TEN Hot Seat
E LLIANA
Well, that’s even juicier than I thought. I still need more information, though.
“Mind telling us who this elder is?”
“He’s one of the leaders of my church. My former church back in Utah.”
“Utah?” Jackson scoffs. “You one of those Mormons with a bunch of wives, kid?”
Noah purses his lips and clenches his jaw a few times before replying. “I used to be a Mormon, but not that kind. And we— they —don’t use that term anymore. It’s now called the Church of Jesus Christ of Ladder-Day Saints.”
What a mouthful. Noah sounds almost surly at this particular topic of discussion. I didn’t have a clue that he came from such a zealous and restrictive upbringing, but it certainly makes sense. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him curse beyond “shoot,” but considering how cloistered and ultra-religious those people are, it’s no wonder Noah was a virgin.
Still, it’s time for me to make good on my promise.
“Ask me one, Noah. Whatever you’d like.” His gaze alters from the ferocity he showcased while describing this possibly nefarious elder to something more reverential, but that’s not what this is about. “Don’t hold back, either. Just go for it.”
“Is there anyone you’d like to talk to, if you had the opportunity?”
The kid couldn’t know it, but he’d accidentally landed right on a sore spot. But merciless candor is what this is all about.
“Two people, actually. My parents. My mom passed fifteen years ago when I was a teenager, and my dad five years ago. I’d give anything to see and speak to them again. To hug them.” My throat tightens, so it’s time to move along. “Tristan, what would you say is your overall view on life? And why?”
The chef’s face slackens and his lips cinch into a flat relentless line.
“You can’t depend on anyone but yourself, so don’t try,” he snarls out quietly, but that snarl isn’t directed at anyone in the room. He’s bitter about something. Something that apparently had a huge impact on him. Tristan is older than me by a decade, and I’m guessing that his life must not have been one of leisure. I let several long heartbeats whisk by before I repeat my last query.
“And why?”
He’s staring at some undesignated location next to his utensils.
“It’s something I learned at a young age. Don’t look to those in charge of your care to give you what they gave their other kids. Not when you’re the last one, and not when they’re already finished raising their family.” He blinks over at me as if coming out of a reverie. “Don’t look for help or a leg up in life because there aren’t going to be any.”
None of us say a word to this, not even Jackson, the one who’s typically much more of a blabbermouth. None of us take a sip from our coffee mugs. None of us move to take a bite even though Jackson’s holding an empty fork in his palm. It strikes me how heavy this game of mine—one I planned to be lighthearted, sexy, or even silly—has become.
“Your turn,” I remind Tristan, causing a divot to appear in his forehead. “For you to ask me one.”
The chef scrubs a hand down his face, and as his features reemerge, he’s back to wearing his usual vague scowl. “What’s the craziest thing you would do on a vacation?”
“Good one,” Jackson remarks, laying his fork down and rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “Is it skinny-dipping? Please say it’s skinny-dipping.”
Naturally, he would ask that, and I snort before I can stop myself. Noah ducks behind his hand as he releases a tiny huff of laughter, and even Tristan’s scowl is less scowl-like.
“I’d say the craziest thing I’d do on vacation is what I’m doing now with you three. Scope out three men to have some wild times with.”
It’s true. But I don’t mention how difficult doing such a thing really is. Finding three men willing to hook up with me all at the same time? Three men I could have some form of insurance on that would make it safe enough for me to go through with? Three men who loved me, and who I loved?
Yeah, that last one’s a no-go. That’s why I’m settling for what I have here.
I turn to Jackson who’s openly smirking at me as he eyes me up and down, no doubt picturing me naked. Whatever. It’s not like he hasn’t had a bird’s eye view of the actual goods. And it’s not like I haven’t had the same of his. So, I eye him right back as I let my question fly.
“In a single sentence, describe your idea of happiness.”
His smirk grows brighter. “That’s easy. Standing at the front of a stage with Zelda and leading my own band to a sold-out stadium.”
“Who’s Zelda?” I ask him.
“She’s my guitar.”
Tristan scoffs. “You named your guitar?”
“Most musicians name their instruments, especially guitars. Don’t chefs name their spatulas and shit?”
Tristan straightens in his seat and glares down his nose at Jackson as if he’s low-born or something. “No time. We have presentations to make and patrons to serve.”
Now it’s Jackson who scoffs.
“Presentations to make and patrons to serve...” He imitates Tristan’s deeper voice and more somber delivery, then peers from the chef to Noah and me. “Well, la dee fucking da. Must be rough doing all that work with how far that stick is lodged up your ass.”
Tristan’s scowl darkens into a glower, and I’m quick to pin Jackson with another query to keep from derailing this train altogether. If looks could kill, the guitarist would be dead.
“Do you have a band?”
Jackson shrugs as if he didn’t just take his life in his own hands. “Eh, I’ve been in a few. None have stuck, though.” He edges his chin upward and locks his gaze onto me, his lips curving up on one side. “Can I ask you one yet?
“Fire away.”
“Most untraditional place you’ve had sex.”
Yeah, him going that way doesn’t surprise me. However, I have the option of answering whichever way I want as long as I’m honest.
“A tree.”
All three of the guys gape at me, and Jackson chuckles through his follow-up. “Can you explain?”
“The house I grew up in had this massive magnolia tree in the front yard with branches that were perfectly spaced for climbing. I spent half my childhood in that thing. Then, as a teenager, I quit climbing it as often, but I had this fantasy about fucking in it. I’d lost my virginity a few months before to my high school boyfriend, and I talked him into climbing up there to give it a try.”
“Did he give it a try?” Jackson prompted.
“He did. And he succeeded, though I didn’t come. It’s hard to get into sexy times when you have to balance just right.”
His grin flows from ear to ear.
“That’s incredible. Awesomeness squared.”
I take a little bow. “Why thank you.”
“And you know I would’ve gotten you off up there.”
The guitarist would’ve. He flat out would’ve.
“All right, lightning round.” I clap my hands. “I’ll ask a simple question that requires only a one-word answer, and we’ll go around the table with each one, all of us have to respond. Ready?” I don’t wait to see if they are, I just go for it and turn toward Noah. “Pets or no pets?”
“Pets.”
“Either,” Tristan says.
“Pets,” is Jackson’s reply.
“Pets,” I echo. “Favorite season?”
Noah and Jackson say “Fall,” while Tristan and I both react with, “Spring.”
“Pie or cake?”
Noah responds with, “Pie,” while Jackson barges in on Tristan’s answer by saying the same thing, “Yes.”
They each look stunned to have something in common, but I’m glad, even if it’s this minor. This’ll never work if the four of us can’t get along.
“I love both too, but cake is my favorite. Especially ice cream cake.”
Having learned more than I bargained for, we go about our own pursuits for the rest of the day.
Over the subsequent week, I take each man to bed with me based on nothing but my whims. A desire for intensity equals Tristan. More whimsical yet relentless means Jackson. When I’m in the mood to be in total control, it’s Noah. Yet even he, as my most unseasoned lover, has learned how to make me come without requiring as much coaxing or instruction as in the beginning.
I’ve been building connections little by little with my housemates as I get to know them better. This has extended itself beyond the bedroom, too. I notice that Tristan likes to keep to himself either in his room or in the kitchen while Noah has to work a lot of hours away at the firehouse. Jackson, meanwhile, is a fidgeter.
If he’s not tapping his fingers or bopping around as if to music inside his own head, he’s flicking the pendant of his necklace on stuff. As I study it though, I realize it’s not a pendant, but a brushed nickel guitar pick that resembles military dog tags. He wears it on a long piece of twine and constantly drags the thing along any available surface.
In the span of a single half hour, I observe him skimming it across five separate mediums. His shirt. The spines of books I have lined up along my downstairs bookshelf. The sides of his leather boots. The TV remote. And once, with deliberate suggestiveness, the zipper of his jeans.
Yet in the midst of this, Jackson stacks all the dishes in the dishwasher and runs it after every meal. And while he never makes his bed and often has his belongings strewn about his room, he vacuums and dusts the entirety of my house every day. So, I can’t condemn him for how he utilizes all his extra energy.
Jackson has a genuine flair for music, and I might even tell him so if he’d stop pestering Tristan. He’s lowkey about it, but I catch him invading the chef’s personal space more than once. Tristan keeps glaring daggers at him, and while I’m annoyed with their insistence on all this dick measuring, I steer clear.
I have no plans to get spritzed on during this testosterone-fueled pissing contest.
On his days off, Noah stays outside trimming the hedges alongside the house. I suspect the other two’s animosity to be a symptom of that. When he’s not doing chores, he does jumping jacks and other calisthenics out on the patio in my backyard.
He also performs sprints up and down the stairs as if in training for a marathon, showcasing that he and Jackson have their inability to stay still in common.
Near the end of our eighth day of cohabitation, Tristan again gives evidence of his proficiency in the kitchen at dinnertime. He’s stirring sauces, slicing vegetables, and moving as gracefully as a choreographer as he builds the meals from start to finish. He has a collection of pots and pans on the stovetop as well as something sweet and chocolatey in the oven.
I can’t wait to try it all.
Jackson has been leaving Tristan be all afternoon long when he wanders by the half wall next to the kitchen as if at random. With his acoustical guitar, he leaps right into the beginning riff of Guns ‘N Roses’ “Sweet Child o’ Mine.”
The loudness of it startles Tristan just as he’s retrieving his chocolate dessert from the oven. He jars the pan, making the confection fall into itself like a popped balloon.
“ Goddammit ,” Tristan roars at Jackson. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”
Jackson, for his part, seems genuinely confused. “What?”
“Why sneak up behind me right when I was trying to handle this souffle? It’s wrecked now, thanks to you.”
A souffle? Oh, shit.
“I didn’t sneak up behind you. Doing covers is how I warm up for my songwriting.”
“Do your own goddamn songwriting somewhere the fuck else, then.” Tristan appears as incensed as a moment ago, but he’s dropped his tone into something far quieter and more menacing. He’s like a skillet reduced to a low simmer but capable of boiling the second the fire’s turned up.
I’m about to intercede when Jackson peels off to advance upstairs, and any serious confrontation is avoided. But I don’t enjoy what’s happening. The last thing I want is for Jackson and Tristan to disrupt the harmony of my home.
I have to admit that in the fantasies that made me choose to bring these guys here in the first place, I pictured this utopia of companionable lovers who would provide me orgasm after orgasm.
I didn’t ever take their personalities into account, so I guess that’s on me.
But what am I supposed to do now that I have to deal with the equivalent of oil and water?