Long Pass Chronicles 02 - Canning the Center (21 page)

“Let him go, Boogie.”

Boogie struggled like he had six linebackers on him, and Jamal held on, but Boogie didn’t let go of Trevor…. The big man’s eyes screwed up, and he looked at his attacker. At Jamal.

Jamal twisted Boogie’s hand farther, and his face contorted with some combination of pain and rage. Then a hint of confusion crept in.

“Jamal?” He choked out the words.

“Let go of him or I’ll break your fucking neck.”

Boogie coughed. “Jamal—”

Jamal took a deep breath. Reason. He needed some. “If you hurt these people, it’s gonna be bad for you and the whole team.”

Boogie’s eyes focused. “Okay. Okay. I’ll cool off.” He still held Trevor by the collar wrapped around his fingers. Trev looked angry and terrified. Jamal wanted to grab him and hold him. Boogie gave him a shake. “This asshole was whipping the people up on this whole ‘gay guys on the team’ crap. He can’t spread lies like that, can he?”

“No, he—”
What. The. Hell
. Trevor did that?

Jamal looked at Trevor, whose eyes dropped. Trevor was with this group? He’d been behind it all along and didn’t say anything? What the fuck did that mean? He swallowed. “They got free speech, Boogie. And you can’t get violent. So go home. Leave them alone.”

“Little shit.” Boogie hurled Trevor away from him. Trev stumbled backward, flailed his arms, and landed hard on his back.
Trevor!
Jamal released Boogaloo and sprang forward, but he could feel Boogie staring at him. He stopped. Did he want to come out right now? Here? Jesus, he could vomit.

Trevor sprang up and dusted off his ass. He stared at Boogie with loathing and shared some with Jamal. Well, hell, had Trev just been using him all along to set up the team? Was he gonna out him? Maybe wait for the press to show up?

But Trevor backed up a few steps, then turned and ran. A half block away, he unfastened his bicycle from a rack and jumped on.

Boogie swiped his hands on his jeans. “Little shit.” He looked at Jamal and shook his hand. “I’ll give it to you, brotha. You’re strong. But thanks for keeping me from killing the bastard.”

“Yeah, well—”

“Seriously, thanks.” He stepped in to give him a one-armed hug, but Jamal moved back fast, turned, and walked toward his car. Hugging Boogie took lying all the way to puke-worthy. The other guys and women with the signs who hadn’t run off stared at Jamal like he was as bad as Boogaloo. Shit, he was worse.

He climbed back in the car and pulled out on the street. At the stoplight, he stared. Trevor’d been playing him. Some knot in his belly moved up to his chest. His hands gripped the wheel.
Hurt. Bad hurt
.

The light changed, and he pulled away, pointed toward his apartment.
Wish I was going home.

God, the idea that Trevor only wanted him for his campaign made him sick. How could he do that? Oh shit, he wanted to talk to his dad.

You’re a grown-up. You don’t need your folks to make it better
.

Well, crap on a cracker, that felt true.

He drove another half block and got stopped again. Trev’s face looking down at him in bed filled his mind. The sweetness. Okay, he was a performer, but was he that good?

The light changed, and his foot pressed the accelerator. What the fuck was this? A romance novel where two guys couldn’t talk about their feelings because it would ruin the plot? Shit, he wanted answers!

He braked, then hit the accelerator again as he turned right onto a street that led away from the stadium. Where was the little liar?
Find him
.

Jamal slowed and peered down the side streets. This was a bad part of town and kind of close to SCU.
Hope he’s not around here
.

Another street. Jamal looked, then sped up to the next intersection. There! A guy on a bike pedaling like a son of a bitch. There weren’t many bicycles around here. It had to be him.

Jamal turned and slowed.
Stay back. Don’t let him know you’re here
. The blond mane had fallen from its tail and blew behind him like a pale curtain. The neighborhood kept getting worse. Hell, Jamal wouldn’t feel comfortable strolling here, and he wasn’t a scrawny white guy. A
beautiful
, scrawny white guy.

Trevor made a sharp left turn.
Don’t lose him
. Jamal accelerated until he came up opposite a god-awful tenement.
No way.
Down a driveway littered with trash, he could see Trevor open a door and drag his bike inside. Jamal pulled over and parked. The chances of still having rims and a hood ornament when he came out were zero.

He made it across the street in seconds, but when he got to the side door, it was closed.
Damn
. Still, the handle turned. That made him feel worse, since it meant any criminal could walk into Trevor’s building—and probably did.

He slipped inside to smells like cabbage or poop or God knew what else. He heard the bumping of bicycle tires on the stairs. His breath caught. Under that sound was something between a mutter and a cry.

Hurry
. He took the stairs two at a time, and when he turned the first landing, he saw the rear of the bike disappearing around the corner. He jogged up the last five stairs and grabbed the end of the bike.

“Hey, what the—?” Trevor turned. His blue eyes got wide, then snapped into a frown. “How did you get here?”

“Followed you.”

“I don’t want you here.”

Jamal crossed his arms. “Why? So I can’t find you after you tell my story to the press?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You and your big campaign. Was getting together with me just a way to prove there are gay guys on the Diablos? Was that all it was?”

Trevor fell back against the wall. “No! Jesus, you don’t believe that?”

“I don’t know what I believe.”
Please say you didn’t deceive me
. “You never let me see where you live, and you never told me it was you picketing the stadium.”

A door opened on the next floor up, and the sound of crying kids filled the stairwell along with the smell of frying food—sweet and sharp at the same time. Trevor glanced up uneasily.

“I wanted to tell you—” He looked up again. “Oh hell, come to my place so we can talk.” He turned and started dragging the bike again.

“Gimme that.” Jamal grabbed the bike in one hand and pointed up the last stairs before the landing. Trevor walked up them, but his steps seemed heavier than usual. On the landing, he glanced back at Jamal, shrugged, and headed down the dark, narrow hall. Graffiti on the walls announced the power of some local gang.

Trevor stopped at a door painted a brilliant blue. It was so out of place in the dingy hall—kind of like the guy standing in front of it.

“Did you paint the door?”

Trev nodded and slid the key in the lock, then pushed open the door and walked in.

Jamal held his breath. What could be so secret that Trevor wouldn’t let him come near the place? He stepped forward into—oh. “I think I just fell down the rabbit hole.”

Trevor whirled on him. “I didn’t invite you here.”

He closed the door and gazed around. Pretty, and weird, like Wonderland. It was just one room with a small door in one wall that must lead to a bathroom. Half mathematician—one full wall of chalkboard paint showed formulas and proofs Jamal couldn’t begin to fathom. Half drag queen—a dress form held one of Trixie’s beautiful gowns, and the dressing table had to be from a movie set. Perfectly arranged bottles and jars glistened in front of the huge art deco mirror. A tent of blue fabric arched over the daybed. “No, you didn’t invite me. Why is that exactly?”

Trevor crossed his arms. “Why would you want to come to this tenement?” He pointed to hooks on the wall behind the door. “The bike goes there.”

Jamal lifted the cycle, hooked it, then turned to face Trevor, who sat on the edge of the narrow bed. “This is your world.”

“Yeah. So?”

“I like it.”

He frowned. “Why?”

“It’s like you. Quirky and contradictory and—beautiful.”

Trevor stared down at his hands in his lap. Some battle crossed his face. A war between anger and—what? “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the picketing.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I thought you’d be pissed and never want to see me again.”

Jamal slowly exhaled. Silly but kind of hopeful. At least Trevor seemed to care.

There were only two chairs in the room. One was over by a screen that probably blocked a kitchenette and one in front of the dressing table. Jamal pointed. “Okay if I sit?”

Trevor nodded.

The pretty, dainty chair creaked a little under his weight, but it held. Tougher than it looked—just like Trevor. “I don’t get how this happened. You know I’m gay and on the Diablos. Are you trying to tell me to come out?”

He shook his head. “No. I worked hard enough to help you stay in the closet, didn’t I?”

“Yeah. That’s why I don’t get it.”

“I thought up this idea last year before I met you.” He shrugged. “You’ve got to admit, it’s a pretty great campaign. Anyway, the other members of the LGBT Alliance wanted to do it. I tried to talk them into waiting for basketball, but they said football was the most homophobic and we had to start with that.”

“Why did you have to join in? Couldn’t they have done it without you?”

He sighed. “I’m president of the organization. It was my idea. Short of admitting our relationship, which I figured you wouldn’t want, I had to show up. I thought the season would be over and you’d never know.”

“You should have told me.”

“Yeah, I guess. But I’m used to keeping things to myself. I didn’t realize it was causing so much trouble.”

“Some of the players are really pissed because they think it makes the team look bad. Boogie’s one of them.”

“What an asshole.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“Not too much. Mostly my pride. He might have punched me if you didn’t come along.” He shook his shoulders like it would get rid of the feel of Boogaloo’s big paws. He glanced up. “I’m sorry I made it harder for you.”

“But that’s kind of what your campaign’s about, right? Making it harder for guys like me to stay in the closet?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know it would work so well.” His lips turned up a tiny fraction.

Jamal sighed. “Your campaign’s actually a great idea. I’d be rooting for it if it didn’t make life inconvenient for me.” Which was cowardly crap.

Quiet.

Jamal cleared his throat. “I really like your place.”

Trev gave a half smile. “Because it’s weird like me?”

“Yeah. Exactly.” He laughed.

“I could live in the dorms. My scholarship would pay. But it’s tough to hide your evening gowns in a place with two roommates.”

“Why do you have to hide them?”

A flash of pain made his pretty face harsh. “Because I’m a fraud. I pretend to be this serious guy who’s a credit to the LGBT community when I’m actually a flaming queen.”

“What makes you think Trixie isn’t a credit to the LGBT community?”

Trev glanced at Jamal like he was being purposefully dense. “You know what most gay men think of queens. They wish we’d vanish from the planet.” He dropped his cheek in one hand. “Plus I’ve got this really good scholarship, and I can assure you, they’d never give the money to Trixie. I’m their token gay. The perfect example of what a homosexual should be, in their opinion. Smart, serious, and masculine.”

“That’s crap. It’s all crap. Trixie and you are the same person. There’s not one without the other.”

He looked up without moving his head. “You really like her, don’t you?”

“She’s the part of you I knew first. I love Trixie.”

That word hung there.
Not taking it back
.

“Jamal?”

“Yeah.”

“I really don’t want to lose you.”

The smile spread across Jamal’s face like warm sunshine. “I don’t want to lose you either.”

Trevor sat up. “Do you still want to take me to the party?”

Jamal shifted on the small chair. “About that. I’m not comfortable with asking you to help me lie to the team. I’m sorry I did it before. It’s not fair to you. I’m going to tell them that we broke up.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t like that idea?”

“Lavinda will be all over you the second she thinks you’re free.”

“I hadn’t thought about that.” He shrugged. “But I can make some excuse to get her off me.”

“Good luck with that.” Trevor wound a lock of golden hair around his finger and stared at his blue bedspread, then looked slowly up at Jamal. “Tonight’s real important to you, right?”

Was it? “I guess so. Arondel owns the team, and he included me in his ‘favorite players,’ so I guess this is a good thing.”

“And he asked you to bring me.”

“Trixie.”

“Yes, me.”

“Yes.”

“So I think Trixie should show up.”

He sighed. “It’s great of you, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to tell the coach I’m gay—or bi or whatever. I don’t like the hiding. Even my dad’s ashamed of me.”

“No, he’s not.”

Jamal shrugged. “Well, maybe not ashamed, but not real happy.”

Trevor leaned forward, and his serious blue eyes connected with Jamal’s. “Listen, this is a pot”—he pointed to himself—“about to call this kettle”—he gestured toward Jamal—“black.”

Jamal grinned. “Which in my case is highly appropriate.”

Trev tried not to smile. “Seriously, you’re a smart, honest, capable guy. You need to do shit for yourself, not anybody else. Even me. Or your father.”

That took his breath away.

“Sorry. I’ve got so little room to talk, I should just shut up.”

“No. No. Thanks.” That needed thinking.

Trevor stood up, walked over to a small dresser, and picked up the tiny purse he sometimes carried as Trixie. With a snap, he opened it, looked inside, then closed it. He fished the cell phone from his pocket, opened the purse and put it inside, then turned to Jamal. “I propose Trixie comes with you to the party so you get your brownie points. After that, if you decide to come out, just tell your coach I’m a friend who agreed to make you look het. You know, a beard.”