TWENTY-FIVE Congrats, Kid, You’re Legal
J ACKSON
When I hear that fucking knock on my door, I almost rip into whoever it is. I’m so fried that I can hardly see straight. Can’t they tell that I’ve had enough for one day? Can’t they tell that I need to be alone?
But then I hear the soft melodious pitch of Elliana’s voice.
“Jackson? I brought you a plate.”
I don’t know why the likelihood of her doing this didn’t occur to me, but it didn’t. And I can’t pretend she’s not there. Not out of some duty to her as my employer, but because I refuse to be any ruder to her today than I already have been.
Fucking Christ, I can’t believe I let it get as far as I did.
I scamper off my mattress to go unlock and open my door. “Come on in.”
“Thanks,” she says, giving me a good ole once-over.
I’m in a pair of ratty sweatpants and a decent if plain sweatshirt, each in navy. I hardly ever wear the sweatshirt that I bought at the same time as these pants, but I’m doing it now. I can’t seem to get warm, not even after shucking all my wet shit and taking a long, hot shower. At least the shower put a cease and desist on the shivering.
Also, in spite of the fact that Elliana keeps her home at a toasty seventy-two degrees, I don’t feel like jaunting around half-naked right now. She sets my plate at the foot of my bed and studies me, but I can’t handle it. I tread to my window and glare out at the descending dusk as an excuse to not have her ogling me.
“You seem tense,” she observes, and only then do I comprehend how fiercely I’m clutching at the back of my neck while simultaneously flicking my pick against my sweatshirt.
I probably look like I belong in a loony bin. So, I force myself to drop each of my hands to my sides.
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah, I’m not buying that.” If this had come from Tristan, it would’ve been somewhere between sardonic and sharp. From Elle, though, it’s gracious. Even charitable.
I sigh. “What do you want me to say?”
“I’m not going to push you, but if you’re up to it, I would like to know what I’m missing here.”
Without facing her, I close my eyes. This is difficult to discuss.
“I have a phobia.” I wait for her to inquire further or simply to interject something, but she doesn’t. “It involves...” Christ, I don’t want to say it. “It’s when I end up in or come too close to deep water.”
I expect her to correct me or to question why I was so affected by a pool that’s less than three feet deep, but she maintains her silence.
“It’s the possibility of drowning. I...” Am I really gonna confess this particular weakness of mine? “I once lost someone that way, and now... Now...”
“Now your mind goes there automatically,” she provides. And I’m so thankful for her ability to draw an accurate conclusion.
I do an about-face but still can’t quite meet her gaze. “Yeah.”
She takes my hand, leading me over to the bed, and I let her. I even start to dig into the food despite it being tasteless to me. And that’s not the meal’s fault but mine. This always happens after incidents like this.
Not that I’ve had more than one previous to today.
Mechanically, I stick the food in my mouth, chew, and swallow until it’s gone. If anyone were to ask what it was, though, I couldn’t even identify it.
Elle has been rubbing my back, and it’s nice. It’s more than nice. I appreciate how she’s trying to help me. But then her delicate fingers trek over to my arm, specifically my left bicep. She traces the image of my tat over the fabric, despite it currently being hidden.
“Rosie wasn’t your mother, was she?” she assumes, and Christ, I’m so busted.
Yet, I can’t say it. Not out loud. All I can do is offer her another shake of my head.
She doesn’t continue this line of conversation. Instead, she sits next to me and lays her head on my shoulder. Eventually, we recline there together and crawl beneath the sheets. Elliana stays with me for hours until I slip off to sleep.
––––––––
T HE NEXT WEEKEND IS Noah’s twenty-first birthday, and to celebrate, I decide to go out and buy the kid something I doubt he’s tried before. Alcohol. While Tristan regularly serves wine with his dinners, the kid always asks for water or soda. So, I’ve purchased all sorts of mini bottles from the liquor store. Vodkas, rums, scotches, bourbons, whiskeys, and a couple of tequilas. Might as well make this day memorable.
Luckily, no one has mentioned my recent episode of mortification, not even Tristan. All I know is that I’ve been spending every second since trying to forget it.
Having to focus on Noah helps.
Once I return, I discover a problem. The whole house smells like— son of a bitch —a fish hatchery.
Okay, that might be an exaggeration, a slight one. But there’s no doubt that it’s something of the seafood variety. And that’s after I objected to going out for that shit extremely recently. Covering my mouth and nose with my hand, I march toward Tristan without getting any closer than I need to be.
“Uh, what are you doing?”
“Making Noah’s dinner.”
“And the menu is...”
The bastard smiles at me, actually smiles. “We’re having walleye almondine, lobster tails, boiled Alaskan crab legs with lots of clarified butter, and sides.”
“Why?” I ask him, feeling horrified even though I knew it had to be something like that.
“Because it’s the kid’s favorite,” Tristan declares, and my gut roils. “Why do you look so green?”
“Because I’m allergic, fucker.”
All Tristan does is laugh.
I’ve been around the pong of this crap long enough to make me nauseous and have to hightail it, so I burst out of the kitchen as if some miscreant set off a stink bomb.
As far as I’m concerned, he did.
Elle must’ve seen me skedaddle because she lights some odor-absorbing candles next to where I’ll be sitting. This is one of the many reasons why I’ve come to worship the ground she walks on.
We have dinner, and I manage to get by with consuming only sides that haven’t been in contact with any of the main dishes. The good news is that I can now concentrate all my attention on plying Noah with my fun selection of spirits.
“Time to join the adults,” I tell him, slapping him on the back. “You’ve had the sex, now on to the revelry.”
“Well,” Noah squints at the line of bottles hesitantly. “I’ve never tried any. It’s forbidden by the church.”
“You mean the church you no longer belong to,” I remind him. “Why not flip them the bird once and for all by downing a few of these?”
“I don’t know...” Noah purses his lips and wrinkles his nose.
“They rejected your family, right?” I encourage him. The kid nods. “Well, I can’t think of a better way to clear away some of that sting than to reject their principles. You don’t owe them anything.”
Tristan is throwing Noah some contemplative glances as if wondering if he’ll actually go through with it, but Elliana pats the top of his hand.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, honeybunny.”
“I know,” he tells her. “But you know what? Jackson is right.” He waves his hand at the array as if making some earth-shattering statement. Maybe for him, this is one. “Okay. Bring it on.”
“ Yes ,” I cheer, unscrewing one and handing it to him. I figure starting him out on the lowest alcohol by volume would be wise and go with the vodka since it’s forty percent.
He takes a miniscule sip and winces. Noticeably. I have to bite my bottom lip to keep from laughing out loud because that shit is funny.
“Ugh, what is that stuff made of? Battery acid?”
“Nope. It’s actually made from potatoes. Have some more. It gets better.” Noah scrunches his brows at me, but he takes another sip. “Here. Let me show you how it’s done.”
Hopping up and entering the kitchen, I pull down some of Elle’s shot glasses, enough for each of us. Pouring the vodka into Noah’s and mine, I turn to the others.
“And what’s your preference, sweet thing?”
“Rum.”
“Tristan?”
“Tequila for me.”
“Never would’ve taken you for a worm man, but I like it,” I goad the chef, smirking as he rolls his eyes at me.
“We’ll all do it together,” I swear to Noah. “Ready everyone? One. Two. Three .”
As a group, we knock ours back, even Noah, though he’s the only one who instantly chokes. He’s coughing and spluttering so much that I whack him on the back.
“There you go,” I praise him. “That’ll put some hair on your chest.”
“I already have some,” he thumps said chest, and he’s right. It’s a fine covering of blond that mostly blends in.
“I know how to fix this,” Elle says, disappearing into the kitchen and coming back with some different fruit juices, pina colada mix, and daiquiri mix.
Now we’re talking.
I’ve worked as a bartender off and on for years, so I don’t hesitate to stir up some fabulous concoctions. Noah definitely takes to these better than the straight shots, and since he’s a first timer, I can’t blame him.
We all get a little sloppy after that. I even steal the kid’s shoelace and tie it to one of the belt loops above my ass so Three Socks will chase me around the house. Four or five drinks in, Elle asks Noah if he wants her present, and he blurts out his answer.
“What I really want is for you to sink that warm treasure of your mouth down on my erection.”
Hot damn. Now it’s a party.
Tristan and I blast out loud guffaws at this. The kid has never been one for dirty talk, so hearing his squeaky-clean version is gut-busting.
Elle, ever game for practically anything sex-wise, proceeds to take him over to her expansive sofa lounger. With Tristan and I in attendance, she strokes Noah over his jeans, coaxing him from a semi into a full.
Then, she slowly unzips him and takes him in her mouth. She sucks him in shallowly at first, and even that makes him howl in elation. Then grinning wickedly, she deep throats him, and fuck me, now I’m as hard as the kid is.
A glimpse at Tristan shows him to be in the same condition, and without even thinking about it, my palm goes to stroke my cock outside of my jeans.
Elliana pops off him. “Jackson, grab your guitar and play something sensual and sexy. Tristan, demonstrate another striptease like you did for me your first night.”
I raise my eyebrows at that one.
“You used to strip?”
“A few years ago,” he replies with a stiff shrug, and while he doesn’t seem ashamed, this obviously isn’t something he announces to just anyone. But hell, we’re all in this together. It’s a safe space.
“Cool,” I say, to cover any awkwardness. I mean, hell, Noah and I have each had sex with Elle in front of him. His stripping to music I play is hardly scandalous by comparison.
I tromp off to collect Zelda, singing a song with a Spanish flavor and scintillating beat. It’s not long before I become lost in it, drumming my thumbs along the wooden soundboard to add some percussion. Elle does the whole bobbing up and down thing while her hand drops down between Noah’s thighs.
Is she caressing his balls?
Oh yes. Yes, she is.
And fuck me, knowing that has brought me halfway to busting a nut.
The kid doesn’t stand a chance and goes off in less than two minutes once she does that. Elle’s on the carpeted floor on her knees when she leans back and wipes her chin.
“Happy birthday, honeybunny.”
Happy birthday, indeed.
Noah looks like he’s been hit by a semi-truck but in the best manner possible.
“Did you like your present?” Her tone is coy, but his answer sounds sincere.
“It was amazing,” he pants out.
“Want me to do anything else for you?”
“I’d like you to do that again,” he says with all the solemnity of a priest taking lifelong vows. But then things take a turn. “And while you do, I want Jackson to take you from behind as we all watch Tristan strip.”