7 Cutter #2
I squeeze the phone for several minutes after the call ends, willing my mind to still. Maybe I should watch a few affirmation videos. Focus on the positive. I finish my burger while I scroll through YouTube, but my mind isn’t on hearing what my current transits mean or where my moon is today.
I keep picturing him.
That daring smirk…
Those full lips wrapped around his finger…
The way that damned dragon moved when he danced…
That single drop of precum…
Why is my mind doing this to me? I do not need this. I finally got everything working right. Maybe not perfect, but as perfect as I could ever hope for.
I don’t need someone like Aubie Gauthier fucking things up.
And I sure don’t need the drama of questioning my sexuality.
I like women.
Well, maybe a lot less than I used to. But that’s more a trust thing than actual preference. The truth is, I don’t want anyone. Things are a lot less complicated that way.
I cling to that thought as I finish my dinner and switch off the TV and make my way to the bathroom to jump in the shower.
Cold.
Just the way I need it.
And later, when those unwanted thoughts try to worm their way back into my mind as I lie down, I push them away again.
I’m stronger than this.
? ? ?
I look over the spread of plastic bags on my kitchen table and grimace.
I might have overdone the stocking up assignment on today’s agenda.
Half of it will probably go bad before I have a chance to eat it, but I was on a roll and tired of coming home to an empty fridge.
My mother used to call it retail therapy. At least it kept my mind occupied.
I dive into the task of finding space in the cramped kitchen to store everything I bought when someone starts pounding on the door.
At first I ignore it, figuring it’s one of those annoying internet salespeople.
They come by at least once a week trying to get me to switch to their service, and no matter how many times I tell them I’m not interested, they keep coming back. They’ll give up and go away any minute.
But then I hear a voice that makes my blood run cold.
No. He did not come here.
“Come on, Cutter. I know you’re in there. I saw your old truck.”
I think about the Busa stashed in the garage I rent downstairs. Good thing he doesn’t know about that.
I’d like to think he’d be like the salespeople and give up and go away, but I know better. Obnoxious persistence is his super power. Like a tick under the skin, that’s how he sucks the life out of whatever he wants…until it doesn’t serve him anymore.
Plus he’s making enough noise out there to wake the dead. It’s only a matter of time before one of the neighbors says something.
I stomp across the room and wrench open the door, glaring daggers at him.
I haven’t seen him in nearly two years. His brown hair is streaked with fake sun, no doubt professionally styled to get that nonchalant fuckboy look he cultivates.
Might as well make it a marketable commodity.
He’s got our mother’s eyes–Caribbean blue–a weapon he uses indiscriminately to win arguments and break hearts.
In fact, every natural asset he’s been given, from his camera-ready looks to his innate talent, he’s weaponized for maximum impact.
He should have been born with a warning label.
Even if I didn’t know him I would hate him on sight.
“What the fuck do you want?”
He flashes a blinding, made-for-television smile. For someone as devious as him, he sure is clueless at reading the room. “Is that any way to greet your big bro?”
He tries to enter but I stand my ground in the doorway, blocking him.
“What do you want?” I repeat, speaking slowly so he’ll understand me since he seems to be the densest person who ever walked the earth.
He laughs. That forced, too-loud bray that he thinks makes him sound sincere. Too bad there isn’t a sincere bone in Callum’s body.
“Look, I’m in town for the tournament and thought we could catch up. I know it’s been a while…”
Not long enough.
“Can I come in? Or we could go out. All the same to me.”
The last place I want to be is anywhere near him, though I shouldn’t be surprised by his lack of situational awareness.
In his eyes, he did nothing wrong. He never does anything wrong.
Star quarterback since junior varsity. Big NFL contract.
Yeah, there was the career ending injury, but a month later he signed one of the most lucrative broadcast and endorsement deals ever.
He always lands on his feet and never, ever looks back at the damage he leaves in his wake.
I guess if you don’t see it, it didn’t happen.
“Leave.”
I move to shut the door and his eyes widen. Like he can’t believe I’m not in awe of his attention. He pushes out his arm to stop me.
“Are you still pissed?”
I bite back the rage that threatens to explode inside me.
“Fuck. Off.”
This time I slam the door in his face and lock it.
He keeps talking in the hall. “Guess I’ll tell Mom you wouldn’t talk to me.”
Manipulative fucker.
No, not opening that door. It’s not like I’m talking to my mom right now anyway.
I walk into the kitchen to finish putting away the groceries. Callum carries on for a few more minutes, which I’m sure is making me popular with the neighbors, before finally giving up and sparing me any further exposure to his presence.
For just the briefest moment I imagine a cold beer hitting the back of my throat.
No.
I glance at the clock on the microwave. It’s almost time to get ready to go to work. At least I don’t have to worry about running into my other problem since it’s one of Aubie’s nights off. I’ve learned to take my wins wherever I can get them.