Fierce & Fabulous (Sassy Boyz) (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

By Friday, Ansel had completely lost himself in the glow of a new relationship. His friends teased him every fucking day about the grin he couldn’t seem to remove from his face. Ange hugged him each chance she got, which he didn’t mind so much. She gave great hugs. And he’d even heard from his brother again. It was a brief call, but it had been welcome.

Things were good. He was happy.

The phone calls with Fitch were the best, though. They spent a lot of time getting to know each other. They texted good-night and good morning every day. A month ago he would have called it cheesy Disney fluff, but he found himself enjoying the sweetness of it all. Maybe some of his hardship-induced cynicism was wearing off. Wouldn’t Ange be thrilled?

He’d just left the butcher shop after his shift and was nearing the station when his phone rang. He answered without looking at the caller ID because the only person who called at this time of day was Fitch. “Hey, babe. I’m just about to get on the train. Can I call you back?”

Silence.

He stopped on the top step. “Fitch?”

A voice he hadn’t heard in six years crackled in his ear. “I should have known it was you.”

Isa Becke.

His mother.

He reached out to grab the railing. One simple sentence and he was instantly transported back in time, transformed into a child, innocent and frightened. Memories whizzed through his mind, bright and shiny at first, back before his mother began her torment. Before he’d become the forgotten son. Back when there was occasionally warmth in her eyes when she looked at him. His throat tightened and he crushed the phone to his ear, somehow unable to simply hang up. Still stupidly desperate for that comfort he’d lost so long ago. She’d always had a strange sort of power over him, and apparently six years away hadn’t changed that fact.

“I should have guessed you would slither into his life like the filthy little snake you are.” Her voice, withering.

“Who?”

At three-and-a-half years old, he’d cried the whole way to the barbershop because he didn’t want to get his hair cut. Even then he’d felt different and he’d wanted to express it with long hair. But his mother had gotten so angry with him she turned the car around and shaved him bald in the bathroom with his father’s electric razor. She’d said it was for his own good, that people would tease him. He didn’t want to be teased, did he? And he’d better stop crying. Only whiny little babies cried when they got a haircut. He wasn’t a baby, was he?

He had stopped crying, even while his whole body shook so hard he feared he’d lose pieces of himself.

Maybe he had.

“Don’t play games with me, Miss Priss.” The nickname scoured through his flimsy shields and struck him in the heart. “I know you’re the one he’s been talking with. I found this number on a scrap of paper in his pocket. You’re trying to poison him with your nastiness.”

Oh God, Lars.

Sucking air through his nose, he leaned against the rail. His knees shook and he wasn’t sure he could hold himself up without the support.

“I’m not. I wasn’t.” He tried to fight the old feelings of inadequacy, he really did. He wanted to believe he was stronger now, but it was like a tsunami of memories washing over him, and every word she said brought with it another flood of insecurity.

All those nights in the hospital. The years of quiet, seething anger directed at him from across the dining room table. But worse, those darkly tempting moments when she’d shown him kindness. Those minutes when he wanted nothing more than to do everything and anything she asked just so she would glance at him again.

He couldn’t let all that twisted control and hate find a new focus in Lars. He locked his legs and tightened his hold on the railing. His brother didn’t deserve to be treated with such disregard.

“No—” He tried to argue, but she cut him off.

“You are scum. Do you hear me? You are garbage.” Her accent became more obvious as she spit the hatred through the phone. “
Du abartige Tunte
,
Ich bin so wutend du geboren wurden to unsere Familiennamen beschädigen.
Ich wünschte ich Sie getötet als du geboren wurdest
.”

He covered his mouth to muffle his sob. Even after all these years, her words still had the power to hurt him. She didn’t spout anything new—he sullied the family name, and she wished she’d killed him the day he was born. He’d heard it all before, you’d think he’d have become immune to her poison. But every word hit its mark, carving another slice out of his newborn happiness.

Obviously he’d been lying to himself. He wasn’t strong or confident. He was just a kid, wondering why his mommy didn’t love him. Unable to fight back, unable to run away, unable to do anything at all because he was weak and worthless.

Her voice shook when she continued, “Your brother has a bright future.
He
is a good boy.” But Ansel wasn’t. Her tone spoke volumes. Every emphasis, every word, was the perfect weapon to pierce his heart.

He imagined her eyes flashing like they used to right before she backhanded him across the mouth. He winced, either at the memory or at the words. It didn’t matter. She was right. He was broken. He was trash. He deserved everything she’d ever done to him and more. Lars didn’t need him messing up his life. No one did. All he ever did was ruin things. He should be ashamed of himself for reaching above his lot in life.

Shame.

All the sickening shame came rushing back.

He lowered to the step because he couldn’t stand anymore. He curled in on himself. Tears pooled in his eyes, making the city blur around him. People rushed past but didn’t stop. If anyone noticed that he was dying inside, they didn’t care. He pressed his hand more tightly against his mouth as though he could stop the pain if he didn’t give it a voice.

All his worry about how bad it would feel to lose Fitch, and he’d never considered how it’d hurt to have his brother taken away again. His heart was raw and fresh from his recent struggles, and now he had to deal with his mother’s venom? He couldn’t handle it.

“It’s bad enough you tarnish your father’s good name. I’ll not allow you to cling to Lars and suck the life out of him.”

His shoulders shook with silent sobs. If he opened his mouth she’d know she’d hit her target. She’d know he wasn’t tough. He was a sissy, a filthy queer, a deviant fairy, weak and useless. He was everything she’d ever accused him of being.

He didn’t deserve happiness because he was abnormal.

He was damaged.

* * *

Ansel didn’t know how long he sat on the cold concrete step of the subway entrance. His mother had long ago hung up with a final heart-shattering warning, but he hadn’t moved. He still held on to the railing, his fingernails digging into his palms. Someone had stolen his phone, and though a part of him had wanted to chase the bastard down, he was still too lost and unfocused to do anything but shout.

The sun set and the sounds around him slowly changed from rush hour traffic to early evening gridlock and then into the semi-quiet of night. It wasn’t until his legs grew numb that he finally made himself move. In a daze, he rode the subway to his usual stop and drifted to the shop on the corner. It was late when he finally bought a bottle of tequila and a pack of Camels. Before he’d even left the shop he’d already downed a third of the liquor. He was peeling off the plastic of the cigarettes when a guy in a baseball cap brushed passed him.

“Hey, beautiful, need help with that?”

He blinked at the lighter the guy held up and pushed the cigarette between his lips. The first lungful choked the crap out of him and he coughed.

The stranger chuckled and sidled up next to him. Ansel didn’t pay attention as he leaned against the brick wall and lifted the tequila to his lips.

Numb. Numb. Numb.

He didn’t want to feel. He needed his bandage, the oblivion. He needed to forget, again. He closed his eyes and fought another sob when he remembered pieces of his mother’s lecture. No more Lars, just as well. He was really no good for his brother anyway. He was no good for anyone. It’d be better if he just fucking accepted that and finally gave up. As he took another mouthful of burning alcohol, his friends’ faces floated into his mind, but he shut them down too. No more memories, no more hope, just the endless darkness that booze provided.

He didn’t deserve them. He didn’t deserve happiness.

“Whoa, girl. Take it easy.”

He looked at Baseball Cap sideways and took another drink. He wasn’t in the mood to teach this fucker about gender stereotypes. Christ, he’d just gotten his soul crushed by his own fucking mother because he liked what he liked. He could not deal with more bullshit.

“Okay, you’re on a mission, I guess. That’s cool.”

Couldn’t the asshole see he was in pain? Did he have to paint Fuck Off on his forehead? His mascara had, without a doubt, run down his cheeks from all the crying, and half of his lipstick was on the palm of his hand. He was a disaster.

Almost half the bottle was gone now. He should probably start heading toward his apartment if he wanted a chance at passing out in his own bed.

He took one step away from the wall and wobbled.

Slowly then, because he wasn’t drunk enough yet to subject his feet to the disgusting crud on the pavement. He took another crooked step.

“You need some help?” Baseball Cap asked with a steadying hold at the small of his back.

The guy was tall. Not quite as tall as Ansel, but tall enough so it’d be easy for them to kiss, even wearing his platform heels. He tilted his head to study the stranger’s face, not that he’d remember it. His goal was to get so plastered he’d forget his own name and everything else that happened today. The stranger smiled and edged closer. Yep, he knew that look—the hey-baby-let’s-fuck look was real familiar.

For a beat he debated shoving the stranger away. Fitch’s warm brown eyes floated in his mind and with that image a flood of memories came at him. Fitch’s indulgent smile, the way he seemed to know what Ansel needed even before Ansel did, the strength in his body, the strength of his heart. God, Fitch had such a fucking good heart. He didn’t need Ansel’s issues on top of everything else, on top of worrying about his dad. No, Fitch was way too fucking good for him. Best to murder the hope of a happy ending with a six-foot bullet to the groin.

He licked his lips and leaned into the guy. An invitation. A promise. Yeah, he knew how to play this game.

It was so easy he could do it while chugging tequila and sucking down a cigarette.

He didn’t even need to talk, which was good, because he didn’t think he could form words anymore. He waved his hand in the general direction of his apartment.

Baseball Cap smiled. “Well, all right, beautiful. Let’s go.”

The walk was slow, but Ansel was too busy swallowing his pain with equal amounts of booze and nicotine to notice. He listened with half an ear as the guy told him about touring the city, seeing all the sights, and getting a kick out of everything. But really, who the fuck cared? Not him. He was focused on polishing off the bottle in his hand so he could toss it. His hands were starting to get too heavy to keep the grip. He’d flicked his first smoke about half a mile back and was now sucking on his second.

His mind was foggy, but so was the pain. Everything had dulled to a shallow, manageable grayness. Even the streetlights seemed less bright. Somewhere, somehow, the stranger had curled an arm around his waist, fingers tucked into his front pocket like he was fucking property.

Just another thing he couldn’t be bothered to give a fuck about.

“Damn, you sure can drink, can’t you? That’s pretty impressive how you swallow all that booze. I wonder what else you’d be good at swallowing.”

He turned his head to meet the guy’s flirtatious gaze. Seriously? Was that the best the guy could do? He was shit-faced drunk and he could still come up with a better line.

“Is that your way of asking for a demonstration?”

“Holy shit, she speaks.”

He tried to roll his eyes but ended up rolling his head instead. “Funny.”

Baseball Cap laughed and squeezed tighter. Walking a straight line spiked from difficult to impossible. He stumbled, but the flirty stranger caught him before he landed flat on his face.

“Just playing, girl. You like to have fun, don’t you? Yeah, you do. Someone who drinks like that knows how to let loose.”

Christ, this guy was annoying. Ansel pushed his face close enough to tap his forehead on the bill of the guy’s hat.

“You wanna have some fun, babe?” He used his sexiest, breathiest voice and watched the guy’s tongue hang out like a predictable dog panting after a bone.

“Hell yes.”

So fucking easy it was boring. He leaned down and gave the guy his sloppiest, dirtiest kiss. It was awful. There was no heat, no spark, it was like he was dead inside. His partner didn’t seem to mind—he buried a fist in Ansel’s hair and tugged.

“Yeah, babe, I’m going to fuck you so hard your teeth rattle.”

Ansel almost gagged. This idiot was a prime example of what not to say when trying to get laid.

He gave another fuzzy thought to Fitch as he stumbled across the street toward his apartment building. Though he was too drunk to stop himself from making terrible choices, he wasn’t so far gone he didn’t recognize them. None of it mattered. His mother had set him straight. He wasn’t good enough. He’d never be good enough, not for Fitch, not for his brother, not for his parents. Might as well burn it all to the ground.

He stopped in the middle of the road and looked over his shoulder. He tipped the bottle to his lips and drank the rest of its contents.

“Are you coming?”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Baseball Cap caught up with him at the front steps and pushed Ansel up against the concrete. The bottle slipped from his useless fingers with a crash that echoed down the street.

“Whoops,” Ansel mumbled with his cheek pressed against the rough wall.

“Shh, beautiful. You’re going to wake your neighbors.” He moved his hips to grind against his denim covered ass.

“Fuck ’em.”

The guy laughed but it didn’t sound nice, or happy. It was grating like the shattered glass under his feet. Speaking of his feet, fuck, they hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. How long had he be standing in heels? He tried to clear his head a little, but the shaking just made him dizzy. The idiot dry humping him against the building was now also sucking on his neck like a vacuum hose.

“Shit, baby, let’s get inside before I explode in my pants,” the guy said.

“What time is it?”

“Almost one, why? Got a hot date?” He snickered in a rude and condescending way as he moved away just enough for Ansel to reach the door handle.

No, no more dates for him.

They made it inside, barely. Baseball Cap didn’t waste time once the door was shut behind them. He pinned Ansel against the door and trapped his hands above his head.

“Are you as hot for it as I think you are?” The guy forced a slimy tongue into his mouth and wiggled it around like a dying fish.

Ansel had to breathe through his nose and close his eyes just to stop himself from puking. That would bring an end to the situation fast. Just then he felt the dude’s wandering hand near the waist of his pants. While he had been concentrating on not throwing up, Baseball Cap got his pants unbuttoned and shoved his hand inside. Problem was, Ansel was pretty sure the guy was expecting something much, much different down there.

Whoops.

The stranger’s fingers skimmed along his uninterested cock. He reeled back as if he’d been bitten by a poisonous snake.

“What the fuck?” The horror on the guy’s face was hilarious.

Ansel’s laugh was manic.

“Was that a fucking dick?” The dude looked so disgusted, his lip curled up like he smelled something rotten. “Stop laughing, bitch.” He reached out and grabbed a fistful of his hair. “You think it’s fucking funny? You like games? How ’bout I shove my fist down your throat? Would you like that?”

The dude’s grip was so tight, his head was pulled back all the way, causing tears to run out the corner of his eyes. It should probably sting, but he was too worn out from it all, too fucking frozen from the phone call and the drinking. He felt nothing. Not even fear.

“You’re disgusting,” Baseball Cap cursed. He spat into Ansel’s face, then punched him in the stomach.

Ansel grunted but he couldn’t fight back. He’d consumed a whole bottle of tequila in less than six hours it was a wonder he could even stand up. In fact, maybe he wasn’t standing. Maybe the reason why his hair was pulled so tight was because his legs had buckled and the only thing holding him up was the stranger’s grip in his hair.

Still, he tried to push Baseball Freak off. He managed to shove hard enough for the guy to stumble, but since his fist was still pulling at his hair, Ansel fell too.

“Get the fuck off me,” he said.

They clashed and tumbled into the banister with a loud bang. Mr. Craig’s dog in 2B started barking.

“I’m going to teach you a lesson, you fucking faggot. You can’t go around fucking with people.” Baseball Freak bashed a fist into his cheek. “You like getting your ass reamed, I’m going to tear you up with a goddamn baseball bat. How’d you like that?” Another punch, this time getting a good shot to his ribs. For a moment, Ansel stopped breathing. He lost focus. The world grayed around the edges.

His head hit the solid wood step and he registered a foot to his chest as he tried to cling to consciousness.

“What is going on out here? Mr. Becke?” His landlord’s gruff voice was the last thing he heard before he fell into darkness.

* * *

Ansel woke to shouting.

He clutched a hand to his head and groaned. Where the hell was he? What happened?

“No, Mr. Policek, please. There has to be another way. I’m sure he didn’t mean to cause so much trouble.”

“I don’t care. I’ve had enough. I had to call the police, Ms. Reynolds. The goddamn police! The whole building woke to that nonsense. He is a disturber of the peace. I’ve told you both, time and again, to keep the noise down. You’ve missed rent more than enough times to have you thrown out for violating the rental agreement. I won’t have him in my building any longer. If I have to, I’ll tell the police the guy was a john. It will be easy for them to believe Mr. Becke is a whore. Don’t force my hand, Ms. Reynolds.”

That didn’t sound good. Ansel rolled over and fell off the couch.

The door slammed. He winced. His head was pounding. His mouth was dry. He had to pee.

“Are you okay?” Ange sounded defeated as she helped him off the floor.

“No. I feel like shit.” He was going to be sick. He covered his mouth with his hand and stood to go to the bathroom. Unfortunately the room began to spin, he landed on his knees and had to crawl into the kitchen. He managed to get to the garbage bin before he lost it.

Ange was there when he was done. She pushed a glass of water into his shaky hand and wiped his mouth with a paper towel.

“I thought you were better. I don’t get it.” She shook her head, the disappointment in her tone worse than puking in the garbage.

He drank half the glass and leaned his head against the cupboards. He should probably try to move, but the floor was pretty damn comfortable. “Get what?”

“You, Ansel. You.”

He didn’t get it either. What was happening? He blinked, but it didn’t stop the room from spinning.

“Mr. Policek is evicting us. We have to be out by the end of the month.”

The bottom dropped out of his stomach and he spun to the can again. “He can’t do that,” Ansel whispered with his head still hanging near the bucket.

“But he has done it, and I don’t think we have a leg to stand on here, not with what happened last night. What you did.” The last was a quiet condemnation, worse because it came from his best friend. His stomach ached.

Ange’s phone rang and she crossed to the living room to grab it.

“He’s here.” She sighed. “I know. Yes, fine. Okay, see you in a bit.” She hung up and sat on the couch facing the television. He could only see her profile, but she looked worn out. “The boys are on their way over.”

He rubbed his pounding head. “Why?”

“You missed a performance. You’ve had us worried to death for hours. No one could find you. You didn’t pick up your phone.”

He’d missed a show? He swallowed and closed his eyes. The guys were probably pissed at him. Oh shit, Castor’s threat. Fuck, Tam. He must be going crazy right now. Ansel’s heart twisted with self-reproach. He was such an asshole. And now Tam, his best friend, might suffer. Because of him.

God, why wouldn’t the floor just open up and swallow him?

He curled into a ball and lay there until Tam knelt beside him.

“Hon, are you alive?” Tam asked, petting his head and shoulder.

“No.”

“Do you want to sit up?”

“No.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, get your ass up.” This was Z. He hooked Ansel’s arms and tugged until he could do nothing but stand. They guided him to the couch then sat beside him. He leaned back and closed his eyes again. It was still dark outside, but the lights were on in the living room and they made his headache ten times worse.

“What happened?” Tam asked.

“Nothing.” There was no way he was going to tell them about his evil mother. And especially not how it had been so easy for her to push his buttons until he was a sobbing, pitiful mess with no self-control.

“I’ll tell you what happened. He fucking drank himself into a coma again and this time he forgot about his commitments,” Z said. “You know Castor insists that we don’t miss any performance, especially you. He flipped out, Ansel, docked our pay for last night, and threatened Tam again.”

“Sorry,” Ansel croaked because his throat was tight and sore. He couldn’t look at Tam. If he did he might never forgive himself.

“Sorry. Like a simple apology is going to save Tam or get us back the money we lost.”

“Do you even understand how worried we were?” Ange asked.

He’d never heard that tone from Ange and it shredded him. He closed his eyes and fought the urge to run because he knew there was nowhere he could go to get away from the pain in her voice. Or the anger in Z’s.

“Ansel, talk to us. Please.” Lirim was still calm, but the plea was one of desperation. “We want to forgive you, but we can’t unless you tell us what happened.”

“It’s like Z said. I drank too much and lost track of time.” The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, like blood.

Z’s “Told you” and Ange’s “Like hell” tumbled on top of one another.

But it was Lirim’s “Come on, how naive do you think we are?” that won out.

Ansel didn’t reply. He couldn’t bring himself to lie again and anything else seemed pointless.

They were all silent for a while as the sounds of the city waking up filtered through the thin walls of the apartment building. The sun streamed through the dirty windows, making the dust in the air look like tiny stars. It was magical.

And sad.

Because there was a tension between them all that hadn’t been there before, and it was his fault. And he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to repair the damage.

Finally, Lirim broke the stillness. “Who was the asshole who did that to your face?”

Ansel put a hand to his throbbing eye and met his friend’s concerned gaze across the room. “What’s wrong with my face?”

Z took his hand and pulled it down. “You have a big fucking black eye, babe.”

With a sigh, Ansel collapsed against the back of the couch again.

“Don’t worry, we’ll cover most of it with makeup, no one will notice,” Tam added. They were the first words Tam had said since they sat down, and the kindness in them broke Ansel’s heart.

“Tam—” His voice broke but he pushed through it, some part of him needing to be punished for what he’d done. “I’m sorry. I was an asshole. I’ll talk to Castor. I’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you. I promise.”

“I doubt there’s anything you can do.”