CHAPTER EIGHT
SEAN
Matteo’s text came through as I sat hunched over the bar counter, the music throbbing around me.
MATTEO: It brings new meaning to a bag of dicks.
I’d told him about our jolly old Saint Nick manikin and his sack of toys. It was hard to believe he’d been staying with me for a week. Either time was speeding up or I was having too much fun bickering with him over texts while I was at work.
It was Christmas Eve, and the Adonis was closing early at ten for the holiday. Most of the patrons were gone, the bartender was busy closing the bar down, and the owners were in the office taking care of the management side of things.
ME: We initially stuffed his sack with condoms and lube, U know to do our part in promoting safe sex, but people had started throwing adult toys in his sack as a prank. It kind of stuck.
I was so lost in texting that I hadn’t realized Jere was standing beside me. “Just chased out the last patrons. Bathroom is empty and the rear is locked.”
“Alright, thanks for coming in tonight. Enjoy your holiday,” I said, watching the three dots jump around on the screen. I’d never been particularly invested in my phone before, but his snarky responses and clever insults engrossed me.
“Danny asked me to invite you over for Christmas dinner with his Mom tomorrow,” he said.
I looked up at him and moved my mouth like a fish for a moment. “Oh, ah…I have other plans this year. But I’ll make it up to him, promise.”
“Aight’. Gym next week sometime?”
“Yeah, absolutely. We’re going to have a lot of calories to work off.”
“Holidays are a struggle. Mrs. B madethreedifferent pies for tomorrow. Mulberry, apple, and pumpkin. Everyone looks to me to finish off the leftovers because I’m big.” He patted his abs. “They don’t think about the amount of upkeep after a meal like that.”
I laughed. “My tactic for dealing with something like that used to be not eating for a week before the big dinner date. Of course, I haven’t taken my own advice in a while. I feel at some point you stop obsessing over your body. That was somewhere around thirty-three for me.”
He nodded slowly, his eyes bouncing all over as if he were searching for a response. “Danny says I have self-esteem issues that contribute to my obsession with weightlifting. He's right, but in order to protect him I need to be as strong as possible.”
Sensing this was veering into serious-conversation territory, I put my phone away just as it chimed. “I can understand that. And it’s okay to admit that you have problems. I certainly did when I was younger. It took me a long time to get over my issues.”
“But you did? Because after he said that it made me wonder, like if my father messed me up more than I thought?”
I wasn’t prepared for the conversation, but Jere opening up to me was not something to be brushed off. Danny had told me he trusted very few people, and I couldn’t help wondering if he was looking for a battle-buddy. “My parents messed me up too.”
“My father was an alcoholic. Did a lot of terrible shit.” He shrugged and fidgeted as if he didn’t know how to talk about deep stuff. “It’s why I don’t like drinking and rarely do unless it’s with friends. Anyway, I want to get home to Danny. Text me next week so we can hit the gym.”
“Aright, buddy,” I said and met his fist with mine.
When Jere was gone, I opened the most recent text.
MATTEO: Surprised they didn’t dress you up as Santa. You’ve got the goods for it. Beard, check. Belly, check.
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t keep from smiling. I slid off my stool and stretched as the lights on the dance floor were switched off. I made my way into the employee’s lounge and retrieved the bag of cartons from the refrigerator that I’d stashed earlier. I wracked my mind for a response to his text, finding that I wasn’t really annoyed with his constant teasing about my little belly. I wasn’t fat, I just didn’t have abs anymore.
ME: Do me a favor?
MATTEO: I don’t do favors, but for a blowjob I might be convinced to do whatever you’re needing right now.
ME: U will if U want to eat tonight. Turn the oven to three-hundred. I’ll be up shortly.
When I stepped inside my place, I found Matteo in the kitchen, hunched over the sink, and caught in a coughing spell. He was no longer contagious, but far from healed.
I set the bag of containers on the counter and frowned. The sink was cleared and free of old bits of food. The dishrack was empty. The top of the stove was spotless with no sign of crust or crumbs. I glanced down, noting the shiny linoleum and the mop and bucket in the corner.
“Did you clean?” I asked.
