Chapter Four
Dylanshowered away the grime of a long day at work, then sprayed enough cologne to cover up his three-in-one shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. The facial hair lining his neck had a few odd strays that didn’t lay uniform with the rest of his finely trimmed beard, and Dylan took his time clipping them with the tiny scissors Kaiden had bought him.
Honestly, most of Dylan’s hygiene routine and products had been at Kaiden’s behest. Kaiden had become the fairy godgay Dylan never realized he needed. Granted, Dylan lost interest in all the upkeep of using a dozen different bottles for hair, skin, face, facial hair, sensitive skin, this or that, and whatever else. But there were some things Dylan found himself keeping a routine for.
When it came to his body hair, Dylan let his chest and stomach grow as wildly as they wanted. Same with his arms and legs. He did trim his crotch hairs from time to time. Much like his beard, which itched a lot less now that he didn’t let it become unkempt.
After finishing his routine, he’d mostly air-dried, so he tossed his towel in the hamper and threw on a breezy outfit. Since he’d grown up in Dorothy’s Home, he learned long ago to handle the lack of privacy any way he could. As a grown man, strutting around in just a towel wasn’t going to cut it like when he lived here as a resident.
Dylan checked in on Jasmine, who was unwinding in one of the smaller bedrooms she’d claimed as her own. Only her and Dylan had the privacy of their own rooms, while all the teen residents had to share their space. But Jasmine tried to ensure the bigger rooms in the house went to those who bunked together. Even when she saddled four to a single room, they landed the master bedroom with a built-in bathroom. Everyone compromised in their own ways.
“You sure you’re going to be good tonight?” Dylan poked his head into Jasmine’s room. “I’ll have my phone on if you need anything.”
Jasmine waved him off. “Go have fun. What have I said about clocking out?”
“And what have I said about not giving me an actual time sheet?”
Technically, Dylan only worked part-time at Dorothy’s Home, since that was all Jasmine could afford. Still, it came with housing and food and peace of mind. Truthfully, Dylan spent way more time giving back to the home that got him off the streets and gave him a chance at a future. But he’d do it for free if Jasmine wanted.
“Just be careful, sweetie,” Jasmine said. “I’ve heard Himbos has been getting hit lately.”
Dylan quirked a brow, quizzically.
“Crime, hun.”
“Damn wicked gays.” Dylan tsked and shook his head disapprovingly before cracking a smile.
“It’s not a joke,” Jasmine clarified. “There have been muggings, assaults. It’s not always safe wandering around the wrong parts of downtown late at night.”
“Here I thought Himbos aimed to be one of those upscale clubs.”
“You know what I mean.” Jasmine pointed a finger, poking Dylan in the chest with her nail.
He rolled his eyes because, as ridiculous as it was, the warning was valid. Sadly, it was the price of existing and the risk of creating openly queer spaces. All the same, Dylan learned how to handle himself in precarious and dangerous elements years ago as a teenager who did what he had to do in order to get by before Jasmine dragged him off the streets and into her queer youth home.
“Now, just because you’re being safe doesn’t mean you can’t turn this into a fun weekend.” Jasmine did a little shimmy, enthusiastically smiling. “Take the weekend and really enjoy yourself, sweetie.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Dylan grinned.
He did have the weekend off, which almost never happened between his side jobs, his holiday hustles, and his position at Dorothy’s Home. He took his job almost as seriously as Jasmine when it came to running the youth home, but she’d insisted he spend a little time being free from responsibility.
“Oh my God,” a high-pitched voice called out from behind Dylan. “Please tell me you’re not wearing that ugly ass outfit in public.”
Dylan frowned, taking in the judgmental once-over from the residential fashionista, Miguel Alvarado-Hernandez.
He was a short, slender teen with a bronze complexion, complemented by the oversized powder-pink polo that he kept tucked in the front and hanging out in the back. Did Dylan question Miguel’s fashion choices? Certainly, but only to himself. Miguel had already schooled him on trendsetting enough to make his head spin.
“I was just about to change,” Dylan said, making his way past Miguel and to his bedroom.
He slipped into some loose jeans and a crop top, which he hoped Rus might like.
“The 80s called and said you’re doing it wrong,” Miguel announced, inviting himself into Dylan’s room.
“The 80s called, and you answered?” Dylan asked, aghast. “Then why do you always send me to voicemail?”
“Fine, the 80s texted,” Miguel huffed, then plopped onto the edge of the bed.
Years of living in a home with so many teens rotating in and out had taught Dylan not to expect privacy of any kind.
