Epilogue
Malcolm
Four Summers Later
I find Ryan sitting on the floor of our bedroom beside an open moving box while he flips through a book. “And I thought my ADD was bad.” I sit next to him and take the book from his hand.
“Hey,” he objects mildly, but he leans on me, shoulder to shoulder as I look down at the page he was reading.
It’s our book. The one we wrote together.
It came out last year, hit the New York Times Bestseller list, and kicked off a three-month book tour where we traveled to thirteen states and spoke to packed auditoriums, signing and smiling until our hands and faces cramped.
He was reading the foreword Bailey wrote.
In it, she tells the story of the internship and the hundred dollar challenge in the wry, funny way only she could.
It ends with her, Ryan, and Miguel all being offered jobs with Marks & Baker, and Ryan turning it down to go into business with me.
It’s not a love story or anything, but you wouldn’t know it from the sentimental way Ryan gazes down at the words.
I get it, though. It was the beginning of us, of who we became—who we’re still becoming. Slowly, I close the book, waiting for him to object, and place it in the box with the others when he doesn’t. He sighs, picks up the roll of packing tape and seals the box shut.
I put my arm around him and check in. “You hanging in there?”
“I’ll miss this place,” he says.
“Me too. Good thing it’s not really going anywhere,” I remind him.
We’ve been in our condo for more than four years now. The first year, Bailey stayed in the complex until she was rolling in money both from her job at Marks & Baker and revenue from our show. She bought her own place—a dream house near the Painted Ladies in Alamo Square Park.
We’re not following her—we’re really not.
Except that when one of the actual Ladies went up for sale, Ryan and I couldn’t resist snapping it up.
The chance to live in a historical landmark was too tempting—too perfect.
The previous tenant was an old man who passed away.
His kids wanted to make a quick few million.
The house needs work, but one of the casual benefits of working from home is that we’ll be able to oversee all the projects.
We already have our studio set up on the top floor, ready to start filming as soon as we move in.
But this apartment in the Castro holds a lot of memories.
Mostly amazing ones. Since we didn’t have to sell it, we aren’t, and the next residents will be a lesbian couple who will fit right into the eclectic vibe of the complex.
Ryan and I aren’t billionaires, not yet, but between the two of us, we’ve made great investments as we’ve grown our brand. Those, along with the best-selling book, mean we can do virtually anything we want.
We had to learn a lot as we went in terms of being “finance bros.” Without actual jobs in finance, we were just a couple of former grad students spouting off on YouTube.
That’s changed. Our side hustle—if you want to call it that—is a sort of boutique investment firm, run by him and me, where we’ve taken on a handful of clients and put our knowledge to work, gaining experience with investments and yes—risk analysis.
We’ve made mistakes. We’ve lost money, we’ve made money, but it turns out, we do know what we’re talking about. Now more than ever.
Ryan is intuitively brilliant with the markets, and it turns out, I don’t suck at risk assessments.
They’re actually right up my alley since I have such a long history of taking risks, I guess.
It’s much more interesting when I’m dealing with someone else’s livelihood than my own.
I also hate the thought of someone not trusting me, and between those contradictions, I hit my stride and found the right balance.
All that to say, Ryan and I make a great team, which has surprised no one more than him.
“I was thinking about your birthday party when Bailey brought that stoner who made those gummy cookies in the kitchen,” he says.
I laugh. That girl had been so weird. I’ve never seen anyone more focused, slicing marijuana gummies into tiny pieces—totally taking over our kitchen for an hour and a half while everyone else at the party, including Bailey watched me open my presents—all of which were more appropriate for a bridal shower than a birthday.
Sex toys and lingerie. In my defense, it was all male-appropriate lingerie, but obviously Ryan said something to someone. There was a clear theme.
All the gifts went to good use, except the corset Miguel gave me. I tried it on and everything—in private when Ryan wasn’t home. It wasn’t me. I’m a pretty undies and maybe a garter man. Like I’ll wear stockings but not heels. Thongs, not bras. Ryan likes my nipples too much to cover them up.
“What about when Jill and my dad spent the week?” I ask.
“Jesus—why’d you have to bring that up?”
It had been a memorable time and not planned at all. Long story short, Ryan and I are stepbrothers again, and, as that’s a relatively recent development, neither one of us is quite sure how to feel about it.
One thing I know for sure is how I feel about him. “Even memory lane has potholes,” I tell him.
He turns in my embrace, burying his face in my neck. Heather’s managed to find me, and she’s stumbling her way over my thigh to get on my lap. Reflexively, I help her up. She’s even tinier than Stephanie was—and she’s one of my favorite earlier memories of living here.
Ryan got her for me about a week after we moved in.
She’s another Yorkshire Terrier, and we’ve had her since she was weaned.
I’d been so determined not to let her bond too strongly to Bud, I didn’t put her down for weeks and forced her to sleep in bed next to me every night.
I mean, she still sleeps there, but I don’t have to force her anymore. It’s her expectation.
Bud’s protective of her, though. He’s got a hell of a paternal instinct for a stray tomcat.
Also, I think he missed having Stephanie around as much as I did. Heather is her own person, though. She’s less needy than Kaylin’s dog—she’s more demanding. Ryan calls it entitled, but I say she just knows what she wants and has high standards.
He pets her now, even though she’s in my lap, and his knuckles keep grazing my cock.
“It’s the end of an era,” he says .
“Nothing’s ending, gorgeous. We’re just getting a better view.”
“It’s a good investment,” he says, like he’s trying to reassure himself.
I grin into his hair. “Oh, absolutely. The remodel will add a ton of value.”
“Yeah,” he sighs, his hand moving off Heather and onto my inner thigh. “A smart real estate move is always a good idea.”
He’s talking like we’re planning to flip the house, but he and I both knew when we stepped inside for the first time—it’s a forever home—like it was for the previous owner.
I literally pictured actual kids—grandkids—who will be obligated in our will to keep the house in the family—sitting in the breakfast nook, taking first steps in the bright front rooms, doing homework in front of one of the bay windows, sitting around a huge Christmas dinner in the spacious dining room.
Our friends, our family, our pets, making themselves at home.
“It’s a great idea,” I say, meaning the house, meaning his hand on my leg, meaning staying together forever.
“I have another idea,” Ryan says, his mouth finding the spot beneath my ear that never fails to send chills racing down my spine and harden my dick.
“Tell me about it,” I say, sliding my hand beneath the hem of his shirt to touch his warm, smooth skin.
“We should have some people over in a few weeks.”
“A party?”
“More like—a reception.”
My heart thuds. If our chests were touching, he’d be able to feel it. “Keep talking.”
“There’d be cake and champagne.”
“Aren’t you skipping a few steps?” I ask .
“Like what?” He kisses my neck. “Invitations?” Another kiss. “Decorations?” Another.
My fingertips press into his lower back, and I use my grip on him to leverage myself from sitting with a dog on my lap to straddling his.
It’s such a smooth move, Heather doesn’t know what hit her, and she lets out a huff.
But I’m not done yet. With my hands now on Ryan’s shoulders, I push him until he’s on his back, and I’m lying on top of him.
His eyes sparkle in the late afternoon light as he gives me a smart ass grin. “It was just a thought,” he says.
“Oh, is that what that was?”
“Yeah, but now I can’t think.”
If he’s referring to the way I’m slowly rubbing our crotches together, I can understand why. Our chemistry tends to burn off any reasoning trying to get in its way.
His hands are down the back of my pants now, exploring my bare ass cheeks and the satin strip dividing my cheeks. Do I always wear fancy underwear? Yeah.
Sue me. I love a silky thong almost as much as he does.
“You were talking about cake…”
“Right… Anyway, we can talk about it later?” he asks. “Maybe at dinner?”
“You gonna take me out?” I ask.
“Well, I’m not cooking.”
We’re gonna need to hire a chef. We only get home-cooked food when Deacon drops some off for us, which is about once a week if not twice. It’s the way he pays us for managing his finances. Plus, he’s a good friend in general.
“Should I dress up?” I ask.
“I have something picked out for you to wear,” he says, and if it’s possible, my heart races even faster.
“Sounds like an occasion. ”
“Depends on you,” he tells me, grabbing me by the face and bringing me in for a kiss.
“Oh, I’m a sure thing, baby. You should know that by now.”
“Maybe I need to lock this supposedly sure thing down.”