Page 4 of Just Bromantically Invested

Sometimes I worry that makes me a bit of a head case, but Madden is a competent, likable, capable man, and he doesn’t often need help with things. So when he does, it feels like he needs me, and there’s nothing I like more than being needed.

I set my monitors to sleep and go in search of Dryden. They opened this design business four years ago and since then have grown it to the point where Lisa and I were brought on part-time. Dryden’s building a name for themself, but they want to keep their business small and intimate, which works for me since I don’t have the time to be throwing more hours into this place. It also means they have no issue with me needing flexibility and are always happy to recommend our business to clients.

“I need to head off,” I tell them.

Dryden looks up at me through too-large glasses, bald head catching the light. “What’s wrong, honey?”

“Madden’s, uh …”

“What did the gorgeous man do?”

I laugh because Dryden has a very slight … not crush, butappreciationfor my best friend. “He’s at a client’s house, being his nudist self, and they got home early. He’s lost his clothes, so he needs me to bail him out.”

Dryden hums and strokes their chin. “You never told me that Madden works naked. I might need to go home and tear out some trees to have you boys over.”

I smile because I know they’re joking, but there’s something about the fascination people have with Madden that gets on my nerves.

He’s a great guy, and people love him, including all his roommates. Some days, it feels like I have to fight for his attention when I’d never make him fight for mine.

“I’m good to go?” I check.

“Sure are. I’ll see you Friday.”

“Thanks, see you then.” I leave our modern, white office and head to the elevator that will take me to the parking lot. First thing I’ll need to do is grab Madden some clothes, then somehow work out a way to get him out of our clients’ house. I’d like to think this will teach him a lesson about getting naked at work, but I’m smarter than that. Madden’s always been his own person, and him becoming a nudist isn’t something I foresaw, but I’ll support it anyway.

Doesn’t mean I can’t mess with him a little though.

Instead of heading home to grab some of my things, I go to the department store down the street and browse the costume section instead. There isn’t a huge selection to choose from, but the giant chicken suit, complete with feet, should fit well. Ish.

I pay for everything, including water since it’s fucking hot out, then jump in my car and navigate to the address. By the time I arrive, it’s close to an hour since Madden called, and I’m praying he hasn’t been caught doing … well, anything. I don’t want him to have been caught at all.

I pull out my phone and send a text.

I’m out the front. Where are you?

He replies immediately.

Dog kennel.

Dog. Kennel. I stare at the two words, waiting for them to make sense, but as I reread, they don’t get any sensier, I decide to let it go. I scan the front of the house.

I’m suddenly regretting this chicken suit costume because there’s a gate on one side Madden could have walked out of, but it’s in full view of the house, and if they see him leave like that, there will be questions. He’s going to have to jump the fence on the other side; at least it’s back from the road and mostly out of sight.

I go back to our chat.

There’s a side fence on the left I can throw these clothes over. Go there then I’ll knock on the front door and make up an excuse—like I’ve stopped by to check on the job or whatever. Get dressed, jump the fence, then meet me in the car.

Madden:

Aye, aye.

I unclip my seat belt and sneak along the front of the neighbors’ property, hoping I won’t be spotted. Our clientshave large windows along the front and back of their house, so how Madden is supposed to get out of there without them knowing is beyond me.

But we’re going to try.

I reach our clients’ yard and head toward the side fence like I’m supposed to be there. Just fake confidence and act like I belong. That’s all I need to do. Fuck, I hate this. I hate that I know the exact assumptions people would make seeing me. I’m not as easygoing as Madden, but that comes from our vastly different life experiences. When people say they don’t give a fuck, it’s because I have them all. The fucks, I mean. I give entirely too many fucks every single day, and things like this going wrong send my anxiety skyrocketing.

There are legitimate excuses I could come up with for why I’m lurking around their yard, but I don’t trust myself to come up with any of them in the heat of the moment, so as soon as I’m close enough, I yeet my purchases over the fence and redirect for the house.

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