Chapter Thirteen
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
LIAM PILED HIS cart high with the same nutritious foods he’d eaten as a professional ballet dancer. Though no longer performing daily, old habits died hard, and he had yet to stray from the stringent diet his career had required—except for one vice.
Cereal. He’d always loved a good cereal, and a mega box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch was typically hidden among his kale, ground turkey, and brown rice. But he’d polished off the last of it that morning and needed to replenish the stock before his next craving hit.
The closest grocery store wasn’t much larger than a mini-mart, so he headed out of town about fifteen minutes to the next town over, where they boasted a full-size grocery chain. Still, it wasn’t what he’d call huge, and he’d had to order a few specialty health food items online since he couldn’t find them anywhere close enough he’d be willing to drive for a product or two.
This town, Culpepper, seemed about twice the size of Swan, which made it only slightly bigger than tiny. Most of Liam’s clients had found out about his new studio through the extensive social media push he’d been working on, but it never hurt to try and garner local traffic through more traditional means. He’d made sure to bring a stack of flyers and a few business cards in case an opportunity to post them arose.
Done shopping, he wheeled the full cart to the only open checkout lane. The clerk appeared somewhere around Liam’s age. He had pale skin with rosy cheeks and a nose that might have seen too much sun. He’d styled his curly auburn hair in an artful yet trendy way. What really caught Liam’s attention was his name tag, which read Jonah but had a rainbow flag sticker in the top right corner.
“Good morning, welcome to Food Haven. Would you like paper or plastic bags?”
“Paper would be great, thanks.”
The clerk eyed him with curiosity as he began scanning the items. “Haven’t seen you in here before. You visiting someone?”
“Nope, I’m just new to town, and this is my first time here. Hey, is there a bulletin board where I can post a flyer?” he asked, showing Jonah a flyer. “I’m about to open a dance studio in Swan and would love to hang a flyer somewhere.”
Two auburn eyebrows shot high into Jonah’s forehead as he continued to scan Liam’s groceries without missing a beat. “A dance studio,” he said. “In Swan. You?”
“Yep. Swan, Oklahoma, gay population of one.” He struck a pose and smiled his cheesiest grin.
Jonah snorted. “Holy shit, you’re either the bravest guy I’ve ever met or the stupidest.”
Thoughts he had himself at least ten times a day. “Probably somewhere in the middle, to be honest.”
Jonah chuckled. “Uh, yeah, we got a bulletin board by the exit,” he said, waving a hand in the direction of the door. “Feel free to pimp your business all you want.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“Dance, huh?” Jonah’s assessing gaze took a slow trip up and down Liam’s body. “You any good?”
The blunt question was all it took for Liam to decide Jonah would make an awesome friend. He had a friend back home with the same no-nonsense personality, and they got along like tutus and dance tights.
Liam shrugged and, without an ounce of humility, said, “I’m very good. I danced professionally in the New York City ballet for years before moving here.”
Jonah’s jaw dropped. “Well, dayum. Okay, now I’m going to be nosy as hell and ask why on earth you’d leave a fancy life in New York City to come to Swan. You fall on your head or something?”
Snorting, Liam shook his head. “Long story.”
“It always is.”
Jonah was cute. Not Liam’s type, but attractive nonetheless. Hell, even if he’d been Liam’s type, it wouldn’t matter. He’d thought of little but Tate in the week since they’d fucked that first time. No other man blipped on his radar. If he hadn’t slept with Tate three more times since then, he’d worry his libido had broken, but it worked just fine around the closeted small-town man. Too well, actually. Just thinking about Tate like this was getting him interested down south.
Not good.
“Let me guess.” Jonah tapped his lips as though deep in thought. “You have a big, burly boyfriend who’s a corn farmer, and you followed him here for true love?” He sighed with a dramatic flourish, placing his hand over his heart. “I can see it now. He gives it to you three times a day and would rip my nuts off for even talking to you, you lucky bitch.”
Barking out a loud laugh, Liam shook his head. “Not even close.” Though he could hope the three times a day would become a reality soon. “I did not move here for a man, though I did meet one here. But what I have is more of a… complication than a relationship.”
“Oooh, a situationship… intriguing.”
He snorted. “I don’t even know if I’d call it that. I’m sticking with complication. Anyway, this is not the time to talk about that. Since I did just move here and have exactly zero friends if you’re ever looking for another person to hang with, I’m down.”
“No friends in Swan?” Jonah made the phoniest shocked face Liam had ever seen. “The town that thinks gay people are a wicked urban legend? What a surprise.”
“Hey!” He tried not to laugh but failed miserably. “It’s too early in our friendship for you to call out my poor life choices.”
“Well, Mr. Complication, I am always open to making a new friend. How about this… I’m meeting some of my boys at a funky little coffee shop right down the street on Friday at ten in the morning. What do you say to joining us and making a bunch of friends at once?”
“Call me Liam. Mr. Complication is too long. And thanks for the offer. What’s your number.” He pulled out his phone and entered the ten digits Jonah rattled off. “Great, I just texted you mine. Just send me the name of the coffee house before then.”
“Will do.”
They chatted as Jonah finished checking him out. Liam couldn’t help but feel a genuine buzz of excitement at the prospect of forming a friend group. Back in New York, he’d had a thriving social life, and while he expected it to be very different here, he’d love to have something to put on his calendar once in a while.
Maybe he could eventually introduce Tate to these guys if coffee went well. Then, if Tate came out, he’d have an instant support group. It was so important to—
No. Oh no, you don’t, Mr. Complication .
He’d promised himself no less than ten times this week that he would not plan any part of his life around Tate. Nor would he take on Tate’s problems. If he started doing that, he knew exactly how this story would end. Liam would catch feelings. Tate would eventually realize he didn’t want to come out of the closet and didn’t want to risk being with a man so close to home. He’d break it off, and Liam would be left a weepy, heartbroken mess eating Cinnamon Toast Crunch three times a day alone on his couch.
This coffee outing was for him and him alone.
It had to be.
“YO, T, LOOK alive.”
Tate glanced toward Randy, but he wasn’t quick enough to catch the package of hot dog buns lobbed his way. It smacked him in the face, then dropped in his lap.
“Dude, don’t smoosh them. I hate it when it’s hard to open the bun for the wiener.” Daryl scowled at Randy.
And, queue homophobic jokes.
“Bet that dancer… what was his name… bet he could teach you all about getting the wiener in the bun,” Randy said as he cackled and slapped a hand on his knee.
Daryl’s face screwed up. “Fuck you. I ain’t going near that guy again.”
As Tate sighed and tried to ignore the twist in his gut, Whitney came out of their trailer with a tray of hotdogs and a few bags of chips. She looked cute and summery in her denim shorts and cropped tank, her long hair in a high ponytail. “You still didn’t get the fire going?” she asked as she set the food on the upside-down trash can serving as their table.
“Doing it now.” Randy hopped up from his sagging lawn chair, grabbing the bottle of lighter fluid at his feet. They didn’t have a fire pit in their trailer park, but an old trashcan lid did the job just fine. Randy had piled wood on it a few minutes ago. Now, he stood shirtless and in his favorite grungy cutoff jorts, squirting the logs with lighter fluid. When he’d soaked them enough to start a damn wildfire, he lit a match and tossed it at his creation.
Whoosh!
The stack of wood ignited in a rush of heat and sparks.
“For God’s sake, Randy, why you gotta make it so big? One day, you’re gonna burn down this whole trailer park,” Whitney complained, whacking her husband on the back of his head.
“Wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world,” Tate muttered.
“What was that?” Randy sat back down. His chair cracked as a few of the stretched fibers snapped.
Tate couldn’t wait until the day the chair finally quit and his brother’s ass landed on the ground. Not that his own lawn chair fared much better. He’d picked it up at Goodwill almost six years ago, and it was almost as crappy as Randy’s camping chair.
“Nothing.”
“What the hell’s up with you, man?” Randy asked as he hooked an arm around his wife’s waist and dragged her onto his lap. She yelped, but it quickly became a giggle as she settled in.
“What do you mean? Nothing’s up.”
“Yeah, you’ve been weird as shit this past week,” Daryl added.
Nodding, Randy said, “We’ve hardly seen your ass around here. You’ve been all quiet, sneaking in and out.”
“Guys,” Whitney said, shooting him a sympathetic smile. “Leave him alone.”
“You got a side piece or something?” Daryl asked. He popped the tab on his beer, chugged half the can, then belched.
“I don’t have a fucking main piece. How can I have a side piece.” Tate’s skin tightened, feeling stretched over his bones. He fought the urge to squirm under the three nosy gazes directed his way.
“No?” Daryl’s eyes glittered with evil excitement. “What about that one in Tulsa you been going to see? She got you all pussy-whipped? That why you’re never here?”
“Yeah, you ditching us for city pussy?” Randy asked as he reached around Whitney for a hotdog. He shoved a stick down the center, then held it over the fire.
Fire-roasted hotdogs with a strong flavor of lighter fluid are the trailer park specialty.
“Nah, that’s done.” He motioned for Randy to hand him a hotdog. It didn’t get stupider than giving up his cover story. All he had to do was confirm he’d started seeing this mystery woman in Tulsa more. They’d tease him for a few minutes, then get bored and move on to dumber topics.
But the lie lodged in his throat. It wasn’t lying in particular he had a problem with—he’d been doing that since his teen years—but denying Liam in that way, pretending he was someone he wasn’t, Tate couldn’t make his mouth say the words. The dick he’d swallowed last night sure as hell didn’t belong to some woman in Tulsa. It belonged to the gorgeous, compassionate, accepting, and sexy-as-fuck man Tate couldn’t stop thinking about.
Liam was on his mind twenty-four hours a day. The first thing he thought of when his eyes popped open and the last thing he thought of before they closed again—alone in his bed. They hadn’t gone on another date, Tate’s fault, and they hadn’t spent an entire night together. Again, Tate’s fault. But they did have pizza one night in Liam’s apartment and coffee the next morning in the same place. Tate had just gone home to sleep in his own shitty bed in between.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Whitney said. “Are you okay?”
“Done? So, what, this shit is you pouting or something?” Randy asked, waving a hand in Tate’s direction.
Whitney smacked the side of her husband’s thigh. “Randy, you’re so insensitive. He’s hurting.”
“Nah, I’m good. Just been a busy week.” He avoided meeting anyone’s gaze. Thank God he had the hotdog to focus on, or he’d be staring at his feet like a liar would.
Narrowing his eyes, Randy shook his head. “I ain’t buying it. Something’s up.”
“I bet I know.” Daryl pulled a charred dog from the fire with a smirk.
Tate’s stomach turned over, and his skin prickled like icy needles were jabbing him all over. Was this it? Had Daryl seen his car parked behind the studio where Liam promised no one would discover it? Had Tate let something slip that should have stayed locked up in his mind?
He gripped the end of his skewer so hard it pierced his palm, but he barely felt the discomfort. Every ounce of his focus zeroed in on Daryl.
“What?” Randy asked. “Spit it the fuck out.”
“He’s working on starting his own tiling company. Am I right?”
Oh, thank fuck. Relief pummeled him, leaving him feeling weak and wobbly. “That’s it,” he croaked. His hand shook so hard that the hot dog looked like it was vibrating on the end of his stick. Christ, he needed to get his shit together.
“This again?” Randy rolled his eyes. “You got a good job. Why can’t you just be satisfied with it? Nothing’s ever good enough for you.”
“It’s called ambition, Rand, and it’s usually considered a good thing.”
Randy grunted as Whitney chuckled. “He’s not wrong, babe,” she said.
“Oh, come on, what the fuck does he know about owning a business? Jack and shit, that’s what.”
“I’m not an idiot.” Tate pulled his dog from the fire and shoved it in the bun. “I can fucking learn,” he said before taking a giant bite.
“Why now? Why you gotta change everything now? Shit’s good.” Randy tore into his hot dog with all the manners of a boar.
Shit’s good. Yeah, for the married straight man who’d never had to hide his whole damn identity.
“Leave it, Randy,” Whitney said. “Why you all over him tonight?”
“It’s that guy,” Daryl cut in with his mouth full of chips.
“What guy?”
“This one.” Daryl lifted his hand and let his wrist droop forward. “He’s about our age and owns a business. Tate got ideas in his head from working on his studio.”
“The fag?” Randy gaped at him. “He’s the one that’s got your head all fucked up?”
You have no idea.
His nerves were already scratched raw from the fear of Daryl outing him. Having to listen to the man he was obsessed with described in a derogatory way was the last fucking straw. “Why do you two assholes gotta fucking describe him that way? You could call him the studio owner, our client… hell, you could call him that guy . What the hell does who he likes to fuck have to do with anything? It’s twenty-fucking-twenty-four. Why can’t you two cavemen just let people be who the hell they are? Live and let live.”
Whitney stared at him with wide eyes and pursed lips. Randy looked confused as hell, gaping at him like he’d grown a third arm from the center of his chest. He’d even stopped chowing down on his hotdog, which proved how shocking Tate’s tirade had been.
“What the fuck?” Daryl said around a mouthful of half-chewed hotdog. “That’s what I am doing. I’m letting him live. Hell, I ain’t even tried to run him out of town, and I heard a cocksucker was opening a dance studio before any of you. That’s fucking growth.”
Tate pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can you not call him that? No one calls you a pussy eater.”
Daryl grinned. “But they could, and I wouldn’t give a shit.”
Randy snorted. “He’d think it was a compliment.”
“Damn straight.” Daryl laughed, then focused back on Tate. “Why you always sticking up for him over us? You better be careful, or people will think you’re one of ’em.”
“Maybe he’s just a more evolved person than you,” Whitney said, arching an eyebrow at Daryl. She’d never been his biggest fan. Even as teens, they were like oil and water, even though Tate was pretty sure they’d hooked up a few times before she and Randy became permanent.
“Ain’t about being evolved. ‘Sabout right and wrong. But, like I said, I’m letting him live his life. I haven’t bothered him none.”
“Hmm.” Whitney cocked her head. “What if it was Randy?”
“The fuck?” Randy shouted.
“Whatcha mean?” Daryl asked.
“What if you found out tomorrow Randy was banging a dude? Shut up, Randy, and let him answer.”
Randy grumbled but kept it muted.
“Well, that’s easy. I’d beat the fucking gay out of him.”
Tate stopped breathing.
“For real? Be serious,” Whitney said.
“I am fucking serious. That’s what you gotta do. Make a negative association.”
“Oh.” Randy laughed. “Look who’s all smart now.”
“Fuck off. It’s fucking science. You beat ’em bloody, then when he thinks about dick, he remembers the pain and don’t want it no more.”
Christ .
Tate shot to his feet, drawing shocked gazes from the other three. “I can’t listen to this bullshit.” He tossed the rest of his hotdog into the fire and stormed off without another word.
He reached his trailer as his mother was leaving with a man on her arm. Jim Bob from the fucking gas station. He had half a dozen kids with as many women and at least three arrests on his record, most for knocking his women around.
“Hi, baby,” his mom said, already slurring her words. It would be a late night for her if she even came home.
Tate ignored them and stormed up the three steps into the trailer. He didn’t bother turning sideways to fit down the hallway to his room, instead letting the faux wood panels scrape the side of his arms. The pain did little to distract from his fury. When he reached his room, he slammed the door, crawled onto his bed, and shoved his pillow in his mouth.
He screamed until his throat ached, then punched his mattress until his knuckles burned.
Fuck his life.
Fuck his family.
Fuck it all.