3. Jorge
Jorge
You Spin Me Round
“ S omeone shit in my mouth,” I groan through my coma fog.
Holy shit, I knocked out so hard and fast.
Smacking my lips and cracking my neck, I straighten on Oli’s sofa and spot a blanket around my hips.
Awh . He loves me.
I snicker to myself and remove the blanket, scanning the single room for his body, but come up empty. Getting up and stretching, I feel everything crack in that satisfying way and wander over to the bathroom to piss.
I wonder where he went?
He’s not like most people that fall into a specific time camp. Night owls or early birds. He’s neither and both. So he’s probably at the gym or a meeting or something. I know he’s off work today. I’m nosey like that. When he first got the job, I insisted on getting his weekly schedule. It’s nothing amazing, but considering he was homeless and on drugs for years, this is a step in the right direction for sure.
Although, I don’t think I could ever work on cars like he does.
Legally, he isn’t qualified, but one of the ladies in his meetings knew the owner, and he agreed to let Oli come work under the table. His parents pay for the studio he lives in, unbeknownst to them.
More fucking secrets.
Why can’t I own up to it? I’d like to think I know my best friend, and with the strides he’s made with Eli, he has to be understanding about this. Right?
This sucks.
Eli has probably told him all about Oli too. Which means I’m going to be getting a text any minute…
“There it is,” I whimper and open up Phoenix’s text.
Oli is in recovery. He never said anything to me. Never said a fucking word. I’m trying not to lose my shit over it and make Nyx cough up his address. I know she knows where it is.
This is so fucked up, Jorge.
I don’t know what to do.
Part of me wants to pretend I never got the texts, but he can clearly see that I’ve read them—no way for me to lie about this. I swallow hard, grasping at mental straws.
What do I say? Shit. Shit.
Really???
Do you think she’d tell you?
Worst. Friend. Ever.
I hold my breath, scratch my head, and clench my ass cheeks because it feels like my bowels are going to fall out of my asshole.
If anyone knows where he lives, it’s Nyx. She was taking him to therapy.
Why does no one tell me this stuff?
Fuck. Gotta go. I’m taking Eli to his therapy session.
Relief whooshes through me.
I’m sorry, man.
Keep me updated.
My eyes water against my will because I’m unable to face Phoenix.
It was never supposed to be like this. All I wanted was to reach out to Oli in hopes that he’d talk to Phoenix. That he’d help soothe my friend’s badly broken heart. That’s not how it went, though. Instead, I came upon an equally broken heart and man. A man who I’d known as a kid and who didn’t have a soul in his corner. My hero complex is insatiable.
I’d wanted to help. I have helped. He’s in recovery because of me.
“Damnit,” I hiss and text Oli.
Where are you?
I hear his phone go off outside.
Shaking my head because I knew he wouldn't leave without waking me up first, I push open his front door and spot him eyeballing the worthless motorcycle he’d brought home a month ago. He’d sent me numerous pictures of it along with all his plans to spruce it up and repair the damages. I don't know where the desire to own one came from because he's never expressed an interest before. Motorcycles are Damien's thing.
“Hey,” I say, throat dry.
“Hi,” he smiles at me and returns to staring.
“Phoenix knows.”
His entire body goes rigid as he slowly looks back at me. “What?”
“About the meeting. Eli told him.” Obviously, it wasn’t me, even though Oli texted me in a panic immediately after it happened.
And currently, I can’t tell what he’s thinking. I wish I could because I’m sure I’ve got scarlet letters tattooed on my forehead that say guilty as fuck. “Oh. I already texted Phoenix.”
“You did?”
He nods, chewing his cheek and folding his thick arms. “Yeah. Told him I’m not ready to talk to him. And, of course, he didn’t write back. It’s so easy for him to claim he’s here for me and whatever fuck else, but when I push back and make it the tiniest bit harder for him, he shuts me out again. This is why I’m not falling for it.”
God, I’m being ripped in two here. I know that’s not true about Phoenix. I know how badly he misses Oli. “It’s different now,” I tell him, wanting to clutch his shoulder like I do for all my friends, but I don’t dare.
“How?” he demands. “How is it different from the countless times before? Where is he? Is he here? Is he telling me to my face? It’s not like it’s hard to find me. You found me. ” I don’t miss the crack in his voice in that last sentence or how his throat bobs as he says it. “At this point, I’m not sure I'd listen to him even if he did show up. I’m…”
“I asked your sister, Oli. And I’m sure he’s just trying to respect your boundaries.”
“And I asked for him to talk to me. Begged. He didn’t even try. Didn’t respond for months. But you tried. You tried, and you…you stayed. ”
Oh, my heart. “You’re my friend,” I insist. “Seriously, like you’re my second bestie at this point. Of course, I’d stay.”
Weathering his lip and nodding, he flexes his biceps and faces the motorcycle. “Enough about Phoenix. What color should I paint this?”
And like he always does when I bring up my best friend, he shuts down the conversation. I sigh and give in to him because I’m a pushover. Humming, I throw out an oddball color because I don’t like it when his mood darkens like this. “Pink.”
He scowls. “Pink?”
“Mhm. With little red kisses.”
That makes him laugh, and my chest flutters when I hear it. See? This is what I’m good for. No one likes a Debby Downer more than me.
“That’s a terrible idea, Jorge,” he chuckles, that sparkle in his eyes returning. “What about gunmetal?”
“Boring,” I say and flick my eyes to his. “How about green?”
He thinks about it. “What shade, though?”
Forest…like his eyes.
Ew.
What the fuck?
“Electric. Like a highlighter,” I rush out and have a mental check-in with myself.
Like his eyes ? Who even are you?
Brows furrowing and cocking his head, he snorts. “Nah. Too flashy. People will stare.”
“I’m sure whatever color you pick will look great,” I offer because I am so confused with my brain currently. Jet lag. Yup, that’s it.
“Too hungry to think. Food?” he asks, expression hopeful.
“Food.”
S ince Oli’s place doesn’t have a stove and neither one of us felt like tackling his electric skillet, we ended up back at my house after going to the grocery store. I made french toast while he made the fixings. We navigated around the kitchen in easy familiarity, having done this too many times.
And now I’m eating, torn between my plate and his mouth.
Something has happened to my brain.
I don’t think I’ve ever paid this close attention to his mouth before.
It’s easy to see where he got his features from—eyes from his dad, mouth from his mom. I had the biggest crush on that woman when I was fourteen, which eventually fizzled out and died once I realized how weird that had been. But Oli has her mouth. Plump, pink lips that wrap around his fork obscenely. Too obscenely.
It’s like porn…with eggs.
“Do you always eat like that?” I blurt before I can stop myself. “Seriously? How have I never noticed?”
Oli blinks, lowering his fork and chewing slowly. “Huh?” he says around his mouthful.
“Like this.” I do my best to copy the sensual way he was sucking eggs off the prongs.
Oli laughs. “I don’t eat like that.”
“Yes,” I insist, “you do.”
He gets a bite on his fork and stuffs it in his mouth. Quick and nowhere near as sensual as before. “See?”
“You changed it on purpose. That’s not how you eat when you’re in the zone, vibing with your eggs.”
Pointing his fork at me, he asks, “Why are you watching me eat?”
“I don’t know! But I did, and it was weird. It looked like you were doing something else.”
He pales a little and goes for the cup of water beside him. After a very long gulp, he sets the cup down with a shaking hand. “I’m just eating,” he mumbles, shoving his plate away.
There’s still a fuckton on it.
“Sorry if I made that weird.”
“Keeps happening, doesn’t it?” he asks skeptically.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, first with the bebe text. You’ve never called me that before. And then you got crazy wanting to hug me. And now you’re insinuating that I eat like I’m giving head, which, for the record, is not even remotely close to how I do it.”
He shouldn’t have said that. My confused brain can’t hang. Nope.
Now, all sorts of images are flashing through it at warp speed, blurring into one long stop motion picture of his mouth and all forms of genitals. Good lord.
I swallow hard and go for my water now while he cocks his head.
“I didn’t insinuate,” I lie.
“You did.”
“Alright,” I huff and flip my curls out of my face aggressively. “ Fine . I insinuated.”
“How come?”
“Beats me. Just where my thoughts went.”
“Been a while?” he asks, but there’s a tightness to his lips and tension in his shoulders.
“Yeah,” I breathe, leaning back in the chair. “Not that I haven’t had any offers. I just,” I raise my hands, “don’t want to. Getting lazy in my old age.”
“Well,” he starts, getting up and taking his plate to the trash to scrape it. “If it’s any consolation, I haven’t… done that in years.”
“YEARS?!” I jump to my feet, stalking after him. “Is your penis okay? Did it fall off?” I eyeball his crotch and realize too fast that it was a huge, huge mistake.
There’s a bulge.
Obviously, there’d be a bulge, Jorge. But I didn’t expect to see it so clearly in the crotch of his jeans. Oh. My. God. I’m staring at Phoenix’s little brother’s dick. Clothed, but still.
“Jorge,” Oli says, backing away from me.
“I think I’m losing my mind,” I rush out, finding the opposite corner of my kitchen to stand in while I freak out silently.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Oli declares, holding his hips and staring at his feet. “Just forget all about this weird conversation.”
“Agreed.” I nod adamantly.
“Good.”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
A nervous laugh bubbles out of me, and I slap my hand over my mouth. What is happening? What is wrong with me?
“Well. I have to…go,” Oli says and grabs his hoodie off the chair he was sitting on. “I’ll grab an Uber and…text you?”
“Okay,” I squeak through my palm.
“Okay,” he repeats.
He lingers, studying me for a few more seconds, and then lets himself out. I’m too freaked out to move, let alone breathe. So, I stand there in my kitchen for another fifteen minutes before I rush to my bathroom to shower off the weird funk all over me.
“ D evon,” I say randomly.
He and I are in the studio today, mixing some new vocal tracks over our existing instrumentals.
Looking up from the computer, he arches an eyebrow at me. His mohawk is limp today, the strands hanging down to his shoulder. I don’t typically have a filter, but I’m nervous to ask him. Nervous to even think about the questions I have. That doesn’t mean I’m one to beat around the bush. I like to rip the bandaid off quickly. So, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
“You're bisexual.”
He stares and fiddles with his thumb ring. I shift on my feet, squirming inside before plopping down into the chair beside him. “What happened, Jorge? Did you stumble on gay porn again?”
“No!” I blow out a breath. “No. That…no.”
“Well?”
“Why do you even remember that?” I ask, feeling all sorts of upsy-daisy.
“It was funny.” He shrugs.
“Unhelpful.”
“Am I meant to be helpful?”
I groan loudly and spin in the chair. It squeaks as I go round and round, refusing to ask what I want to.
After Oli left three days ago, I’ve had random boners. Often. Usually, after thinking about his mouth. My family is Catholic. My mom would die if she knew. And my dick is clearly confused, lonely, and no one has cuddled me in over a week. I can’t function without some sort of physical contact. And Devon is mean and doesn’t like to cuddle. I asked when I first got here. He looked at me like I was an alien. Besides, he says he’s claustrophobic.
I miss Phoenix. He’d let me spoon him.
I sigh dramatically and throw my head back. “Are buttholes all they’re chalked up to be?” I ask, staring at the ceiling.
“Buttholes,” he deadpans.
Righting my face so I can look at him, I realize he’s waiting for me to elaborate. “Yeah. That’s part of being bisexual, right?”
That makes him laugh, shake his head, and face the computer. Rude. “I’m genuinely curious,” I tell him.
“It depends on the person, man. Not everyone is into anal.”
Well, how was I supposed to know that? Phoenix is into anal. “Okay. But like, are you?”
Again, he looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “I’m not talking to you about my sexual preferences. It’s bad enough you know I’m bi.”
I pout. “Please?” Fluttering my eyelashes and giving him my best sad puppy face, he huffs and swivels to me fully.
“Why are you asking about asses, Jorge? Does some girl want it, and you’re scared to hurt her?”
Oh, that’s a great excuse. “Yes,” I say with confidence.
He rubs his tired eyes and blows out a breath. “Lube. Lots of it. Everything else is instinct.”
Well, that helps exactly zero of my issues.
“What do two dudes do then? If not anal?”
“You just said it was a girl. Why do you want to know about two men? Are you curious?”
“Sexually?”
He nods.
“I don’t know.” I fold my arms and shrug.
“Please don’t tell me you want to fuck Phoenix.”
“Ew!” I gag. “Never. Ew. No.”
“Michael?”
“Dude! I don’t want to fuck anyone in our band. God!”
“Just checking.” Then he flicks his eyes up my body as if searching for something to reveal all my secrets. “But you want to know about sex between two men.”
“Maybe,” I mumble.
“Again. Lube. Everything else comes naturally. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish these tracks before Lex screams at us for missing the deadline. Again. ”
“Fine.”
Because Lex, our manager, is scary when we miss deadlines…