Page 12 of Jacked
I want to choke them down just to be polite, I really do. But it’s impossible.
I spit them back onto my plate in a soggy lump and wipe the back of my hand over my mouth.
“Dude.” I can’t stop myself from laughing. He warned me he didn’t know how to cook, but I don’t even know what the fuck that was. I reach for my coffee and take a couple of deep gulps, ignoring the burn and praying for the bitter flavor to chase the taste away.
“Dammit. Are they really that bad?” He’s got sad puppy eyes.
I would love to lie to him and pretend I just hate eggs, but I don’t think it would do him any favors. I laugh again and shake my head.
“I ate a worm on a dare once,” I say solemnly. “These eggs are worse.”
“Oh, come on. That can’t be true.” He scoops some onto his fork and shoves it into his mouth. It only takes half a second before his eyes water and he spits them right back onto his plate too. “Shit, you’re right. Do you think it’s because I used French vanilla creamer instead of milk?”
I blink. Then I blink again. By the third time, I’m still not sure I’m actually processing what he’s saying because what. The.fuck?
At least it explains the sweet smell.
“Why?” It’s the only valid question really, and I have to understand his thought process. What happened inside his brain that made him think adding French vanilla creamer to eggs was the right thing to do? I’ve never been more baffled in my life.
He shrugs. “There wasn’t any milk and the consistency is pretty much the same, so I figured it would work.”
“Dude, no.” I pick up both plates and carry them to the trash to dump them. “Sit your ass down, I’m going to make us a couple of protein shakes. And please note that just because peanut butter and frosting are the same consistency, doesn’t mean they’re interchangeable either.”
“Frosting would make for one hell of a tasty protein shake though,” he says, switching places with me to sit down at the island while I start pulling everything out to make a couple of protein shakes.
“You concern me,” I mutter. Slater just cackles.
SLATER
AJ slides the shake across the counter to me and I smile in thanks. Since he doesn’t seem like much of a morning person, I take pity on him and pull out my phone to kill a little time before I need to get dressed and catch the L to the office. I fuck around on Instagram for a few minutes while I sip the shake, which definitely tastes a hell of a lot better than the eggs I made. Then that joke the guys at Sweat made yesterday pops back into my head.
I close out of Insta and open up my browser, typing in “they were roommates.” My screen populates with a bunch of memes and GIFs, but the context still is unclear. Since AJ didn’t know, maybe it’s a gay thing? I pull up my messages and click on the thread I have with Nolan.
SLATER: What’s the deal with the “they were roommates” meme? Is it a gay thing?
It’s two hours earlier for him, but he and Cas keep weird schedules, so I’m not surprised to see him start typing back almost immediately.
NOLAN: Lol, yeah it’s a “gay thing.” It’s a joke about how back in the day queer people would pretend to be roommates since they couldn’t openly be together.
Shit, that’s kind of a dark joke if you think too hard about it. I pull the search back up and look at it for another second. There’s a GIF with a dude pulling off his sunglasses just like Fendermimed yesterday, so this must be what he was referencing. I take another drink from my shake, my arm bumping against AJ’s accidentally. He could have gone to sit in the living room, but he’s sitting right next to me at the counter instead, doing the same thing I am—enjoying his protein shake and scrolling on his phone. It’s a nice, peaceful kind of silence, actually. The pieces of what Nolan just said and the joke Fender made slot very slowly into place in my head, and as I lift my glass for another sip, they finally make sense.
“Dude, did they think we were gay?”
AJ’s brow furrows and he looks up from his phone. “Who?”
“Fender and Butch.” I turn my phone towards him to show him the meme. “It’s a gay thing.”
He squirms in his chair, letting out a tight laugh that’s extra wheezy.
“That’s…” He shakes his head.
“Ridiculous,” I finish for him.
“Yeah.” He runs his hand over his chest like he’s suddenly self-conscious that he’s not wearing a shirt, then tugs on the hem of his shorts again like he did yesterday.
“Yeah.” I let out an awkward laugh of my own.
His eyes meet mine and a hot feeling squirms in my chest. Embarrassment? Discomfort? Something else? I’m not sure I can put my finger on it.
