Page 34 of Wedge

Caleb’s eyebrows raise up. “Care to share?”

“Came home early from a deployment and found her in my bed with Danny. Guy from my own squad.”

“Owww,” he says, raising his beer bottle to clink. “Ok, who else? Any hot fuck buddies in the service?”

I shake my head. “Nope. Never went there. Never even looked at another guy’s ass, and there were plenty of opportunities.”

He sits back again. “So. What’s changed? Why now, why Adrian?”

I sit back and sigh. “Honestly? I don’t know.” I peel another strip off my beer label. “What I know is, I look at him and my gut clenches and melts at the same time. I want to put anyone who hurts him through a wall. I want to stand between him and everything. And I can’t. He’s out there every day, eighteen holes, putting himself on the line, and I can’t cover him. That’s not what he needs, anyway. So I carry the bag. I tell him when he’s good. I settle him when he’s not. And when there’s nothing I can do, I stand there, so he knows he’s not alone.” I take a breath. “And I want to feed him, Caleb. All the damned time. And hold him. And I can’t tell him any of it. Yet.”

I run out of steam and look up, and Caleb’s smile is wider than I’ve ever seen it. My beer bottle’s label is in tatters on the table.

“Okay, then,” he says.

“Okay?” I say, way too hopefully.

“You’re going to help him. Support him. Be there for him. Be his damned rock in a storm. Be his fucking fortress, his safe place. And that boy needs a therapist. His foster father got him help before he died, and he needs that. Make sure he gets back in there, talks shit out before he spirals.”

New intel. “Okay. I can do that.”

“He is going to have to define how he wants you to take care of him, though. I can’t tell you that, Stephen. That’s his to own. I can make guesses based on other Daddies I know, but ultimately, Ask Adrian needs to be your mantra.”

“Ask Adrian.”

“He tells me things, Stephen. I will not share those with you. Just like I won’t share what you said with him. I’m fucking Switzerland, jeez, I should get a medal. But you have to let him know, Stephen. He won’t just jump you. You have to let him know you are open to him, that you want him, but you cannot pressure him. Let him make the move. He will. But he isn’t a mind reader.”

“Let him know.”

“Gently,” Caleb grinds out.

“Gently,” I repeat. “Thank you.”

My apartment is too quiet. The fridge hums. I’ve slid my sliding glass door open to the hot night, and motorcycles race down Broadway. I pour myself a finger of Scotch, alone in my bed in Denver for once, missing the warmth of him three feet away more than I want to admit. I think about a guarded young man with a mohawk and foster-care eyes who is teaching me more about patience than four years in the Marines ever did.

I ponder hitting the bathhouse again, let some faceless guy relieve some of this pressure that’s been building all summer. And I can’t. Even if we are nothing yet, I can’t go there anymore. As I told Caleb, I have played with a few toys that were highly rated by men. Definitely a fan of anal penetration. Prostate stimulation nearly made me white out my vision. Cock sleeve was meh, my hand is better.

And then I force myself to look at what being with Adrian would look like if we are more than nothing. Will I let him fuck me? I told Caleb I would.

I have to yank my sweatpants down and wrap a hand around my throbbing cock at the thought. Yeah, I realize. I’d let him. I cum hard at the thought of Adrian’s cock in my ass, harder than I’ve cum in months.

The ceiling fan turns in its slow circles, and my heartbeat takes a long while to settle. When I’m back in my head, I have an amendment to the plan.

I’m going to woo the hell out of this guy. Let him know so he doesn’t have to guess. Enough with the baby steps. I’m not going to mess with his head, not at Q-school, but I’m done slow-walking it.

16

ADRIAN

First Stage of Q-School is outside Grand Junction, hot and dusty, the kind of dry heat that feels like punishment. Red mesas ring the horizon, and the fairways glow an impossible green against all that dust. A hundred and fifty-some golfers, and most of them look like me: twenty-two, twenty-three, nervous. No hawks or plugs, but my age at least.

Most of them are fresh off a college team, with a swing coach, and a strength coach, and a dietician, and four years of structured competition behind them. All-American nods, parents in the gallery who probably paid for lessons since they were six.

I feel every one of those advantages I never had, heavy in my stomach. Some of them already have sponsor pins on their hats.

I’m wearing the free navy polo from Ben, and his white golf cap over my wet hawk, the sweatband already damp. I can practically hear him: I’m your sponsor, wear shit with my logo on it, Adrian. I have six shirts, three hats and three gloves from him, and even my shoes have his logo.

“Hey.” Stephen falls into step beside me on the range, close but not crowding, the way he always is. The mats shimmer under a white-hot sky, and the air smells like sunscreen and hot rubber. “Breathe. You’ve done this all summer.”