KNIGHT
Chapter Eight
The on again, off again boner I’ve had since I walked in on Sullivan playing the oboe stirs immediately to life when he starts playing the cello. He’s still in the bedroom where I left him when I came out here to start mopping.
Desperate for a visual memory of this, I leave the kitchen to mop the hallway.
It’s hard not to linger in the doorway when I see him in the dining room chair with a chestnut colored cello between his long, spread legs.
He’s in profile, his hair hiding his face as he bends over the large instrument.
His elegant fingers vibrate on the strings as the bow coaxes out a melancholy tune.
It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen next to that one time his lips were wrapped around my dick.
It was hard not to notice the changes in his body over the last two semesters.
He went from what I’d have called an average, lean build to thin and lithe.
Both looks suit him fine, but there’s something about this slightly unhealthy looking, randomly tattooed and pierced version that stirs something deep in me, beyond my groin.
I recognize the feeling in my chest as yearning.
He’s just as impossible to talk to as he was when I met him, but I feel almost crazed with determination to get him to open up.
The music he plays might be a window to understanding him. Maybe a boarded up window, but still a way inside if I could only figure out how to use it.
I’ve never had much interest in music other than what constitutes a good beat to dance to, or which particular songs get me the most fired up to play ball or push harder in a workout. But I want to know what it means to him. Is it technical? Emotional? Casual?
To my amateur ears, he sounds like I think a professional musician should sound, but I really wouldn’t know, so I hesitate to compliment him on his playing.
His head turns, and he notices me creeping on him. His bow comes to a stop, and the house goes quiet.
“Um. I need to get this room, too,” I say.
“Let me get my stuff out of it.”
“I can work around it. You don’t have to stop.”
“It’s fine.” He’s already standing up and collapsing the pin at the base of his cello.
“I wasn’t trying to interrupt. I was just listening.”
“Yeah? What’d you think?”
“Did that song have a name?”
“I was just messing around.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Sullivan “messing around” on the cello sounded a hell of a lot like the kind of performance you’re supposed to wear a suit to. I help him clear the room out by grabbing the couch cushions and the chair, leaving him to gather his own things.
He mentions going home again, and again, I talk him out of it. Convincing him to stay is a little easier this time. The golden hour happening outside the windows portends sunset, and I make it a point to gesture at the large cello case and remind him I’ve got my car and another set of hands.
He claims he made it through the woods in one trip, but when I tell him I’ve got hot dogs, he shrugs and says, “Fine.”
Without knowing what kind of shape this house would be in, I brought a few more supplies than I normally would for one of my house sitting nights. I have a bin in the trunk of my SUV with some camping supplies, including a propane stove, but the electric stove in the house, while shitty, works.
Once I’m done mopping, and while Sullivan is at the dining table, drawing music notes on the papers he brought with him, which are all preprinted with musical staffs, I bring in my cooler and my bin.
His violin is beside him on the table. Occasionally, he glances at it and plucks a string before returning his attention to the pages.
I don’t ask him about it even though my questions are piling up. But while I’m waiting for a pot of water to boil, I do watch him. Watch might be the wrong word. Stare. I stare at him like a creep.
When the hot dogs are ready, I put two on a plate for him and four for myself. I open a bag of potato chips, put it on the table, and set out ketchup and mustard bottles.
The only drinks I brought are beer and water.
Sullivan wants a beer, so I bring those and the hot dogs to the table, sitting across from him. He eyes my plate and then meets my eyes with a question.
“I’m a growing boy,” I say. My dick? Also growing again, and I adjust it beneath the table. He takes one of his hot dogs out of the bun and puts a small handful of chips on his plate. Then he takes a sip of his beer.
“So, what are your plans for the summer?” I ask.
“Well, I flunked algebra, so I’m mainly avoiding thinking about that.”
“Damn. Can you retake it in a summer session?”
“That’s the plan, but I don’t really see how I can figure out in six weeks what I wasn’t able to figure out in four months.”
“Any specific part of it you struggled with?”
He takes a small bite of his hot dog bun and shakes his head. “Most of it went over my head. I’m not a math person.”
I swallow half a hot dog in a big bite and inform him, “I’m kind of a math person.”
“Good for you.”
So, he still makes me nervous. Mostly he’s polite, but he’s also dismissive enough that I’m constantly waiting for him to tell me to fuck off. I don’t have a lot to lose out here in the woods, though, so I say, “I mean I could help if you want.”
He tears off another piece of bun and puts it in his mouth. “Why would you do that?”
Why does he keep asking me why?
“Because I don’t have many plans for the summer, I’m good at algebra, and I’m offering.”
“What would that look like? Like you want to tutor me, or you’ll take my tests for me?”
My answer hints at my desperation that he’ll take me up on this offer. “Whatever you want.”
“I was kidding,” he says flatly, switching back to his beer and draining half of it.
“Kidding about flunking algebra?”
“No, that really happened.”
“What about your other classes?” I ask.
“I managed to pass. So, you’re a football dynasty and a mathlete?”
“I’m just good at school.”
“Everyone likes you, too, I’m assuming,” he says.
My face and neck heat. “Not necessarily everyone.”
“If you’re talking about me, I do still like you. I doubt you were worried about that, but in case you were, don’t be.”
“I was,” I admit.
“Not sure why it would matter.”
“Because I like you.”
He gives me a look I can’t interpret as anything but exhausted. “Okay.”
I’m surprised he doesn’t ask why again, but maybe I’m making progress. In an effort to get my boner to relent, I ask, “How’d you meet your girlfriend?”
“She was in my music theory class.”
“Is she a musician, too?”
“She plays cello.”
“Does she want to do it, like, professionally?”
“Not anymore. Half of what they’re trying to beat out of all the musicians is the desire to pursue a performance career.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because USM isn’t exactly Juilliard.”
Out of curiosity, I ask, “Is there some reason you’re not at Juilliard?”
“My resume sucks, and at USM I’m on sort of a scholarship.”
“What’s a ‘sort of’ scholarship?”
“It’s like a private thing,” he says before draining the rest of his beer.
“You want another?”
“Sure.”
“Are you gonna eat a hot dog?”
“I don’t eat meat, and I’m not really hungry.”
I doubt the part about him being hungry. He’s been here for I don’t know how many hours, he’s six-feet tall, and probably doesn’t weigh a hundred and seventy pounds. His body has to want more than half a hot dog bun, but I don’t press. Maybe he had a protein bar when I wasn’t looking.
I get him another beer from the cooler and inhale a second hot dog because I’m starving. “I hope I’m not ruining this place for you.”
He shrugs. “What do you think about it?”
“It feels like I’m about a thousand miles away from home.”
“Do you know how long it’s been abandoned?” he asks.
“No. How long?”
He shrugs. “Thought you might know since your mom’s company owns it now.”
“Oh. No.”
He says, “As far as I know, no one’s ever lived here, but I only found it about ten years ago. It was already falling apart by then, so I figure at least twenty years, but who knows.”
“Want me to find out?”
He shakes his head. “No. I like the mystery. It’s okay that I’m here, right?”
It’s more than okay by me. Then I realize he’s done it again. He’s changed the subject entirely from my question about the girlfriend. “Yeah. It’s fine. Circling back,” I say. “How long have you and your girlfriend been together?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Curious. I’ve never been part of a couple before. I guess I’m wondering how it’s going. Do you like it?”
“I like her.”
“Have you had a girlfriend before?”
“No.”
“What’s it like?” I ask.
He frowns like it’s a weird question. Maybe it is.
“I mean…I don’t know. She’s like a friend who sits really close to me and always answers my texts and expects me to answer hers in a timely manner. Like a friend you can’t ignore, I guess.”
“Do you—” I shut myself up. One, because I don’t know how to ask what I want to ask, and two, because I shouldn’t. It’s intrusive and none of my business at all.
“Have sex?” he asks. “Yeah.”
This time, I do blush. It’s like my blood doesn’t know what to do.
I can practically feel my bone marrow trying to make more cells, both to redden my face and engorge my dick.
“So do you have it all figured out yet?” I ask, harkening back to that conversation in the woods that night, which I remember all too well.
“Are you asking about my sexuality?”
Jesus. He really knows how to make a man uncomfortable. “I guess I am.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Still?”
He gives me a strange smile. It’s almost pitying.
Like I’m the one who doesn’t know who I am when he’s the one saying he doesn’t know whether he prefers men or women or knows for a fact he likes both.
“You’re acting like your relationship with your own sexuality doesn’t fuck with you at all,” he says.
“I’m not saying that, I’m just saying I know what my sexuality is. How I feel about it might not be straightforward or even pleasant, but I’m not confused about it.”
“What’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you, Knight?”