SULLIVAN
Chapter Twenty-Four
The summer is mostly a nightmare, although, it could have been worse. Adrian and Quinn didn’t organize a party with important people and present me as the dessert, which was my greatest fear. Quinn did have friends over, but as usual, Adrian wouldn’t allow any of his friends to touch me.
Quinn, however, was still allowed to fuck and humiliate me in front of them, but at least it wasn’t a gang bang.
Quinn’s Detroit friends are more like who I picture when I imagine the gay club scene.
They snort a lot of coke, they’re always offering me and their friends poppers, and I take whatever I manage to get my hands on when Adrian isn’t looking.
They’re harmless, but they’re wild and obnoxious.
Quinn always wants to show off for them.
They call him maestro, and it’s disgusting, but they all just laugh and laugh and then blow each other while I get fucked on the nearest convenient surface.
Still, nothing that happened was worst-case scenario, and having dodged that bullet, I felt like I could breathe again.
Until the day I was ready to go back to Missouri.
That morning, Adrian showed me several videos of a young cellist. The boy was in a high school orchestra in Detroit. He was around fifteen or sixteen, and Adrian asked for my opinion on his performances.
“I can’t really tell,” I told him. “Not with the whole orchestra playing.”
“Ah,” he said. “Then watch this one.”
In the fourth video, the boy was alone, and I recognized the space he was in. Adrian’s office in Detroit, which was the first place he ever asked me if I was interested in private lessons.
“What do you think of him now?”
“What do you want him for?” I’d asked.
“I might give him an audition when he graduates. He’s on the verge of homelessness.”
Seeing the innocent boy made me wonder who’d come before me, and if this was who would come after. And what would that mean for me?
“Perhaps when you visit in the fall, we could meet with him together. He’s shy, but I think he’ll like you.”
How had I not seen it coming? I wasn’t following the rules. I wasn’t satisfying him the way I used to. While physically I was there, I’d lost all the fawning admiration for him I once had, and it was naive of me to think he’d let that go without a punishment.
All I could say was that I would rather not meet him. Adrian responded with a hum, and he closed his phone. “Cut your hair, will you? I’d like you to look like a promising young man when I see you next.”
I agreed. I think I would have agreed to anything he asked after seeing that boy play cello in Adrian’s office.
I can’t stop him. I know this. But maybe I can buy that kid some time to find another way to have a future. Hopefully he’s smarter than I was and doesn’t fall for Adrian’s generous offers. Hopefully he was able to see him for who he is and smart enough to stay far, far away.
Adequately motivated and manipulated, I returned to school determined to make the best of the situation.
If he can use me, I can use him, too. If I fail, well, it’s like Chelsea said.
I have choices. She might not like all the choices I’ve decided I have, but either I figure my life out this year, or I throw it in the trash where I suspect it belongs.
The football team gets back to town about a week after I do in late July. If I didn’t know it from talking to Knight, I would have from the increased attendance at our sex soirees.
I have two returning customers from the football team.
One is a senior this year, and I think he plays defense, but he’s not a starter.
I don’t think he has any plans to go pro.
Not that we talk much. The other one tore his rotator cuff last season, so he’s been on the disabled list for a while.
I assume they’re both in the closet since Knight doesn’t know about them and because they show up here like clockwork—like they’re not getting any action anywhere else.
The defenseman has offered me extra money to fuck me, but I don’t do that, or I haven’t. Maybe I can’t afford to be so picky anymore.
I scrape by with Cs in both history and rhetoric, and the night before classes start in August, I ask Chelsea what she thinks about taking my business up a notch.
We’re having drinks together after a quiet night in the house.
Harrison is already asleep. She and I just finished a TV series we’ve binged over the last week.
We’re on the couch, sharing a blanket in the dark with only the screensaver on the television lighting us up.
“What’s the hesitation?” she asks. “Specifically. I’m sure you have plenty of reasons not to cross that line, but what’s the main one?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s triggering?”
“What if you think about it like rewriting the narrative?”
I can’t tell her I’ve already tried rewriting the narrative with Knight.
I ended my sexual relationship with Chelsea on the grounds of lack of interest in general and questions about my sexuality.
She doesn’t know I was busy falling for the captain of the football team.
I’ve had sex two ways—without my consent or participation, and with someone I care so deeply about, I’m pretty sure I’m in love with him.
Anything in the middle feels like a betrayal, not to Knight necessarily because we ended our sexual relationship, too, but to myself.
I’d be acting with consent, of course, but without feelings. I’d have a choice, but I’d be vulnerable, too. “The idea of mentally checking out during sex makes it feel too much like…”
She knows. I don’t have to say it.
“Then why mentally check out?”
“What other option is there?”
“Enjoying it?”
“Do you?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Sometimes. For me it’s all about being in the moment, but I also really like sex, so…”
“I wouldn’t be able to fake it, though. I’d need to use Viagra or cocaine or something.”
“Whoa…we don’t need to use cocaine, okay? We just need to figure out your mental block. The guy who offered. Do you trust him?”
“As well as I can trust anyone who pays for sex, I guess.”
“Is he gross?”
I shake my head. “No, he’s not gross.”
“But you don’t think you’d get turned on.”
“I don’t.”
She frowns.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s just—you’re a twenty-year old guy… I would assume it doesn’t take much.”
This is what it’s like for someone who’s been traumatized talking to someone who compartmentalizes everything. I love Chelsea, but there’s a level of empathy some people have that she just doesn’t. “I’m sure you would assume that.”
She makes a face. “Was that insensitive?”
I hold up my thumb and forefinger, about an inch apart.
“Sorry. You’re right. You should think about it because you do want the money, and nothing else is gonna pay that well, but a bigger dent is still just a dent, and in the end, it might not be the solution you’re really looking for.”
I get what she’s saying. More money still isn’t Adrian level money. It’s not tuition. It’s not a house for my mom or school for my sister. It’s rent, and I could survive on it, but the point of survival is still elusive.
“I’ll see how this semester goes.” Moving the blanket off my lap, I stand.
I take down my bun, shaking it out, remembering I still need to cut my hair before fall break.
I don’t care, honestly. I might have once—freshman year maybe when I felt like everything about me needed to be my decision.
The tattoos, my weight, how many holes I put in my ears.
It’s just not a fight I want to fight anymore. I’m hungry, and I’m beaten.
All that’s left to do is figure out if I can use this supposed opportunity and rise above my circumstances. How long my hair is doesn’t matter at all. Nothing I’ve done so far has mattered.
“What time is your first class?” I ask Chelsea.
“Ten. Yours?”
“Nine. Health and fitness.”
She snorts. “What a weird elective to pick.”
I shrug. It was the only thing Knight and I could agree on, and agree might be a strong word. It was his idea, and his schedule is harder to work with than mine, so it was either that or women’s studies which we both felt weird about.
This all means that tomorrow will be the first day I have to be friends in person with the one guy who can get me hard with a look.
Yeah, being friends was my idea, but what choice does he fucking have?
It was difficult enough to come to terms with the fact that he and I can’t be anything, and if we keep having sex, it’ll only make it worse when we eventually have to end it.
I understand the way he and I feel about each other, and I know it’s probably something special, maybe even rare, but the last thing I want in the world is for us to hurt each other. I’ll take the torture, because at least I’ll still sort of have him.
The sight of Deandre’s bright, wide smile when I walk into the classroom at 8:56 is a surprise that makes me instantly irritated.
However, when a low, rumbling, “Good morning” makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I turn to see Knight coming in behind me, I’m immediately relieved that D is also here.
Knight sees him, too and gives him a wave. “Hey! We could’ve walked together.”
“You didn’t tell me your schedule, fool.” D gestures us both over. He gets up to give me a hug. I haven’t seen him at all since freshman year. Not even in passing. “How’re you doing, Mozart?”
I avoid Knight’s gaze as I hug Deandre back. “Good. You got big.”
“Finally. It’s way easier to hit my macros when I’m not on a damn meal plan.”
Knight says, “If you’d played harder, you would’ve won the air fryer.”
“I don’t want to hear any more shit about that air fryer, Winters. You know you were a dick about that.”
That small detail takes me right back to the year in the dorm.
I’d forgotten until now, but Rodrigo and Knight had charged for use of the air fryer and had a sign-up sheet on their door.
I never used it. I survived that year on graham crackers and weed, but I remember the athletes were always bitching about needing to get their raw chicken cooked and trying to trade time slots based on expiration dates.
Knight laughs, and the sound should not do the things it does to me, but here we are. “It wasn’t me. That was Rod.”
“I don’t buy that, QB.” Deandre turns his attention back to me, letting me out of the man hug. “How the hell are you?”
“I’m all right. Nice to see you again.”
We sit down with D between Knight and me. “What have you been up to?”
Memories—bad ones—of the summer assault me with the question, but I keep my answer light and vague. “Nothing much. Kinda looking forward to getting back into the grind. Boring summer.”
“You working on anything I might like?”
D was always a great appreciator of my music.
Even though we had very little in common, and I certainly couldn’t have cared less about football, he never seemed to mind having me as a roommate.
There were times it even felt like he liked it.
He turns to Knight while I’m momentarily contemplating how unproductive I’ve been and says, “Have you heard this guy play violin? Did you know he’s a prodigy? ”
Knight gives me a sideways glance, and his mouth quirks slightly. “Cool.”
“He can literally play anything. He writes music, too. So, what are you working on?”
The question feels existential now. “Honestly, I’m trying to get back into it. Lots of distractions.”
“You still with that girl?”
Of course he knew Chelsea. I met her freshman year.
“We’re not together anymore, but we’re still friends. Still in the same house.”
“Oh, I think I’ve heard about your house.”
My stomach drops, and my face warms. “Yeah. Maybe worst kept secret on campus.”
I’m saved from having to say any more with the appearance of the professor who launches right into a detailed explanation of the course syllabus. I balk when he gets to the end and tells us to write down three health or fitness goals.
“What the fuck is this?” I ask. “P.E.?”
Deandre snorts, which isn’t helpful. It takes all my mental strength not to ask him to trade places with me so I can be next to Knight and have him tell me what to write.
“I don’t know what to put,” I mumble.
“You want to gain twenty pounds of muscle,” D says. “That’s what you want.”
“Ouch.”
“Unless you like this look you’ve got going.”
I write down the goal down for lack of anything else to put, thinking goals are bullshit anyway. Underneath it, I write, “eat more protein.”
“Put go to the gym with D twice a week.”
I almost snort, relieved he’s not taking this seriously either. The athletes train in a special facility I don’t have access to. But then he says, “Tuesdays and Thursdays work best for me.”
“We don’t have to actually do these,” I tell him.
Knight leans forward, having heard that, and catches my eye. “You don’t want to work out with us?”
“Us?” I’m frowning and looking at the professor before I glance back down at my paper and then over at Knight again.
“One lower body day, one upper body day. It’ll help you meet your goal.”
“We don’t have to actually do these,” I say to him again because maybe he didn’t hear me the first time.
And like karma whipping me in the face, the professor announces we need to turn this in as an assignment and keep a log on what we’re doing to achieve our goals over the semester.
“Fuck’s sake.” I go to cross out “go to the gym,” but Deandre stops me.
“Whoa. You’re coming.”
“I can’t work out in your gym,” I remind him. And I wouldn’t want to.
“We have memberships at a regular gym, too. It’s closer to our house, and you’ll like it. It’ll be fun.”
Knight nods, encouraging me to leave the list as it is.
I scowl at him and put my pen down. Then I sit back in my chair. I’ve worked out with Deandre before, but working out with Knight? Jesus fucking Christ. It’s hard to imagine anything more painful.