Chapter 2
Trevor
The redhead is trying hard to focus. And failing, if his increasing huffs of frustration are any indication.
“All right?” I ask.
He startles, as if he forgot about my presence.
Which is…odd. Most people stay on guard around me. Whether it’s my size, the tattoos, or the fact that I don’t fill every silence with chatter, I’m unsure. Maybe all of those things.
But he doesn’t seem intimidated by me in the least.
“Fine,” he says, a snap to his voice I don’t take to heart.
When I say nothing more, he peers at me, his blue eyes light in the center but ringed by dark. The freckles across his cheeks and nose make him look younger than I’m sure he is. His eyebrows are expressive, even set in a frown, the copper color the same as the windblown hair on his head.
My lips twitch, and those eyebrows draw together even more.
Huffing, he turns back to his textbook, highlighting a line every so often. “Are you an English major, too?” he asks, the words almost ground out.
“No.”
His eyes return to me, his exasperation and curiosity clear as day.
“Business,” I tell him.
Those brows pull together again. “Oh.”
“Not what you were expecting,” I note.
He doesn’t deny it.
Fire, fire, licks and burns.
Your hair, your eyes, your teeth.
Be it blue or be it red.
Consume me, piece and peace.
I jot the words down by rote, saving the new document as “Red” before switching back to my project. My tablemate sips his latte, letting out a sigh that sounds as despondent as his still-damp pant leg. When his phone dings, he makes a grab for it.
“Need me to take that?” I offer. “So it doesn’t keep distracting you?”
He looks at me with incredulity written across every line of his face. “What? No. Hands off.”
I hold said hands up, even though I hadn’t even reached for him or his phone. He shoves the device face-down on the table, glances at me, and then grabs it again, tossing it into his bag where it’s out of sight.
“There,” he says. “Happy?”
“Wasn’t bothering me,” I tell him.
He huffs, highlighter tapping against his textbook in a chaotic rhythm. I finish my class project but leave my laptop open, not in any hurry for once. I have a half hour to kill.
“Business major,” he says, as if he can’t keep his mouth shut. “What sort of business do you want to go into?”
I purse my lips. My business isn’t exactly…library-friendly. “Solo venture for now. Why English?”
“Why does anyone choose English?” he shoots back. “Because I love it. It’s certainly not for the extensive job opportunities or the cash.”
He says it with a ragged sort of resentment I assume comes from having to defend his choice to others. He doesn’t need to do that with me.
“Transcendentalism,” I say, motioning to his textbook. “So you really are acquainted with Emerson.”
“Um, yeah,” he answers at a snail’s pace. “Among others.”
“Thoreau?”
His clear blue eyes appraise me, bafflement there. But also a spark.
“‘All good things are wild and free,’” I quote.
His mouth opens and closes once. “Okay, how the hell do you know Emerson and Thoreau?”
I nearly snort. “It’s certainly not for the extensive job opportunities or the cash.”
He seemingly flounders at his words tossed back at him, but a chime on my phone has me checking the time.
Red eyes me as I close my laptop and collect my things. “You’re leaving?”
“It would seem so. You never did tell me your name, you know.”
He doesn’t offer it now.
I zip up my bag and stand. “See you Wednesday, Red.”
He turns to watch me go. “Um, no? Find a different table next time, Trevor. There are plenty of options elsewhere, and—are you even listening to me? Trevor!”
I chuckle at the indignant huff that follows me across the library’s third floor.
It’s briskly cool outside during January in Las Vegas, but by no means what I’d consider cold.
My sweater keeps me plenty warm as I walk toward my one and only class for the day.
The professor is judgmental and overly harsh, but at least I only have a few more months I’ll need to deal with him.
I’m so close to getting my degree. After nearly six years of working multiple jobs and busting my ass around classes, I’m mere steps away.
Of course my uncle would tell me the hustle never stops. You go, go, go until you die.
But I don’t believe that. There has to be more out there than survival. Moments to breathe. To enjoy the wild and free.
Although I won’t be the one to tell Rafael Slade he’s wrong. Not after all he’s done for me.
My class passes quickly, another project added to my never-ending list of to-dos.
On my way home, I stop and pick up a whole chicken, seeing as it’s my night to cook.
Right before I reach the register, I double back for a jar of olives, fairly certain my uncle polished off what was left of the one in the fridge.
The tattoo shop is as busy as always when I drive past it, parking behind the business in one of the few designated spots for employees. I head up the staircase at the back of the building to the apartment above, the one I share with Rafael. It’s dim inside, so I flick on a light and then another.
I drop the chicken off in the kitchen before heading to my room, peeling my sweater over my head as I go. My phone chimes while I’m tugging on a t-shirt. The text is from an unfamiliar number.
Unknown: Ten bucks for you to fuck a sock. The white kind, like what a football player would wear.
I sigh to myself before typing out an answer.
Me: Sixty and I’ll show you the inside after. 10 PM.
I send the guy—or girl, I don’t know—my payment information, not waiting for a response before I head back to the kitchen.
A few minutes later, as I’m seasoning the chicken for a hearty Spanish-style stew, my phone chimes.
It’s a different tone than before, one that tells me I’ve received a money transfer.
I mentally pencil a masturbatory session with a sock into my evening plans.
I don’t judge the requests I get. Often times, the videos are simple.
Me jerking off for them, maybe tossing in a name they want to hear or stringing together obscenities in whatever degrading or praising way they get off on.
I get repeat customers frequently, and word of mouth takes care of the rest.
All because of one guy I hooked up with years ago who asked for a video to remember my cock by. Not me. Just my dick. I didn’t take offense, and I sent him that video. What it led to is a fairly lucrative gig and a steady stream of requests I can accept or deny as I see fit.
Fucking a sock certainly isn’t the strangest thing I’ve done these past few years.
The chicken is on the stove cooking when my uncle walks in. He tosses me a nod before scenting the air. “Do I smell achiote and cumin?”
“You do,” I answer, clearing some of my schoolwork off the kitchen table. “It’s not ready yet, so don’t go getting any ideas.”
“Did you get more olives? Because—”
“Yes, I got olives,” I tell him with a chuckle.
He sighs contentedly before heading for the short hall that leads to our respective bedrooms. “Ace is with his last customer now. Shop’s ready whenever you are.”
“After dinner,” I call back, checking the time. If I hurry, I can get this paper done before we eat.
Fifteen minutes later, my laptop and books are put away, and my uncle is joining me at the table, stew perfuming the air around us. He groans as he digs into the chicken dish full of potatoes, olives, and spices in a rich tomato sauce.
“This is one of my favorites, you know. You make it just as well as your ma.”
My chest pings at the mention of my mom.
I never knew her, not really. But my uncle keeps her memory alive.
Not only by talking about her frequently, but inside this apartment, as well.
Her picture is on the wall in the living room, another set atop a cabinet holding the expensive dishware we never use.
I think out of the two of us, Rafael misses his sister more than I miss the mom I can’t remember.
I clear my throat. “Did she use the good achiote powder, too?”
My uncle scoffs. “You bet your ass she did. And if I ever see another brand enter this kitchen, you and I are gonna have words.”
I chuckle, knowing better than to mess with my uncle’s spice cabinet. “Do any good ink today?”
“My ink is always good,” he shoots back somewhat indignantly.
“You know what I mean, Raf.”
“Yeah, yeah. A piece for a client’s half-finished sleeve. You ready for your next one yet?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Not sure I have any space left.”
“There’s always space for more ink. You’ve got some room on your back.”
Not much, but I don’t argue it. “I’m good for now.”
My uncle waves his hand. “You just let me know once you’re ready.”
I hum noncommittally, and the two of us get back to our food.
Once we’re done, my uncle takes over the task of cleaning the stock pot while I head downstairs to the tattoo shop.
Ace must have finished with his client because the place is empty.
I set to work doing the nightly disinfecting, just one of the jobs I’m juggling.
The time goes by fast, the music piping through my earphones keeping me company.
When I get back upstairs, it’s nearly nine. My uncle is in the living room, watching the television.
“Turning in,” I tell him.
He holds his hand up in acknowledgement. “Night, peque.”
I huff lightly as I head down the hall. I’m far from a child at twenty-five, but my uncle has called me little one for as long as I can remember. I suppose some habits don’t change.
After washing up, I cross the hall into my bedroom, locking the door behind me. It’s not that I don’t trust my uncle. But some things necessitate privacy. This is one of them.
I can’t help but shake my head as I find the softest white athletic sock I own. Fucking hell. Puffing out a breath, I shuck my clothes and fall into bed, sock and phone at hand.
I have very little shame when it comes to sex, whether on my own or with company. But it still takes a minute to get myself in the mood. I feel almost guilty when a certain redhead pops into my mind with startling clarity, but not enough to banish the image.
Freckles are the first thing I see, floating over a sea of fire. Sharp blue eyes. An irritated scowl that has a smile tugging at my own lips. My cock plumps as I stroke myself, imagining the demands that scowling mouth might make of me.
But then the image morphs. The redhead wearing my sweater. A book in his lap and a soft smile on his face. I can practically feel the warmth of his body tucked against me, hot like his temper. Smell the faint whiff of woodsmoke and spice I caught off him today.
It’s that particular fantasy that has my cock rock-hard as I slip the sock overtop of it like a cocksleeve.
I hold my phone in one hand, recording as I jerk the sock up and down, slowly at first, a tease.
It’s a striking image; I’ll give the requester that.
My cock appears gradually from beneath the white fabric, the ink on my fingers a stark contrast to both.
The muscles in my stomach flex as I pick up the pace, my eyes on the spectacle through my phone screen.
When I come, it’s on a grunt and the memory of a fiery voice calling out my name. The same voice that couldn’t quite help but ask me question after question today, despite claiming to hate the unexpected company.
Propping my phone against my leg, camera still aimed at my cock, I slide the sock free.
My cockhead is shiny, a visual I have no doubt my viewer will appreciate.
I make a production out of rolling the end of the sock down so they can see what’s inside.
A pool of my cum, already soaking into the fabric.
I swipe my fingers through it, letting the cum drip from my fingertips, before finally ending the recording.
After a quick check of the video, I send it to the unknown number, beating my anticipated ten o’clock timeline.
My muscles feel like jelly as I put on some clothes and rinse out the sock. When I fall into bed for good, I expect to be out like a light.
Instead, the image of a redhead in nothing but my sweater plays on a loop inside my head. But rather than a book in his hands, he lifts two cum-drenched fingers to his lips.
The last thing I remember is him sending me a scorching wink.