Page 17 of Teach Me To Sin

I don’t have to pick up my date for another hour, so I get to my knees on the rug–a feat that’s getting more painful every passing year–and flop down on my face right in front of the electric fireplace vent. Both dogs rush over joyfully and jump on top of me, stomping on my kidneys and licking the back of my neck.

Ignoring them, I open my browser and search the nameAlek Simmons. I’ve checked on him every day for the last two weeks since The Dock Club, but the headlines about his coaching debut never appeared. The man puts on a brave face, but he’s terrified to cross a line he can’t take back. He knows how fucked up things could get if he digs up a scandal that’s still so controversial and unresolved.

My phone rings again, this time with an unknown number. “Hello?”

Trevor, my date for the evening, clears his throat. “What’s the dress code for this thing tonight?”

“Good question.” Rolling onto my back, I flick through tabs until I find the event I bought tickets to yesterday:Lang Aquatic Center Summer Meet and Picnic.Gray wasn’t entirely correct; when something catches my fancy, I still latch onto it and refuse to let go. Indulging this flaw while I’m on a date with someone else might be more than a little rude, butdateis too strong a word for what is essentiallycatching a bite to eat before we fuck. So why not multitask?

I run my finger down the event details. “No dress code.”

“Oh.” I can hear him frowning in annoyance. He’s a divorce lawyer who used to work down the hall from me, and in our social circles everything has a dress code.

“It says they will have jumbo hot dogs for dinner and shaved ice for dessert,” I comment drily, “so interpret that as you will.”

He snorts. “Should we both do Hawaiian shirts?”

“I don’t have one,” I lie quickly. The day I wear matching outfits with someone is the day I’ve truly given up on life. “Wear whatever you want. I’ll pick you up in forty.”

My karma for being a dick about the outfits is having my only clean shirt be a green plaid button-down that makes me look like a suburban dad named Gary who loves to barbecue on Sunday afternoons after church. Not that I want to impress anyone. People assume I’m dating to find another Gray and recapture everything we never had together. They think I regret losing him, but I don’t. I only regret hurting him, and I never want the chance to repeat the cycle with another man. I’m happy to stick with cynical men my age or even older who want nothing but to talk, drink a little, bend over for me, and then move on.

I’m so fucking overdue for the last part that I almost asked if we could have sex beforeandafter dinner. This week I’ve emptied my balls again and again–in the shower, in bed, on the couch, on the secluded back porch–because I can’t stop thinking about those two boys. One untamed and dangerous, the other confused and so earnest. My right arm is permanently sore. I need a living, naked body to wrestle with in the dark, to purge them from my mind. But first, I need one last look at them.

* * *

“Woah.” Trevor puts his hand on the small of my back as we hesitate at the edge of the swim center parking lot. “This is wild.” I hate being touched like this, intimate but not sexual. Especially when the man I’ve been milking myself dry to all week might see us and assume we’re a couple.

I shift my weight away until he gets the hint and drops his hand. The man’s not wrong; I can barely process the rush of scents, sounds, and colors assaulting our senses. The cars in the lot have been replaced with a barbecue tent, tables and chairs, an inflatable bouncy house, and miles of fluttering bunting. Hundreds of families flow in and out the front doors of the building, chattering loudly and carrying plates of food. I heard the swim center had a major presence in the community, but I hadn’t imagined anything like this.

“Are we in the right place? This doesn’t seem like your kind of thing.” Trevor glances hopefully back in the direction of our parking spot several blocks away. He’s a handsome enough guy with carefully trimmed salt and pepper hair and a good build–big and muscled but happy to bottom. He’s really not into this, though. Neither am I, but it still annoys me for some reason, like he’s personally insulting Alek.

“I know the guy who runs it.” I crane my neck, but I can’t spot his black hair anywhere.

Trevor shrugs. “One jumbo hot dog now, and one later, right?”

That gets a laugh out of me. “Mine is a lot harder to swallow. Let’s go.”

We push through what feels like half the population of Seattle to the barbecue area, where a couple of guys in black catering t-shirts are supervising massive wood pellet grills. Trevor gets his hot dog, while I go for a burger because my brain can’t take any more phallic imagery. Smushed on one end of a white plastic table, we briefly try to make conversation before we decide it’s too loud. Trevor reads on his phone, while I hunt for a glimpse of Alek or Benji.

A chair scrapes on the asphalt and a lanky blond man straddles it backward, propping his elbows aggressively on the back. His aloof, pale eyes rake me up and down. “So we finally meet,” he announces ominously, like we’re in a movie climax.

Trevor looks between us in confusion as I study the newcomer, matching my small, tight smile to his. “Victor Lang?” He’s easy to recognize from old press photos and interviews, not to mention his name in foot-high letters on the building behind us. “I’m–”

“I know.” When I don't respond, he leans closer and prods the table between us. “You’re the bastard who fucked over one of my best friends. If Alek wants you around, that’s his problem, but I don’t wanna see your fucking face within a hundred feet of me.” He didn’t even know Gray when we divorced, but I’m sure he’s heard all the gory details.

“I guess you’ll need to move a hundred feet then, because I’m not finished eating.”

He wrinkles his nose begrudgingly, like he’s conflicted between righteous fury and a reluctant appreciation of someone who can match his attitude.

“If it makes a difference,” I offer in a nicer tone, “Gray and I talk regularly. He even invited me to visit.” No need to go over how that ended.

“He told me.” Victor tilts his head. “That’s because he’s a massive pushover with a thing for lost causes like you.”

“I won’t deny either of those things,” I mutter, finishing my charred burger.

“Okay.” He shoves my plate away and waits for me to make eye contact. “I’ll make you a deal. If you hurt Alek in any way, shape, or form, I’ll decapitate you and mail your head to Gray so he can mount it on a spike in his front yard while the crows eat your eyeballs.”

“And what do I get out of this deal?”

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