Bear, Otter, & the Kid 03 - The Art of Breathing (40 page)

“Well, this is certainly new,” Dom says, looking up.

I follow his gaze. Above the bed, attached to the ceiling, is a row of mirrors. Because, you know, that’s what normal people have.

“This isn’t a bedroom,” I groan. “It’s a sex dungeon!”

Dom cocks his head at the mirrors. “I don’t think it’s quite a sex dungeon. I don’t see a swing or a Saint Andrew’s Cross with a mean and surly Dungeon Master waiting to flog you.”

“I don’t know what any of that stuff means!” It’s come to my attention that I’m either a prude or I really need to bone up on my studies of all things sex. Ha. Bone up. That’s funny, in an “I’m about to freak out hysterically” kind of way.

“I’d be worried if you did,” he assures me.

“How do
you
know what that stuff is?”

“I got strapped to the cross once,” he said. “Whipped within an inch of my life.”

My mouth drops open. “You
what
?” Who in the hell is this masochistic stranger standing in front of me, and what has he done with my friend? (And, as a random side note that I can’t quite push away, what exactly does one wear when one is strapped to a cross and whipped?)

He rolls his eyes. “It was a joke, Tyson. I’ve busted some kinky people, that’s all.”

“I knew that was a joke!” I most certainly did not and am lying through my teeth.

He sets his bag on the bed. I, for some reason, look up at the mirrors again. There are three of them, all pressed flush against each other. I guess I’ve never really
thought
about how such a thing could be good for sex, but now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure you could see absolutely
everything
if, as a hypothetical, someone was on his back and another someone was going to town on him from above. I mean, I
guess
I can
sort
of see the benefits of such an angle, and it’d be all fast and hard and dirty and—

Nope! No, sir! I do
not
need to be thinking about such things, because they will most likely lead to inappropriate erections. And if there’s one thing that ruins a platonic sharing of what is possibly the smallest bed in the world between two friends who used to be like brothers, it’s an inappropriate erection. Well, not that I know that for a
fact
, but I can pretty much make the assumption here. I don’t want to have to wake up in the middle of the night and explain to my heterosexual bedmate why I’m sporting wood and staring at him in the mirrors above the bed. That is not a conversation conducive to a lasting friendship.

“If you want,” Dom says without turning around, “we can get a hotel. I saw a couple just right down the road.”

Well, that would be the easy way out, wouldn’t it? Say yes and then we’d be in a generic-looking room with scratchy sheets that smell like clinical detergent and oversized pillows that have some stranger’s long black hair on them. But isn’t that what they’re expecting? Of course it is. I’m now utterly convinced that this is part of some master scheme by the psychotic villain known as Kori and her sidekick, Sandy. She may look innocent, and she may play the part well enough for most everyone around her to be convinced, but I see right through her. She obviously called ahead and coerced the drag queen (either by blackmail or brainwashing) into changing what was probably a tea- and sunroom or library or storage area for wigs and feather boas (of which I have to see evidence of
any
—is she really even a drag queen?) into a guest room. If that’s the case, then Sandy/Helena Handbasket is against me and already a lost cause.

And if Kori is the villain I believe her to be, then I’m obviously the hero of this story and will need to rise up against her in a battle of wit and wills. At the first sign of weakness, she’ll go for the jugular. I need to make sure she believes nothing is amiss. I have to last these next couple of days until I can leave this place known as Tucson behind and return to the land that is my home and begin to plot my revenge.

And why is she doing this?

It’s obvious.

She’s trying to get me to fuck up around Dominic somehow so he’ll learn the true nature of my feelings (
rather, how I
used
to feel
, I correct myself pointedly). In doing so, Dominic will be forced to look at me with pity and sadness (
Poor little twinkie boy
, he’ll say to himself.
Poor little Tyson with his crush on the straight guy
) and then will let me down in a way that’s gentle but will still be mortifying in ways I can’t even begin to understand (keeping in mind that this won’t happen because I most certainly don’t feel that way about him anymore).

And she’s doing all of this not because she thinks Dominic and I are going to end up together (ha-ha, now
there’s
a random and stupid and out-of-my-mind thought!), but because she’s actually
heartbroken
about how our relationship ended, even though she’s the one who broke up with
me
(I haven’t quite figured out how that makes sense, but trust me, it has to be right). She knows how I feel (
used to feel
, I chide myself) about Dominic and wants to make a mockery of me.

This whole thing has been planned from the beginning.

“Uh-oh,” Dominic says.

“What?”

“You’ve got that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“It’s that same look you get when you see a story on the news about a rich guy posting pictures of himself big-game hunting and standing over the corpse of an elephant. Like you want to murder someone.”

“Why would you kill such a magnificent creature and then post a picture of it for everyone to see?” I exclaim. “You have to know everyone is going to think you’re nothing but a gigantic dick who should be strung up and pelted with rotting pumpkins!”

“The most gigantic of all dicks,” Dom agrees. “But since I haven’t seen any dead elephants since we got here, who is it you want to murder? And you may want to reconsider. I may be on vacation, but I’m still a cop. Don’t make me get the handcuffs out again.”

My mouth goes instantly dry at such an image, and I wonder (traitorous fucking brain!) just how
that
would look in the mirrors above the bed.

“I don’t want to murder anyone,” I mutter. “We don’t need a hotel. We can just stay here in the sex dungeon.”

“I really don’t think you know what a sex dungeon is,” he sighs.

“I do so,” I say. Wow, that sounded lame. And not like the truth at all. I pick up my bag and go to the other side of the bed as my face burns. I open the bag and begin rifling through it, trying to see if there is a chastity belt and a Bible somewhere inside, because apparently I’ve changed my name to Prudence McVanilla Prude.

“Is that what the kids call it these days?”

“I’m hip,” I tell him. “I’m down with it.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize probably no one on the earth says they’re hip and down with it anymore. My life could use a pause button, a rewind button, and most likely a volume control.

There’s a rustling of clothes, and I look up right at the exact moment I’m pretty sure that God and Jesus decide I’m a lost cause and forsake my mortal soul. That’s the only explanation for what’s happening right in front of me.

Dominic is lifting his shirt up and over his head, and while I know it’s physically impossible, I’m convinced he is moving in slow motion and that his torso goes on for
miles
. Life becomes positively unfair when I see the bulky muscles of his chest covered in a smattering of dark hair. His arms catch in the shirt, and the collar is on his chin, and I do believe I am three point six seconds away from tackling him and motorboating his chest.

Luckily, I have a modicum of self-control left (because I obviously don’t feel that way about him anymore), so I’m able to look up and away before he catches me ogling him like he’s a slab of beef on display.

But it’s escaped my mind (so many things have, it seems) that the ceiling is covered in mirrors, so as soon as I look up, I’m blessed (cursed!) with a completely different view of the heterosexual striptease happening right in front of me. (
How long does it take for someone to take off their shirt?
I want to scream at him.) Not only can I see him from the top down, I can see the curve of his back and ass and this is
exactly
what Kori planned, that foul temptress, that evil bitch of a supervillain! This was the
exact
moment she knew would happen, and how did she get Dominic to play along? What did she promise him? Because she’s obviously promised him
something
, because no
normal
person would
still
be trying to take their shirt off after what has had to have been at least six
hours
and. That.
Ass
.

“You okay?” he asks me, his shirt finally off.

“Oh, sure!” I cry. “Everything’s great!”

“You’re breathing funny.”

Calm down. This is what Kori wants. It’s all part of her evil plan. Just calm down and talk about the weather.
“Why are you naked!” I screech at him.
That’s not weather talk!

“What?” He looks down at himself, and for some reason, I’m relieved his nipples are even with each other. Then I realize I’m staring at his nipples and look at a convenient spot on the wall just over his shoulder. “I’m not naked.”

You lying sack of lies!
“Pretty fucking much!”

“I want to take a shower,” he explains calmly. “Get all this road grime off me.”

You have to calm down. Make your response sound natural, like nothing’s wrong at all. You sound like you’re about to shit yourself.
“Sure! Swell! That sounds super! Road grime!”
Much better.
Make a joke. That’s all you need to do. Make a joke.
I look back at him (resolutely ignoring just how tan his skin is) and grin a grin that is probably far too wide and reminiscent of a hyena.
Tell a fucking joke!
“I could use one myself. Maybe I could join you.”
OH MARY, MOTHER OF GOD, NOT THAT KIND OF JOKE! STOP TALKING! STOP TALKING RIGHT NOW.
“Er, I mean, ain’t no thang. Go take your shower, home slice. I’ll just chillax in here.”
Why am I talking like I’m a WASPy white kid from the suburbs going to the inner city for the first time?
Dear Jesus, I know you just forsook me, but please make me have a stroke right now. That’d be super cool, and I’d totally owe you one.

“Chillax?” Dom asks me, sounding confused. “Home slice? Are you sure you’re okay?”

No, no, I’m really not. I’ve got stress sweat like a motherfucker, and I’m pretty sure it randomly smells like old french fries, and I would give anything, literally
anything
, to have this moment be over.
The more I open my mouth
, I remind myself,
the worse it gets. The answer is simple. Stop. Talking.

But, alas, my last name may be Thompson now, but I am still a McKenna through and through. “A-okay, Captain Steroids!” I say brightly. “Could you be any more jacked?”

He shrugs. “You know I like to work out.” I swear he flexes his arms and chest on purpose. Either that, or he has a severe case of muscle spasms and should seek out the nearest acupuncturist as soon as possible.

“You look like you like to eat bricks,” I say. Because it makes so much sense.

He laughs. Ye gods, that sound.

I laugh, too, but only because I don’t know what we’re laughing at. His is the most erotic laugh I’ve ever heard, all dusky and full of gravel. I sound like a chipmunk getting run over by a car. Inappropriate erections, french-fry stress sweat, and dying chipmunk chortling. I am not fit to exist in this world.

I eventually stop braying and there’s this weird crackle of electricity in the air as we look at each other. My skin thrums with the current of it.

“It’s weird,” he says suddenly.

“What?”

He catches my eye. “You. Here.”

I’m confused by the sudden change in subject. “In Tucson?”

He shakes his head and gestures between us. “Here. With me. You know.
Us
. I think I’d forgotten how this could be.”

I’ve pushed him too far. Goddammit. “It’s weird.”

He nods.

“Good weird or bad weird?”

He sighs and says, “The best kind of weird there is,” like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Instead of replying with something devastatingly witty (since apparently I think I’m still capable of such things), I gape at him, opening and closing my mouth, showing him my best impression of a trout dying on dry land.

He says nothing more, just grabs a shirt and a pair of cargo shorts out of his bag before turning and walking out of the room.

But not before I see the small smile on his face that makes every single resolution I’ve ever made about Dominic Miller go flying right out the window. It’s good to know my convictions go by way of the wind over such a little thing. Either that, or at some point in the past four years, Dom was initiated as a voodoo high priest and I’ve just been cursed with some hoodoo.

Either way, I am so completely and utterly fucked.

Where Tyson Beholds

the Awesome Wonder That Is Paul Auster

E
VER
HAD
to sleep next to someone while making a conscious effort not to touch them accidentally at any point during the night? Especially when said bedmate apparently considers normal sleepwear to be some raggedy workout shorts and nothing else?

No?

Well, it blows. Like a lot. And by “sleep,” I really mean stare at the ceiling and wonder just how my life has gotten to this point, trying to go back day by day through my entire life to find out which of my actions are deserving of the karmic ass-kicking I’m currently receiving. Let’s see. Beach hippies. Drug use. Not living up to my full potential. Almost accidentally burning down the house one year to destroy the turkey so we could have a vegetarian Thanksgiving. Being completely and totally awesome. Geez. Take your pick. It literally could be any one of those things and many, many more. It’s hard to live a morally good life when you have a propensity for shenanigans.