Chapter 6
Remi
The fruit hangs low, the teeth hang lower.
You bite, but who’s the feast, who’s the devourer?
The phone had been going off incessantly all damn morning. Last night had been brutal, as most Fridays were. I was used to working near a college, so it didn’t bother me. Except when I wasn’t left alone to sleep.
Glancing at my cell, I groaned. It was just past noon.
Six hours should’ve been plenty for me, but since I’d been woken up a few dozen times, it felt like I hadn’t closed my eyes.
Maybe this was me finally facing the consequences of gaming into the early hours.
It was the best time to catch Oli online, though, and Dean didn’t care if he stayed up on the weekend.
The only time he got on his ass was when he had school the next day.
Deciding there was no more sleep coming my way, I threw off my blanket and jumped to my feet. I grabbed a hoodie off of my desk to get rid of the chill. Running the heat all night was a waste of money, so battling the February weather was a matter of bundling up at all times.
The phone rang again, and I considered throwing it in the sink. Like a responsible business owner, I stepped over my cot and left the office. With a yawn, I picked up the phone from its stand and brought it to my ear.
“This is Remi’s,” I answered cheerfully. “You’re speaking to Remi.”
“Hello, Remi,” a woman replied. “Do you happen to be the bartender there?”
Her voice was smooth, professional but with a hard edge. I leaned back against the counter while I tried to decide if I hated it. Voices like this one could be business-related. Or law-related. Not that I had to worry about that at this point in my life, but it put me on edge.
“I own and manage the bar, yes,” I said. “Who’s this?”
“My name’s Clara Kessler with the Athletic Spotlight.”
When I laughed, she cut off her next word. “Athletic Spotlight? Never heard of it and not interested.”
“Wait,” she replied quickly. “I cover Major League Baseball features. I was hoping to get a comment from you regarding an ongoing piece.”
“Look, lady, I don’t know the first thing about baseball.
Not a sports guy at all, actually.” I paused, staring at the windows that were tinted to block out the light.
There were some silhouettes outside, passing by as usual, but one stopped and tried to peer inside.
“What does some sports piece have to do with me?”
“I’d love to explain,” she all but purred.
Gag.
“Well, get on with it. I bore easily.”
“Do you have some time for me to stop by?”
“Not for strangers, no.”
“You’re new to town, right? It could be good for your business. Being mentioned in one of my pieces is a pretty big deal.”
Ah, arrogance. How delicious. As delicious as an unwashed big toe.
“People talk,” she went on. “Things move to social media, especially among college-aged adults. Saucy stories are all the rage.”
“Saucy, eh?” I tapped my fingers on the counter while I thought about it. “Give me a hint, at least. How am I at all relevant to this story of yours?”
“Amir Darya.”
My mind conjured up images from two nights ago. Amir, face down, ass up on my pool table. Hungrily sucking down my dick. Shattering my control in a way that was far outside of normal for me.
Amir.
“Major League Baseball, huh?” I smiled as I looked over at the pool table, which had a distinct mark from his cum on the fabric. Did that make it a relic now? A tourist trap?
Of all the jobs the guy could have, I hadn’t expected that one.
*****
I wasn’t one for social media scrolling. Not in the slightest. It was the best way to rot your brain, and I didn’t care if I sounded like a Boomer by saying it. Oli hated it, too, and since he was working on his doctorate in psychology, I was inclined to trust his judgment.
But damn, how could I not be in the comment sections of these posts? There were four pictures associated with the article. I looked damn good in them, if I did say so myself. So did Amir.
Smoothie in hand, I walked with a little extra pep in my step.
I didn’t give a damn about screwing someone with a bit of fame under their belt, but I had to admit that the discourse online was interesting.
Amir, the sly dog, wasn’t known to be gay prior to this, although some people claimed they’d been wondering since he’d been hanging out with Travis McKinney lately, as if having a gay friend made you gay. People were idiots.
That guy was even more famous than Amir.
Openly gay, nearly two million followers online, and last season he’d spectacularly taken the Braves through the World Series.
There was a picture of him kissing a guy in the stands after, who I assumed was the boyfriend he’d been talking about. Roman, the one with the big dick.
Holy hellfire, all these men were gorgeous. It must’ve been nice to run in those circles, full of good genes and shit.
While I was in town, a couple people had stared at me longer than usual.
At least, I thought they had. It wasn’t like this was some crazy scandal on the Kardashian scale, but it seemed to be getting attention.
Add to it the fact that he was ‘spotted in the shadows of an obscure New Haven bar’ with a ‘shirtless stranger who appears to have recently drifted into town’, as the article had so eloquently put it.
Amir was in the middle of a public relations nightmare, in my opinion.
The thought made me chuckle as I unlocked the door. I did pity him the experience, but only for the part of his sexuality being forced into the light. The rest was a consequence of being a public figure.
I’d only been inside for a few minutes when there was a knock on the door.
Showtime.
I opened it and flashed a brilliant smile. The woman in front of me lifted a brow, as if my exuberance surprised her, but she offered a pleasant expression in return.
“Remi,” I said, holding out my hand.
She took it delicately. “Clara Kessler. You can call me Mrs. Kessler.”
It was hard not to laugh. “Alright, then.”
I swept my hand toward the bar to invite her in. Behind her, there was a camera crew. I blinked a few times as I watched them file in.
“When you asked if we could talk, I didn’t expect something so . . . professional.”
She gave me a sweet but underhanded smile. “Think of it, dear. We can give the world a glimpse of Remi’s.” She looked around. I expected her to keep the sour attitude, but she nodded appreciatively. “I think Remi’s can speak for itself, as long as it’s given a microphone. Don’t you?”
“Can’t argue with your logic, Mrs. Kessler.”
The idea of being on camera while I answered her questions made my gut feel acidic.
I wasn’t shy; it was deeper than that. Now that I was looking at the woman, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was meant to be more than a simple, informative follow-up piece.
If she was looking to smear Amir’s name, did I want to be a part of that?
“I’m going to change,” I announced. “Since I’m going to be on camera and all.”
“Sounds lovely, dear. I have a crew that will work with your hair and face.”
Fuck her. My hair and face were perfect.
I smiled before I headed behind the counter. The bottles were calling my name, singing a siren song meant to trap me, but I ignored it. Stress plus alcohol was never a good idea.
As I passed the counter, the phone was still ringing. It was madness, and the few times I’d answered it, I’d regretted it. Most people wanted to ask questions, which I had no interest in. One told me a joke about catchers and pitchers, as if that was in any way original.
It didn’t take me long to change, and since Clara apparently wanted control over my hair and face, I didn’t fuss with anything else.
When I returned to the main room, there was a chair set up on the other side of the counter, and two people stood next to it.
They motioned me over, and I tried to keep myself from scowling.
I swiped the ringing phone off the dock, just because I had nothing better to do, then sat in the chair. Immediately, a woman with fingers as cold as a ghoul’s fussed with my hair. My lip curled, but the expression didn’t deter her. Shame.
Bringing the phone to my ear, I kept my eyes on the woman’s, hoping it’d make her uncomfortable eventually. “Remi’s. This is Remi.”
“Hey, Remi.”
My smoothie slipped from my grasp. The cold liquid splashed over my boots and hit my ankles, which might’ve been the only thing that kept me from spiraling too far into my mind. Both women screeched and leapt backward, shooting menacing looks at me. I stood and escaped into the back room.
“You there?” the man on the other end of the phone asked.
I blew out a slow breath while I mustered my most nonchalant voice. “Yeah, who’s this?”
“Come on, baby. It’s only been, what, a year and a half?”
“How’d you get this number, Cole?”
He hummed, a dark sound, or maybe it was only portentous to me.
The last time I’d really talked to him was when I moved out of my house in Seattle.
It had taken a group of jocks to convince him to leave, then we’d all packed up my shit and got me the hell out of there.
Two months later, I found the strength to change my phone number, cutting off the last connection to him.
He’d come into The Commons a couple times, but Dean had been helpful in putting a stop to that.
Now that I was here, across the country, hearing his voice felt like being given a break from waterboarding. The worst part was knowing the torture wasn’t over, no matter how sweet his assurances sounded.
“You’re seeing someone else,” he said.
The damn article.
Suddenly, I felt like Damocles. I’d reached for the feast, only to find the sword swaying closer with every bite I took.