20. Oliver
OLIVER
Permits pinned to my clipboard, I walk the block at sunrise and check every line again.
Barricades are where the city map says they should be.
The stage I built in two days sits level on rubber feet, braced, with a ramp and handrail I bolted last night.
Cable mats cover every run from the distro to the mixer.
GFCI outlets test green. The fire lane is clear.
Habitat signs are zip-tied to the fencing: Volunteer. Donate. Build.
Aqua arrives in a coat with curlers and a coffee, blows me a kiss, and steps onto the stage to check spacing. “You gave me two wings,” she says, pleased. “A proper diva needs options.”
“You’ve got twelve feet on either side. No gaps, no wobble.”
By ten, vendors roll up canopies. The candle table goes on the north end. Honey vendors take the sunny side. The shelter sets a table by the ramp with a jar and a list of needs. I tape a Raise the Hive QR near the front and test it.
Tom runs volunteers like a foreman. Anthony hangs the block party banner straight.
Bex checks the pastry display twice and shakes out her hands like a boxer.
Meg unlocks the door at eleven, and the line appears.
She moves like water behind the bar, sleeves pushed up, hair clipped back, honey lattes landing in a steady rhythm.
She keeps her smile even when her shoulders are tight.
I see it from the stage and I see it on the ground. She makes the room feel safe on a day she doesn’t feel safe. That’s what she does, just like Aunt Bea did.
Aqua warms up with banter and a clean run through her set list. Kids dance in front of the stage. The tile wall inside draws a steady stream. I fix a squeak on the ramp hinge and replace one stripped screw because I can’t stop fixing things when I see them.
Habitat staff run the raffle. I take the mic once to thank the neighbors and point to the donation stations. The numbers on the whiteboard climb in dry-erase strokes—tiles, drinks, candles, Habitat pledges. It’s good for business. It’s good for the street.
It still isn’t freedom from court dates and a clock, though.
I catch Meg between rushes. I pass her a water bottle. “Drink.”
She drinks, nods, and passes it back. “Thank you.”
“You okay?”
She glances at the line. “I’m working. I’m scared. Both can be true.”
“We’ve got you.”
“I know.” The next order is called, and she’s gone again.
Aqua’s set lands hard. She does ten minutes of patter, a big musical number with splits and twirls around a post in the shop, followed by a quiet closer.
People throw bills in the jar and buy another round.
The shelter fills a second box with donated blankets.
The Baltimore Daily photographer gets the shot of the stage, the crowd, and the honey wall.
By dusk, we break down. Volunteers stack chairs and coil cable. I load the stage rails in the truck and log every piece back into the kit. Meg is still at the counter. She hands the bar to Bex and steps outside to breathe. Her face says the numbers are good, and the fear is still there.
We can’t fundraise our way out of a bad decision from a judge. But we can try. We can also carry her when the trying gets heavy.
Back at the apartment, after showers and quiet, Hudson sets a bowl of cut fruit and a pitcher of water on the coffee table and looks at me. Rocco looks at Meg. I wait, because it needs to be her choice to step toward us.
She sits on the edge of the couch, takes a breath. “I miss you. I miss all of you. Facing the world without you sucks. I know I said no touching until things stabilize, but I don’t want to do that anymore. I want to choose you when things get hard.”
My throat goes dry. I’m not sure what that means at the moment. “We’ll follow your lead.”
Hudson’s voice is low. “No pressure.”
Rocco adds, “No alcohol. Clearheaded.”
Meg smiles, small and sure. “Follow me.”
She leads the way to her bedroom, and my heart won’t slow down. Her voice is low, seductive. “Come here.”
Couldn’t stop myself if I tried. I kiss her first, and her lips taste like honey and mint. When she moans softly into my mouth, I swear it takes me somewhere else.
Hudson kisses the line below her ear, his hand steadily moving up her body until he cups her breast over her shirt. Those moans of hers go deeper.
Rocco laces their fingers. “We missed you, amor.”
He’s right, but that’s not all. We missed us . The four of us like this. I haven’t checked in with them, but I know it. I feel it. We work best as a unit, on or off the ice.
Shirts first. She peels mine off and laughs when I forget the hem catches. I help with her buttons, one by one, checking her face with every button like I did the first night. She’s so beautiful that it makes my breath stick in my chest.
It’s not fair in the best way possible.
Hudson kneels to take off her shoes and set them aside. Rocco pulls the blanket down and smooths the sheet. No one talks. No one jokes. This is different than how things got started.
This means more, because we’re choosing this moment, this place, this time. When we’re worried for her, and she’s scared. She’s reaching out for us, like we might be her lifelines.
I hope she’s right.
I don’t go anywhere she hasn’t invited. She tips her chin back to open herself to me, and I use my mouth on her throat, feeling her moan through the satin skin there. Hudson’s palm rests low on her ribs. Rocco strokes her hair back and murmurs, “You’re okay,” when her breath catches.
When she lifts my hand and places it lower, I follow the path and stop where she stops me. When she takes Hudson’s wrist and drags him back to her mouth, he goes and stays there. When she closes her eyes and says my name, I answer into her clit.
She tastes like heaven, always. Spreading her wide open with my fingers and my tongue, I drink every drop.
I suck and nibble, mash my chin against her for more pressure and a little stubble to add spice that makes her squeal and sigh and writhe on my face until she erupts. And then, I drink that down too.
She fists my hair and pulls me up the length of her body. “More, Olly. I need more.”
That’s all it takes for me to slide in. Her tight body is still quivering when I thrust home, echoes of her climax. The feel of her is unlike anything else, and when she reaches up for my cheek and stares into my eyes, there is nothing else. The world stops existing. Only her. Only now.
When she wants more, she says more. When she says yes in a voice that makes my hands shake, we believe her and give it to her. When she says there , we hold that pace and that angle. When she says don’t stop , we don’t.
I never will. I’ll hold out for eternity just to see her come on my cock again and again.
She comes apart with her hands in my hair and Hudson’s mouth at her throat and Rocco’s palm anchoring her hip to the bed. She breathes fast and then gasps and then goes quiet and shakes. We hold her through it. We don’t let the room move too fast after.
We keep going because she wants to. But this time, she moans, “Fuck, I need all of you. Right now. In me.”
That’s new. But we can handle it.
I pull out, and Rocco is on his back next to us, so I flip her over and sit her on top of him, giving them a second to connect and for her to adjust. He’s a big guy, so it takes a minute.
But once she’s there, everything else moves fast. Hudson stands, taking her mouth.
I grab some lube from my bedroom nightstand and race back. They waited for me.
Kind of.
But they slow down as I take position behind her. The lube is cold, but I hardly notice. Not with what I have in mind. I slick my shaft and some fingers. One finger slides up her ass without too much fuss, and I lean against her back. “Are you sure this is what you want, baby?”
“Mm-hmm.” It’s all she can say with her mouth full of Hudson.
I add a finger, and she tenses, but breathes through it. “Still sure?”
Her head bobs. That’s the permission I need.
I replace my fingers with my cock, just the tip at first. Her moans…
fuck, her moans. No sexier sound in the world.
I don’t know if she’s ever done this before—best friends or not, she’s always been private about sex until now.
But the head pops in completely, and from there, it’s on.
I plunge deep, and she cries out when I grip her hip. “That’s it, baby. Just like that.”
She chokes on Hudson’s dick, and Rocco juts his hips, and a whole new groan comes out of her. A symphony of sex fills the room. Their grunts, my own, skin slapping on skin to keep the beat.
Her next orgasm shatters her, and we have to prop her up to keep her in place. Her nails dig into Hudson’s thighs, leaving pink trails in their wake. Another orgasm scatters her mind; her body practically vibrates.
It’s enough to pull me to the edge. My balls throb with each stroke, but I demand they hang on. She’s not finished.
“Oh, fuck,” she shouts between Hudson’s thrusts. “Come for me!”
No clue who she’s saying that to, but it doesn’t matter. I lose it right then and there, pulling out to shoot on her low back. Rocco’s baritone shakes the walls as he bellows through his orgasm, and Hudson’s curse-laden cry finishes with, “Drink it, pet. Take it all!”
We breathe and pass water, and wipe sweat and other things from her shoulder with the soft side of a towel. Hudson pulls the blanket up. Rocco gets the window cracked an inch. I pull the extra pillow from the chair and tuck it under her knee because she always likes it there.
It’s quiet at first. But not for long.
She looks at us one by one. “I meant what I said. I missed you too much to hold off again.”
Hudson nods. “We won’t let you carry this alone.”
Rocco says, “No holding off. It sucked for us too.”
I feel the tightness in my chest unclench. “Thank you for trusting us. I’m relieved.”
She smiles, softer now. “Good.”
No time like the present to fix everything, right? “Since we’re being honest about our feelings and what we wish we could change about the past, please don’t ever make eggs again.”
She laughs and grins. “Rude.”
Hudson shakes his head. “He’s not joking.”
Rocco raises a hand. “Also not joking.”
She puts a hand to her heart. “Wow.”
“We’ll cook,” I tell her. “You run a shop and a block party, and a legal fight. We’ll handle breakfast.”
She snorts. “Deal. I’ll make coffee.”
“Perfect division of labor,” Hudson says.
We pull her close and she tucks herself between us. She smells like honey and clean cotton. My hand rests on her stomach. Her fingers trace circles on my wrist until her breath evens. Hudson’s leg is heavy against mine. Rocco’s arm lies across both of us.
Unconventional? Sure.
Do we care? Nah.
We stand by her in public and hold her in private. We are allowed to believe that everything is going to be alright, because we’re doing the work to make it so. Maybe that’s na?ve, but the world needs that.