give him, so I guessed. It made a disgusting noise into the dish, and smelled like hell. But he apparently had no issue with it and chowed down.
Looking around, waiting for the dog to finish his meal, I realized there wasn’t much to the place. It looked very much like he’d gone to Ikea for three basic things: a table and chairs, a couch, and probably a bed.
I hoped he wasn’t living on the edge of broke. I hated when people had to do that. But, it was more likely he just hadn’t had a chance to really settle in.
Except for the pictures.
The one wall of the living room was covered in framed pictures from top to bottom. I glanced at Pollux who was still busy with his food, then walked over to the wall of images.
I could see Marcus in a lot of them, at all ages. PeeWee football, kindergarten graduation, a second birthday picture. More of him with a family; mother, father, two sisters. Vacations, pets, biking, school plays, more football. There was one that looked like it had been snapped the weekend of his going away party, and a few Cubs games with either his dad or the whole family.
It was genuine Americana.
It was also a shot through my heart.
This guy’s family fuckinglovedhim. They didn’t care if he was gay, which was probably why he blurted out that he was. Even in a small city like Troy, New York—information gleaned from one of the photos—there were enough homophobes to make a person shy if your family wasn’t 100 percent behind you.
Marcus clearly had that.
I perused the images a little more and stopped dead on a medium frame at the end. There was a framed medal, and a picture of Marcus, standing with about a dozen other people wearing the medals with the giant “A” on them. A little plaque too.
Marcus Chastain
Best Male Audiobook Narrator
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
I hadmasturbatedto this man’s voice.
This man brought the most delicious fantasies to life on my audio player. It wasn’t an easy task—being demi, getting off was a trick sometimes. Rereading a book I liked several times helped me get to know the characters and forge a connection with them. I had a small collection of favorites, and then I’d discovered audiobooks.
Specifically, Marcus Chastain’s audiobooks.
Just the memory of his silky tones through the headset as I listened to one of my favorite gay romances—for the tenth or twentieth time—had me half hard against my zipper.
Shocked I’d kept my eyes in my head and my dick in my pants, I looked at the dog in the doorway.
