Only Keep You Read online

  “I’m not going back to school, and I’m not going to work for Dad. We’ve been over this.”

  Mom sighs, heavy and long and filled with attempted guilt. “I only want what’s best for you, sweetie, and working at a store that sells games like they are drugs for teenagers is not a life’s goal.”

  I swear my mom’s brain must have been an old 1950s housewife’s that was pickled for safekeeping and transplanted into her body when she was born in the late sixties.

  “Maybe it’s my life’s goal.”

  “Don’t you want a family someday? You’d never be able to support a wife and kids with that job. Be realistic. I know you needed a little freedom, but you’ve had that and now it’s time to get on with real life. Video games are not real life.”

  “I’m not arguing this anymore with you. I’ve made my choice.” I stand up from the coffee table and take the empty bowl to the kitchen and rinse it out. The water drowns out her voice only too briefly.

  “Did you get the agenda that I emailed you?”

  I reach into the fridge for a beer. I’m going to need it for round two.

  “Yes, I did. And I have to work. I can’t take time off to speak at Dad’s campaign events.”

  “But these are important. This is year ten of our twelve-year plan. He needs you by his side.”

  I’m well aware of their twelve-year plan. Dad is a judge, so it isn’t like anyone runs against him, even though we all call the retention elections his “re-elections.” In Colorado, this means that after the first two years, and then every four, the lovely people of Weld County get to determine whether they want him to stay behind the bench or not. He doesn’t run against anyone, just himself and his record. It’s not even a real election, but they treat it like one, I think for practice. My parents’ plan has always been that after his third retention election, which is the one happening this year, that they would “consider” a run for state senate. I put consider in air quotes because honestly, unless he was at death’s door, I don’t think anything could keep him from running. Notice I said “he was at death’s door,” because I’m pretty sure having a terminally ill wife or son would be a total win on the campaign trail in his book.

  Eight years ago, during his first retention election campaign, I was still a senior in high school. I faithfully dressed up in whatever suit my mom laid out for me and attended every event with a “Re-elect Taylor” button and an American flag pin on each lapel. I was sheltered, affection-starved, and had a very narrow world view. Plus, you know, there was the whole threatening to reveal my gay porn masturbation debacle to my mom.

  Four years later, I had already dropped out of school and had my eyes opened to a host of different viewpoints and acceptable life choices, goals, and lifestyles. My world had come crashing down. My parents pulled all financial support, thinking it would quickly force me to come around to their way of thinking. In reality it did the opposite. It showed me that life was just as meaningful and wonderful with or without money. Harder? Absolutely. But so totally, fucking worth it.

  Because of that conflict, I was not asked to hit the campaign trail for my dad. I saw a few of his speeches on YouTube later, and I was always excused as absent as “part of the new millennial workforce” that he was fighting to protect. Gag.

  “I’m sure you can find a body double. I’ve got a generic enough look. Grab an average-sized guy with brown hair, stick him in a suit, and presto! The son you’ve always wanted.”

  “That isn’t funny, David.”

  “I wasn’t trying to be funny, Mother.”

  “I expect to see you at these events, or you’d better be near death in the hospital.”

  “Glad to know my well-being is high on your list of priorities.”

  2

  Arthur

  Five minutes, I tell myself. I’ll give him five more minutes to show before I bail. After all, I worked hard on this outfit and my quiff is perfection.

  I’m supposed to be meeting a guy I’ve been texting on Grindr for the past week. A nice enough guy. Okay, I have no idea if he’s nice or not, but his dick is nice if those really are his pictures. His profile states that he’s a power bottom, likes to be bossed around in the bedroom, and is open to something more than a hookup. Essentially, he’s my very own gay unicorn.

  No, I’m not that naïve, but fuck, I’m only twenty-eight – too young to already be so jaded.

  And I’m not opposed to a hookup, either. I like casual, no-strings sex as much as any man. But in those rare moments when I actually allow myself to wish, I will acknowledge that it might be nice to have a man to come home to.

  I stir the tiny straw sticking out of my margarita glass without paying much attention. My back is to the bar so that I can face the door and watch for my date. When a notification pops up on my phone, I know what I’m going to see before I even swipe across my screen.

  EvDd69: Sorry man. I’m going to have to cancel. Something came up at work.

  Well, at least he had the decency to let me know. Sad that passes for decency these days.

  I raise a finger for the waitress to order another margarita and get a refill on the chips.

  Arthur: Well, it’s official. I can’t even pull on Grindr.

  I text my best friend Terry, who would have wanted an update when the date was over anyway. Looks I stuffed myself into ball-squeezing pants for nothing. At least I enjoyed the view in the mirror. I work hard for this body and it shows. It’s unfortunate EvDd69 won’t also enjoy it. Or the dick that’s squished but still very obvious down my right pants leg. Seriously obscene pants. It’s my favorite thing about them.

  Terry: Oh, honey.

  Arthur: I’m at the Juarez. Want to join me?

  Terry: I’m off in five minutes. I’ll meet you as soon as I can.

  Terry works in one of the designer jewelry boutiques in Old Town, so ten minutes later, after I’ve already laid waste to my second marg and switched to water, he arrives. He pulls his long hair up into the weirdest man-bun ever for work, and his floral shirt wisps through the air as he sits down next to me, tugging on my arm and leaning his head against my shoulder.

  “Hon. Give me his profile and I will terrorize his ass.”

  “Down, boy. We are not cyberbullying the mean kids.”

  “But Arty, I need to defend your honor,” Terry whines.

  “Then I’m pretty sure mister no-show tonight does not rank on that list. If you truly want to defend my honor, then you should start at the top.”

  “Silas,” we say at the same time.

  Silas Boone sounds like the name of a character from Deliverance, but really, he was a much-celebrated quarterback for the Colorado State Rams years ago. I had already graduated, but met him at a party, and one thing led to another. I suffered through the secret relationship since he stayed in the closet throughout college. Hell, he might still be tucked away in there, despite being a self-described insatiable bottom. At the time, I thought we fit together perfectly, except for the closet. That thinking ground to an immediate halt once I discovered that “insatiable bottom” was his euphemism for cheating on me the whole time we dated.

  Going to a free clinic at the age of twenty-four and having to admit you have no idea who or how many partners your boyfriend has had was not a high point of my life. Thank god everything came back clean. I might not have gone immediately to revenge, but Terry would have on my behalf.

  So yeah, failing to meet me for a Grindr-arranged date doesn’t make the cut.

  Terry’s phone buzzes with a text, and he bats his pitiful eyes my way.

  “Do you mind if Rohit joins us?”

  “Yes.”

  Terry types for another second before stashing his phone. “Great. He should be here in about five minutes.”

  Terry and Rohit have been my best friends for almost a decade now. Since I didn’t know anyone upon my arrival to CSU freshman year, I had to take a chance with the dorm lottery and have an assigned roommate. The scowling, bu
ff guy I wound up paired with scared the crap out of me, and I spent my first months convinced that he would kick my ass if I glanced at him the wrong way. Sometime before the holidays, I returned to my room one night to find him hooking up with a loudmouthed drama queen who paused mid-blowjob to introduce himself and ask me where I got my shirt.

  Why those two haven’t taken the final step into permanent couple-dom is one of my life’s biggest mysteries.

  “Why did you even bother asking?”

  “I didn’t know if you needed private pity time or not.”

  “Would I have invited you out if I did?”

  Terry holds up a finger to hold the thought, which has me shaking my head, so that he can order a margarita from the waitress who finally made it back to our table. It isn’t her fault that we’re smack in the middle of the dinner rush.

  “Yes,” he says after placing his order, and we add an order of queso flameado to the list. “Because being with me is like being with yourself. We’re one, you and I. Soul brothers. Two halves of one–”

  I stuff a chip into his mouth before he can continue. Terry flips me a middle finger, and now I feel satisfied that my private pity time is complete. Actually, I suppose I will be finishing off private pity time in the shower later. Or maybe I can go to the club. Then these pants won’t go to waste.

  “What’s with impromptu dinner out?” Rohit asks as he pulls out a chair next to Terry and opposite me. He has a normal man-bun thing going on, unlike Terry’s crazy one, and a scraggly beard that Terry has been begging him to trim for the past year. He’s still wearing his typical work uniform, basketball shorts and a tank top. Lucky bastard works as a personal trainer.

  I glare at Terry and his wide-open mouth, but we’ve all been friends for so long that my silencing look is all the information Rohit needs.

  “Again? Jesus, Art. Are we going to have to start screening Grindr for you? You can’t be this bad of a judge of character.”

  “Excuse me, are you blaming me for these guys ghosting me? Although this one at least texted me to let me know.” I shrug as if the rejection doesn’t sting.

  “Just wondering if your profile reads ‘Please dick me over’ instead of ‘Please dick me hard’ or something.”

  Terry smacks Rohit’s arm and kisses the scowl that gets promptly aimed his way.

  “Or you need to give up Grindr altogether. You promised to come to one of the kink group nights with us,” Terry says, completely uncaring that the waitress’s eyes have just about popped out of her head as she sets down another round of drinks and our queso flameado. She flicks a lighter and the skillet whooshes with a brief, but impressive flame.

  “Just because I like to be in control during sex doesn’t mean I’m a dom,” I say, after the waitress has left because I do actually have a small sense of decorum.

  Terry rolls his eyes at me before dunking a chip and popping it in his mouth. He immediately opens back up and tries to fan off his tongue. “Hot.”

  When his mouth is finally cooled off and functioning again, Terry turns back to me. “Uh, that’s pretty much exactly what it means. You just hate not being an expert at everything. Don’t think I don’t remember how you were in college. Everything came easy to you, but you had to start somewhere. Think of this like a college class. Sure, there are people there with more knowledge and experience than you, but you know full well that after a few sessions and a little bit of training, you’re going to be everyone’s favorite dom.”

  “Really? Everyone’s favorite?” Rohit cocks an eyebrow at Terry, who kisses him again.

  “You know you’re my favorite,” Terry coos.

  “But I don’t have a desire to hurt anyone or humiliate anyone,” I say, trying to refocus the conversation from its overly sweet turn.

  “There are different kinds of kink, you know,” Rohit says. “No one says you have to do anything, but you can see what others are into, and talk to them about it. Find something that fits for you.”

  “Hmm, maybe.” I pick up a chip and am sure to blow on the hot cheese for a long time before stuffing it in my face.

  Friends and cheese make everything better.

  And who knows? Maybe Rohit is right and I’ll find something that fits. Anything would be better than these failed hookups.

  Puppy.

  I have no idea what possesses me to use the word. Maybe it’s the soulful brown eyes peering at me across the long wooden desk that separates the bank tellers from the general public. Or maybe it’s the fact that the man is quite literally chasing his tail, twisting back and forth to look behind him. He might as well hold up a sign that reads, “Please look at my ass. I sure am trying to.”

  When he arrived at the desk and realized that he was missing his deposit slip, I tried to reassure him. “You don't need the deposit slip. Just give me the account number.” Instead of soothing his nerves, it only seemed to increase his anxiety.

  I’ve been a bank teller for six years now. It was my first job out of college, and I’ve stuck with it. My parents keep harping on me to put in for a promotion that better uses my finance degree, but for now, I’m happy where I’m at. I’ll work toward a banker position later. I have plenty of time, and I’d rather focus on having fun while I’m young and can enjoy it. After all, this bod won’t last forever.

  My parents would rather I act like my twin, Andrew, who finished his MBA and is already the CFO of the Forbes number one ranked new company of the year. He’s only content when he’s winning, but I got tired of the competition years ago. Plus, we all know he already won. He’s straight and successful and boring as fuck. If I had to pick between getting my parents’ attention or getting the attention of a hottie at the club, it isn’t even a choice. I’ll keep living it up until I’m shaving grey hairs off my saggy nutsack, or until I find my kinky, power-bottom, monogamous unicorn.

  I deal with anxiety all day long, so the jittery man’s behavior isn’t too strange. People come in every day, hell, every hour, fretting over an overdraft or a deposit that isn’t showing up. When your business is other people’s money, you do well to remember that nothing stresses folks out more than that. A few old-timers have tempted me to recommend just using a mattress and forgetting the bank altogether. Nothing will convince them that the Chinese guy doling out their money, or in many cases unable to dole it out, is on the up-and-up.

  “But I don't know the account number. It was on the deposit slip.” The man’s high-pitched whine emanates from the back of his throat. I can see the panic start to overtake him.

  “Deep breath. Close your eyes, puppy. Where did you last see it?”

  Should have thought that one through, as I lose my connection to those beautiful eyes. The man responds so faithfully to my commands, his obedience makes my cock plump. Thank god I never leave the teller cage, because even at half-chub, I’m packing.

  Yeah, Asian stereotypes and I don’t mix. I’ve heard them all, suffered them all, even though they were supposedly meant in a “positive” way. Just because I’m taller, broader, and more hung than the imaginary Asian boys past hookups dreamed of, doesn’t mean I don’t still want to smack them upside the head when they make those comments. I just smack them inside their mouths, or holes, with my abnormally large penis instead.

  “The car?”

  Thank heavens the man’s eyes are still closed so he won’t take offense to the grin splitting my face, but goddamn, he’s just too cute. I take the brief opportunity to size him up while he can’t see my hungry perusal. He’s got a tight little body, with biceps stretching the sleeves of his t-shirt. His jeans hang a little too loose at his hips, but it only emphasizes the trim waist leading into them. The shirt leaves nothing to the imagination, and the man is fit. When he chased his tail earlier, it was evident that although his jeans might be slightly on the baggy side, his ample ass kept them firmly in place. Nngh, what I’d give to have those cheeks firmly under my palms.

  Instead, I gather what little control is left in my lu
st-soaked brain and keep my voice calm as I respond to him.

  “Are you asking or telling me?”

  I try to keep the flirt that so desperately wants to tint my tone of voice at bay. Not that I never hit on guys at work. I do. All the time. Sometime to great effect. Others, well, let’s just say at least there are metal bars separating me from the general public. But this guy doesn’t need me to flirt right now, he needs help calming down and getting his head on straight.

  Brown eyes fly open with startling speed. “Oh,” he says as if in a daze. “I should go check.”

  “Wait! Your–” I call after him, but it’s too late. The man has already raced off, chasing this last grasp at a straw of finding his deposit slip.

  And that's how I find myself holding bank bags stuffed with cash, staring after the gorgeous man I accidentally, sort of on purpose, and totally karmically, called puppy.

  3

  Dave

  Un-fucking-believable.

  The one time Ted entrusts me with a new responsibility at work, and I’ve already fucked it up.

  And I really need to clean out my car.

  I sift through the crumpled wrappers and empty cans littering the dirty floorboards of my old Mazda. Back when I had the Audi, I kept it clean as per my parents’ specifications. They may have taken it back when I dropped out of college, but a fifteen-year-old Mazda does the job just as well.

  Every second that a deposit slip fails to appear, I can feel my panic level rising. I’m about to give up and call Ted to confess my carelessness and beg for his forgiveness, when I spot a slip of paper wedged between the passenger seat and the center parking brake.