appropriate for an established, professional man such as you. This boy has much to learn, and you will teach him. Meanwhile, his youth and vigor will keep you youthful.”
“Mother, I’m only twenty-eight.”
“Yes, but you have so much responsibility with these sick people, you will be old before your time. You must enjoy this boy’s spunk.”
He coughed to cover his laugh.
“You must promise me you will give Mikio a chance. His family is old and influential in the community. A match between you would be most honorable.”
“Mother, please.”
“Promise me.”
Oh, what the hell. At least it was a male. “I promise.”
It took another half hour to get himself home to his condo in Crystal Cove, and he closed the door behind him like the solid core could shut out his mother’s expectations. He stared around the wide living room with its curved tangerine sectional and print chairs. He usually loved coming home. It was one of the few places he ever felt like he could be himself, but tonight not so much. It almost felt too neat. Too perfect.
He shook his head and walked into the gleaming kitchen with its granite counters and stainless appliances. It took two glasses of water to get his throat from feeling stopped up with all the things he’d wanted to say and hadn’t. On his third glass, he leaned back against the counter and sipped. What a phony he was. He pretended to be so free, so self-actualized. He couldn’t even say no to his mother. Of course, Attila the Hun might have quaked at the prospect of crossing her.
He sighed and walked back into the living room with his water, flopped on the couch, and turned on the sixty-inch TV that established his credentials as a full-on “guy.” Now he faced the prospect of calling Mickey Okuwa and making some kind of date. Giving him a chance. He made mental quotation marks around the words. The guy was cute as hell, but still Ken didn’t look forward to it. What do you look forward to, old man? Are you getting tired of the scene? Too much sex? He half smiled. Nah.
He flipped through his recorded shows and settled on the new episode of Project Runway . Funny. One thing he did look forward to was lunch with Jim Carney and, considering he had to endure Gene Willings to have that lunch, “looking forward to” was saying something big.
He flipped on his side and settled in to watch cat fights and fashion. His anticipation of lunch the next day with a straight, blue-collar worker was not going to get examined.
W HOA . C RAPPY .
Jim sat on the edge of his bed and ran a hand through his sweat-drenched hair. Drying out, do ya think? Jesus. Just how much had he been drinking the last few months? One hair from one dog right now would get him feeling right and able to work. He massaged his aching neck.
Not going to happen.
The comic book lying on the floor caught his eye. Of course, it didn’t help that he’d wacked off three times to his favorite yaoi comic before he crashed. Probably used up all his energy.
Get up.
Ten minutes of wasting hot water and he felt like he could face a glass of tomato juice—if he had any. Out the window, he could make out the edge of the building next door, so it must be nearing sunrise. A few more minutes to recover.
He reached for his faded, dirty jeans and stopped. Lunch. That made his heart race, and he fell back on the edge of the bed. Do not be thinking about your heart or that doctor. Just consider it lunch with some architect who might save your ass. Plus it may not even happen.
Still, he dragged himself up and got a fresh pair of jeans from the closet and pulled on a clean long-sleeved T-shirt that just happened to be the same color as his green eyes. Quietly, he opened the door into the short hall. Like some kind of symphony, the smell of frying bacon drifted on the air. Obviously bacon went with everything, because his stomach didn’t even rebel. It actually growled. In three steps he walked into the
“Mother, I’m only twenty-eight.”
“Yes, but you have so much responsibility with these sick people, you will be old before your time. You must enjoy this boy’s spunk.”
He coughed to cover his laugh.
“You must promise me you will give Mikio a chance. His family is old and influential in the community. A match between you would be most honorable.”
“Mother, please.”
“Promise me.”
Oh, what the hell. At least it was a male. “I promise.”
It took another half hour to get himself home to his condo in Crystal Cove, and he closed the door behind him like the solid core could shut out his mother’s expectations. He stared around the wide living room with its curved tangerine sectional and print chairs. He usually loved coming home. It was one of the few places he ever felt like he could be himself, but tonight not so much. It almost felt too neat. Too perfect.
He shook his head and walked into the gleaming kitchen with its granite counters and stainless appliances. It took two glasses of water to get his throat from feeling stopped up with all the things he’d wanted to say and hadn’t. On his third glass, he leaned back against the counter and sipped. What a phony he was. He pretended to be so free, so self-actualized. He couldn’t even say no to his mother. Of course, Attila the Hun might have quaked at the prospect of crossing her.
He sighed and walked back into the living room with his water, flopped on the couch, and turned on the sixty-inch TV that established his credentials as a full-on “guy.” Now he faced the prospect of calling Mickey Okuwa and making some kind of date. Giving him a chance. He made mental quotation marks around the words. The guy was cute as hell, but still Ken didn’t look forward to it. What do you look forward to, old man? Are you getting tired of the scene? Too much sex? He half smiled. Nah.
He flipped through his recorded shows and settled on the new episode of Project Runway . Funny. One thing he did look forward to was lunch with Jim Carney and, considering he had to endure Gene Willings to have that lunch, “looking forward to” was saying something big.
He flipped on his side and settled in to watch cat fights and fashion. His anticipation of lunch the next day with a straight, blue-collar worker was not going to get examined.
W HOA . C RAPPY .
Jim sat on the edge of his bed and ran a hand through his sweat-drenched hair. Drying out, do ya think? Jesus. Just how much had he been drinking the last few months? One hair from one dog right now would get him feeling right and able to work. He massaged his aching neck.
Not going to happen.
The comic book lying on the floor caught his eye. Of course, it didn’t help that he’d wacked off three times to his favorite yaoi comic before he crashed. Probably used up all his energy.
Get up.
Ten minutes of wasting hot water and he felt like he could face a glass of tomato juice—if he had any. Out the window, he could make out the edge of the building next door, so it must be nearing sunrise. A few more minutes to recover.
He reached for his faded, dirty jeans and stopped. Lunch. That made his heart race, and he fell back on the edge of the bed. Do not be thinking about your heart or that doctor. Just consider it lunch with some architect who might save your ass. Plus it may not even happen.
Still, he dragged himself up and got a fresh pair of jeans from the closet and pulled on a clean long-sleeved T-shirt that just happened to be the same color as his green eyes. Quietly, he opened the door into the short hall. Like some kind of symphony, the smell of frying bacon drifted on the air. Obviously bacon went with everything, because his stomach didn’t even rebel. It actually growled. In three steps he walked into the
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