Chapter 2 #2
After taking a deep breath, he cautiously opened the door, surveying his small studio apartment for any signs of damage.
To his relief, Creamsicle had shown admirable restraint.
Instead of taking a dump in the middle of the room – his preferred way of lodging complaints – he’d chosen instead to eviscerate one of his catnip mice and leave the severed head in Ethan’s sneaker.
In spite of his cute name, Creamsicle was an ornery bastard. A lazy, ornery bastard. He’d been adorable as a kitten, a playful ball of orange and white fluff, with big amber “love me” eyes. Then his personality developed.
Most male cats mellowed out after they’d been neutered, but Creamsicle had taken the loss of his testicles as a personal affront.
He’d held a vendetta against Ethan ever since.
Although he tolerated five minutes of petting a few times a week, each session ended with a hiss and a swipe of his paw, claws extended.
Ethan’s arms were so scratched up he resembled a crash test dummy that had been launched through one too many windshields.
To make their arrangement tolerable, Ethan convinced himself that Creamsicle’s throaty, grating purr was his way of expressing love and gratitude for Ethan keeping him fed and putting up with his shit.
“Creamsicle,” Ethan called out sweetly, navigating through the crime scene of dried catnip and cotton stuffing on his way to the kitchenette. Setting his bag of takeout on the counter, he filled Creamsicle’s bowl with kibble and made a few kissy sounds to get the old tom’s attention.
“Where are you, you surly little motherfucker?” he muttered under his breath.
Two orange-striped paws emerged from under Ethan’s bed, followed by the rest of Creamsicle as he wriggled himself out of his hiding place. He ambled over to his bowl, gave the kibble a judgmental sniff, then sank his teeth into Ethan’s ankle.
“Ow, you little dick!” Ethan shook his leg to dislodge Creamsicle’s fangs and nudged him toward his food bowl. “Will you cut me some slack? I had a rough day. Sorry your dinner is late.”
Creamsicle grunted and grudgingly tucked into his kibble. Content with their temporary truce, Ethan popped his lukewarm burger and fries into the microwave and grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge.
His father had called during his shift, and he’d put off listening to the message for as long as possible. He twisted the cap off the beer and took a long swallow to fortify himself before playing the message.
“Hi Ethan. I contacted the professor of your Entrepreneurial Strategy class and emailed you the name of the textbook she’ll be using so you can get a jump on your reading before the semester starts. I also included links to two of her TED Talks. See you for dinner next Friday.”
Ethan sighed and deleted the message. The fall semester was still over a month away.
At dinner with his parents the night before, Ethan had casually mentioned that the professor had a reputation for being a hard-ass.
Students who got an A in her class became the stuff of legends.
And now, barely twenty-four hours later, his father was well on the way to creating a dossier of Professor Swain to ensure that Ethan would join the ranks of those legendary students.
The microwave beeped. Ethan dumped his dinner onto a plate, ditching the soggy takeout container.
Creamsicle, having finished gorging himself on kibble, strolled by and headbutted Ethan’s shin – the closest thing to a gesture of affection he could muster.
“Thank you,” Ethan called after him. Creamsicle responded with a meow that was a cross between a growl and a record scratch before squeezing himself back under Ethan’s bed.
Ethan took a bite of his burger and carried his dinner and phone to the dining table that doubled as his workbench.
He’d promised to call his best friend Zane when he got home.
Seeing as it was their last summer before graduating and getting jobs in the “real world,” Zane was hell-bent on dragging Ethan to every gay hotspot in San Francisco as part of their Farewell to Freedom Tour.
Zane was also on a mission to sleep with as many men as possible that summer, acting as if sex would cease to exist the moment he entered the workforce. Ethan, meanwhile, was becoming quite an accomplished wingman.
He popped some fries in his mouth, scrolled to Zane’s contact, and hit call.
Zane picked up after the first ring. “Ugh, finally! Put on something slutty. I’ll pick you up in half an hour.”
Ethan washed down his food with a sip of beer. “First, I don’t own anything slutty. Second, I can’t go out tonight. I work in the morning.”
“Since when?”
“Since Bellamy quit to go on a cross-country motorcycle ride with her boyfriend.”
“Oh, is her broomstick in the shop?”
“It’s some influencer thing. Apparently there are people who find her life with Axel fascinating.”
“Wait, her boyfriend is literally named after part of a motorcycle?” Zane scoffed. “Never mind, of course he is. Anyway, I’m still not seeing why Bellamy quitting means you can’t come out with me tonight.”
“She screwed over Caleb and left him short-staffed for the busiest day of the week.”
“That sounds like a Caleb problem, not an Ethan problem.”
“Sorry, man. I can use the extra money.”
Zane huffed dramatically. “Fine. You owe me, though. Go buy something slutty. We gotta get you some dick. Toodles.” The call cut off with a chime, leaving Ethan shaking his head. What counted as slutty for a beanpole? It’s not like he had any muscles to show off.
That would be a question for another day. For now, he could finally eat in peace. Caleb made a better-than-average bacon cheeseburger, and Ethan savored every bite. He was looking forward to working on his newest writing project, a modern retelling of The Wolfman.
He glanced at the six-inch-tall figurine of The Wolfman on the table near his laptop, its claws grasping at the air, mouth frozen in a snarl.
The model would soon be given a place of prominence on his bookshelf, next to Dracula, Frankenstein’s Monster, and the Creature from the Black Lagoon.
But for now, he was Ethan’s writing companion.
He started each new project by painting a model of the monster, dreaming up ways to bring the story into the present day as the creature came to life under his paintbrush.
His version of The Wolfman was a commentary on hookup culture – how the apps gave gay men the permission to let their animal side out, to fuck and rut without any social niceties getting in the way.
After pushing his empty plate out of the way, he eagerly opened the manuscript on his laptop, fingers poised over the keyboard. Waiting for the magic to happen. Any minute now.
He stared at the blinking cursor, unable to get his father’s message out of his head.
With a growl, he typed fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck and minimized the document. He opened his dad’s email and clicked on the link to the TED Talk. No reason he couldn’t have it playing in the background while he ordered the textbook for his class.
It would make his life easier if he could say he’d started reading it. Hell, he might even bring the damn thing along with him to next Friday’s dinner, like the dutiful son that he was.