Bear, Otter, & the Kid 03 - The Art of Breathing (44 page)

“Well, yeah.”

“Then why can’t you figure out a way to breathe? Seems to me the body does it on its own. You just have to trust it knows what to do. It’s not physical. It’s all in your head.”

“That’s the part I can’t get over.”

“Why not?”

“My brain is wired… differently.”

Paul laughs. “Not so differently that you can’t kick its ass. Look, I’m not talking about the power of positive thinking, and I’m not saying the cure for you is some kind of magical dick, because that won’t work. You need to fix yourself. It’s that easy. And if you’re as smart as everyone touts you to be, then it should be simple. You got to find what the blockage is, then blow it the fuck up.”

“It’s not that….” It’s not that easy? Since when? And why the fuck shouldn’t it be? “Holy sweat balls,” I say. I might be the smartest twenty-year-old full-blown ecoterrorist on the planet, but apparently I’m pretty goddamn slow on the uptake.

“A
ha
!” Paul says. “
Now
he gets it. Paul saves the day yet again.”

“I don’t think I get it,” Charlie says.

“I don’t either,” Paul admits. “But the twink does. You can see it in his eyes. Tyson, if I could tell you one thing—and remember, I’m fat, I blab too much, I think too hard, and I don’t know what I’m talking about half the time—it would be that no matter what, you thank your lucky stars every single goddamn day that you’re alive and that someone loves you as much as they do. I didn’t know that for the longest time.” He looks down at Vince, and the love that fills his eyes knocks the breath from my chest, but in a good way. “I may be a new convert, and it’s cheesy as all fucking hell, and I swear to God, if you tell anyone I said this, I’m going to bury you in the desert, but love conquers all. It’s cliché. It’s sappy. It sounds awful. But love fucking conquers all. And until you let it conquer you, you don’t know shit. Stop being a fucking dumbass and open your fucking eyes.”

“I’m so proud of you, boy,” Charlie says. “Who knew you had it in you?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Paul says, throwing his hands over his head. “Can we please stop being big soppy vaginas and go back to being snarky assholes?”

But I can’t answer him. Because Dom is all I see.

And he doesn’t look away.

S
AGE
THE
Fourth:

Kori pulls me down to the floor right before the show comes on, telling me it’s imperative that I be in the front row to witness the glory that is Helena Handbasket. I find myself sandwiched between her and Dom. Vince stands on Dom’s other side. They seem to have hit it off, which makes me weirdly happy and not even remotely the least bit jealous at all. (The glances I try and sneak might suggest otherwise—apparently I’m not very subtle, because Kori is snickering at me and elbowing me in the side. Jerk.) It really doesn’t help that people are crowding in around us, and I’m practically plastered up against Dom, and every now and then, I feel his large hand at the base of my spine, just a touch, but the electricity that shoots through my skin is like I’ve been struck by lightning, and I don’t dare try and move toward it. Or away. I’m paradoxical. And a chickenshit.

And then
she
enters the world.

There’s a flash of light. The crowd sighs. A nasty beat kicks up from the speakers all around us, and the spotlight zeroes in on the stage. The beat intensifies and thrums through me. A hand appears from behind the curtain, the nails long and sharp and bright red. People scream around me. The hand curls up and one finger extends and curls, telling us all,
Come here. Come here and let’s get dirty.

The song explodes and the curtains part and Helena Handbasket writhes onto the stage, hair huge, costume glittery and tight and almost nonexistent (and from a purely scientific standpoint, I wonder just how it’s possible to create the illusion that you don’t have a dick, because that costume shows absolutely everything and reveals absolutely nothing). The lyrics start, a woman with a rough voice singing about fucking and touching and doing all those things you could only dream about. It’s obscene. It’s so wrong. And it’s absolutely magnificent.

Maybe I should see what happens with Minerva Fox, after all. But I don’t know if I’d be capable of tucking my dick that far back. I like it right where it’s at.

Helena moves amongst the crowd, gyrating up and down on pretty much everyone within reach. People hand her ones and tens and twenties, and she gives them sticky kisses on the cheek before reaching down and goosing them.

She goes on from one to the next, and how she can see anything is beyond me, with the spotlight on her face and the strobe lights flashing. She reaches the back wall, where a large man is standing, his face hidden in shadow. Her movements become stiff and jerky as she steps closer, and as the light slides up the wall, I see it’s Darren, the Homo Jock King, standing alone in the dark. He’s smiling quietly to himself, but then, as if he’s forgotten his place and who he is, a scowl quickly forms as Helena approaches him. She trails her hand along his arm, but there’s nothing sexual about this. He doesn’t give her money. She moves on.

And before the shadows cover him again, that quiet smile returns as he follows her every move. She doesn’t see it, of course.

But I do.

I pull on Dom’s arm to get his attention. He bends over, my mouth near his ear. That hand comes to my back again. I can smell him. Spicy. Warm. His cheek brushes against mine. Accidental. Maybe. I don’t know. Apparently I don’t know a lot of things. “I’ll be right back,” I say.

“Everything okay?” he rumbles, and I feel the words as well as hear them.

No.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just going to talk to Darren.”

“What for?” he asks, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear there’s a hint of jealousy to his voice.

Ask him!
it howls.
Ask him right now! Say it! ARE YOU GAY? DO YOU WANT ME? DO YOU WANT TO FIND SOME BACKROOM AND FUCK OUR BRAINS OUT? ASK HIM, YOU GODDAMN PUSSY!

“I want to ask him a question about Helena,” I manage to say.

“Do you want me to go with you?” He touches my back again, and I think there’s another question there.

I shake my head. “I’ll be right back.”

He lets me go. Straightens up. Nods. Looks away.

I’m in the crowd, pushing my way through. Someone grabs my ass hard. Someone else laughs in my face, their breath heavy with drink. The music screams. The lights flash. I almost get to Darren when a hand grabs my wrist and I’m pulled through the crowd and into the light.

The Queen herself stands before me, eyes blazing. The music crescendos. She trails a finger along my jawline, across my lips. She leans forward. “And just where were you going, little boy?” she breathes, ignoring the music. “To break some hearts, perhaps?”

“Only yours,” I promise her.

She laughs. It’s a deliciously wicked sound. “Oh, baby doll. How I wish I could keep you forever and ever. I’d lock you up and never let anyone hurt you again.”

“I wish that too,” I say. “It’d be easier.”

“And where’s the fun in that?”

“Your face is a little red,” I tell her. “Like a fire hydrant. How’s Darren?”

The smile turns feral. “Did I say keep you? Truly I meant strap you on to a sawhorse and expose that perky little ass of yours and take my time with it. I can promise you that you’ll scream.”

“I dare you.”

She pats my cheek. Hard. “Cheeky little twinkie. I’m going to go see what happens when I rub up against your cop.”

And then she’s gone. My poor cop. He doesn’t know what he’s in for.

Not that he’s mine. Or anything.

Whatever. I’m on a mission to meddle. I shall not be deterred.

I find Darren where I last saw him, hiding in the shadows. I have a feeling that people are usually intimidated by the Homo Jock King, but for some reason, he’s just another supermodel I happen to know in the desert. And I’m not one to shy away from things. Well, most things.

“Why are you lurking back here?” I ask him above the music.

“Why shouldn’t I be?” he says. “This is the prime lurking location.”

“It’s kind of creepy.”

“I’m kind of a creepy guy.” He folds his arms across his chest. The muscles bunch up against his expensive shirt. Light plays across his face, and I know he’s trying to intimidate the fuck out of me, but it’s really not working.

“I’m going to lurk too,” I say. I lean up against the wall, fold my stick arms across my too-small shirt probably bought at GapKids. “This is lame. Everything is so lame. I’m so cool hiding back here and pretending I don’t want to stick my wiener into a drag queen.”

“How’s that again?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Nothing,” I say innocently. “I just wanted to be one of the cool kids.”

“Do you have any idea who I am?”

“Well, yeah. You’re the creepy guy lurking in the corner. Or the Homo Jock King. Or both. That’s quite the title, by the way. Why do you call yourself that?”

“I don’t.”

“Oh. Why don’t you ask Sandy out?”

“Are you always this annoying?”

“Yes. Answer the question.”

“Fine,” he says. “As long as I get to ask you one first.”

What does Paul say? Oh sweat balls. What has
Star Wars
taught me? It’s a trap. “Fine,” I say, trying to look as bored as he sounds.

“Why are you leading that cop around by the dick? You a cock tease or something?”

My arms drop to my sides. “I don’t lead him around.”

He laughs. It’s a harsh sound. “Bullshit. I met you two this morning, and even I can see he’s boy-pussy whipped over you.”

“He’s my friend.”

“Friends fuck all the time.”

“I don’t.”

“So you must not be interested, then. If that’s the case, then maybe you want to get out of here. I can show you what fucking truly looks like.”

I make a face. “How romantic.”

“Life isn’t about romance, twinkie.”

“Your brother found it.”

He rolls his eyes. “A fluke. It happens, sure. Maybe they’ll last. Maybe they won’t. Maybe one of them will decide to go fuck someone on the side. We’re the products of our parents, after all. You can trust me on that.”

That hits me hard, but I try not to let him see it. Paul’s words about his father ring in my ears. My mother and his father. Different actions, same response. “Bitter, much?” I ask him. Or myself. I don’t know.

He cracks a fatalistic smile. “More of a realist.”

“Then maybe the realist can explain why he’s too afraid to tell Sandy how he really feels. Underneath all that cynicism, of course.”

“And maybe the nosy little twinkie can tell me why he’s too good for the cop.”

“I’m not too good for him,” I retort. “I’m not good
for
him.”

“Made that decision all on your own, did you?”

“I….” Well, yes. But when you put it like that, it makes me sound like a sanctimonious prick. Oh shit. God, I hate the Homo Jock King.

“Twinks,” he snorts. “You’re all the same. Good for a fuck because you know how to work a dick, but you think that gives you power and control. But the truth of the matter is, you’re just a scared little boy who doesn’t know shit. Just like all the rest.”

“And what does that make you, then?” I ask, trying to keep my anger in check.

“The one who fucks the little twinks,” he says. “Run along, little twink. Go back to the cop and pretend you don’t know he worships the ground you walk on.”

“I don’t think I like you much,” I say with a frown.

“Yeah? Welcome to the club.”

“But I think you’re just projecting.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.”

I shrug. “It’s got to be hard to have to act like a jerk all the time, all high and mighty, only to have lost your heart to a drag queen who despises every fiber of your being.” Except I really don’t think said drag queen does. I’m so glad I can pick up on all other people’s problems instead of focusing on my own.

“I didn’t lose jack shit, kid. Go on, get the fuck outta here.”

Time to go. It’s probably a good time to remember my size and place. He could squash me with one hand, I’m sure. He
is
the Homo Jock King, after all.

But, as always, as I move to leave, my mouth moves without any provocation. “You’ll lose him,” I say. “If you don’t take the chance. Someone else will come along and sweep him off his feet, and you’ll be left alone to wonder why you didn’t have the balls to do more to make sure he didn’t belong to anyone else but you.”

“Funny, that,” he says, cocking his head. “I could say the same thing to you. What the fuck are you waiting for? An engraved invitation? Stop being a whiny little flip-flopping bitch and make up your goddamn mind. Or,” he says, getting up in my space, bumping his legs against mine, “maybe I should find out tonight what bacon tastes like. He’s not my type—too big and bulky—but hell, he’s got a mouth and hole I can use. You mind if I borrow him, kid? Not to sweep him off his feet, of course.” He grins. “Well, maybe onto his back.”

I leave the Homo Jock King behind in the shadows.

S
AGE
THE
Fifth:

“I don’t like getting drunk,” Vince tells me after the show. We’re sitting on the back patio, waiting for everyone else to come out. “One time, I got drunk and fell down at a party and somehow my pants came off and it turned into this whole big thing.”

Well, maybe not quite a sage.

“That’s… epic,” I say, for lack of anything better.

“People didn’t seem to mind, which was weird. So, you’re smart, huh?”

“That’s what I hear. Though I’ve been questioning that more and more.”

“Huh. I’m not smart.”

“You seem perfectly smart to me.” Sort of. But who am I to judge?

“Nah,” he says easily. “I say dumb shit all the time.”

“So do I. That has nothing to do with intelligence. Trust me on that.”

Paul pushes his way through the crowd. Vince lights up and pulls him down onto his lap and puts his face into his neck. He whispers something, to which Paul replies, “Yeah, because that worked so well last time. Wheels likes to watch. He’s a sick, twisted pervert.” They laugh with such ease.