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Chapter Four
By the time Colt gets to his house he's seething. Usually when you imply that you need time to yourself, no matter what it's for, other people respect it. That's the courteous thing to do. Marc Fiarri had flat out said no to him and the more he thinks about it the angrier he gets.
After parking his bike and removing his helmet, Colt goes inside and heads straight to the shower. He's careful with his fiddle in setting it down but everything else is slammed about as he prepares for and takes a shower.
Parts of his crotch are still crusted with his own cum. He scrubs himself clean. He brushes his teeth and rinses with a powerfully mint mouthwash, finally feeling like he's removed the taste and scent of himself from his lips. Finally.
He pulls on a pair of cutoff sweatpants that are now shorts, frayed at his knees and a tank top and lets Emmitt inside after filling up his bowls with water and food.
Food might do him wonders too. He starts making himself a grilled cheese sandwich. While he's cooking, he thinks through everything he wants to say to Marc and comes to a small conclusion.
They need time. Colt needs space to think.
It's times like this when his emotions are all over the place, when the control he thought he had feels tenuous at best, when he has no time to sort things out and think things through in a proper fashion, that he wishes he drank it all away like his father did. Colt knows that he's not a mean drunk like his father was. He's scared of becoming that though.
He's not so scared of it that he isn't all too aware of the third of a bottle of whiskey sitting on the counter that Marc had left over here.
He knows it's there. His gaze keeps slipping over to it again and again until he's staring at it.
In the end he reaches out for the whiskey, unscrews the cap and takes a big gulp right out of the bottle. It burns as always and he's making a face at the taste when he realizes he's burning his sandwich. Colt sets the bottle down and quickly removes the pan from the burner.
This day. It's one of those days.
Colt is scraping the burned bits off of the bread with a butter knife when he hears the roar of an engine outside. A glance through the window shows Marc getting out of his shiny blue sports car. There's a moment where Colt thinks not to let him in or even answer the door, but that's just rude.
He thinks through what he wants to say to Marc one more time. Before Marc even knocks, Colt pulls open the door and stands in the way. Any and all words leave him as Marc has a fresh cut on his lip and a bruised cut on his brow. Those wounds weren't there earlier today.
*quot;What the hell, Marc?*quot; Colt steps aside, letting the other man inside and staring at him. He shuts the door. *quot;What happened?*quot;
Marc sets a new brown paper bag on the table and a bag of take out alongside it. His duffel bag goes to the floor. *quot;Don't worry. I gave more than I got.*quot;
It's the same thing he's said before and Colt just shakes his head. *quot;Who are you fighting with?*quot;
*quot;I think I'm fighting with you right now, Vanilla.*quot;
Colt's lips thin and he instinctively reaches out to put a hand on Marc's forearm. illegal bahis *quot;Seriously, Marc. Tell me what's goin' on. You can talk to me.*quot;
All he can think is that someone is out there habitually beating Marc up and Colt can relate to that more than he cares to admit. But maybe admitting it will help Marc talk about it and get help.
*quot;Hey...*quot; He squeezes lightly where he's holding Marc's shoulder. *quot;I've... I've been there, okay? I've been where you are right now and I know it's hard to speak up or fight back-*quot;
*quot;Wait. Somebody beat you up?*quot;
Colt thinks he's getting somewhere and he quickly nods. *quot;Yeah. Yeah they did. That's why my nose is crooked. It's been broken twice. I've had a dislocated jaw before. Broken wrists and ribs. I've been where you are.*quot;
*quot;Give me a name.*quot;
This suddenly isn't going how he planned. Marc doesn't look like he's about to have some miracle breakthrough. He looks like he wants to punch someone. He looks frightening.
Colt shakes his head. *quot;I think I might've misunderstood.*quot;
*quot;Who beat you up?*quot;
*quot;Marc this isn't about me. I'm just trying to let you know that you're not alone.*quot;
Marc leans in close and inhales. *quot;You smell like whiskey.*quot;
This isn't going at all how he thinks it should. It's almost dizzying; from anger to concern to frustration to confusion.
*quot;I might've had a sip.*quot; Colt gestures toward the bottle that he apparently forgot to put the cap back on. When he looks back at Marc, the man is grinning crookedly and Colt is only mildly disappointed that he feels himself grinning too. *quot;I told you, it's been a long day.*quot;
Marc's large hand cups the side of Colt's face, thumb gently smoothing over the stubble there. *quot;You can have more.*quot;
*quot;I don't need more. Thanks though.*quot;
*quot;There's always a need for more, more of everything.*quot; He tilts his head toward the brown paper bag. *quot;I brought more.*quot;
Colt looks over to the bag and back to Marc. *quot;Are you gonna tell me how you got the new bruises?*quot;
*quot;Are you gonna tell me who hit you?*quot;
*quot;I haven't been hit in years. It's the past.*quot;
*quot;So? I wanna know.*quot;
*quot;If I tell you will you tell me?*quot;
Marc seems to think about this a moment, then he nods. *quot;Deal.*quot;
*quot;It was my dad. He used to beat up on my mom and me a lot.*quot;
*quot;But you left.*quot;
*quot;As soon as I could.*quot;
*quot;And your mom?*quot;
*quot;I tried to bring her with me. She doesn't wanna be saved. She... loves him for some reason.*quot; Colt gets it. He used to love his dad too, parts of him still love his dad, parts of him still yearn for his dad to love him back. *quot;She blamed me for his anger anyway. Said he got worse after me.*quot;
Marc's eyes narrow and he looks very dangerous again for just a brief moment. *quot;My dad is an asshole too, but he didn't do this to me. He's never hit me.*quot;
*quot;Who did?*quot;
*quot;I do some side work for my uncle. Sometimes shit gets messy.*quot; Marc shrugs like it's not a big deal.
Colt steps back a bit, pulling his hand away from Marc's shoulder and forcing Marc's hand to slip away from his cheek. *quot;Messy as in... you get beat up?*quot;
*quot;Sometimes I run into thugs who don't like me.*quot; Again, said like it's not a big deal. *quot;My illegal bahis siteleri uncle's alright. He's a hard ass but I'm learning a lot from him. I like working for him. If I keep doing work for him then my dad can retire and just do what he likes doing... working on cars and making my mom happy.*quot;
*quot;Do you not like workin' on cars?*quot;
*quot;It's okay. I wanna make more money and I can do that with my uncle.*quot;
Colt nods slowly, taking in all of this new information. *quot;So some random thugs did that to your face.*quot;
*quot;Not random, but yeah.*quot; Marc says. *quot;Kinda like how I wanna do a little bit more than this to your dad's face.*quot;
*quot;I hope you never have to meet him.*quot;
*quot;Same, but with my family.*quot;
Colt feels a kinship to Marc in this moment, almost forgetting how angry he had been earlier until Marc grabs a tumbler from the sink and pours it full almost to the rim of what's left in the whiskey bottle. What's left in the bottle, Marc downs and then he gives the full tumbler to Colt.
Colt takes a deep breath and remembers how he'd felt earlier today. *quot;Marc, we need to talk.*quot;
*quot;You need to drink first. Normal people who've had a long day like you say you've had, they drink.*quot; Marc makes a drink gesture with his hand and Colt lifts the glass to his lips to have another sip. Marc smirks. *quot;A dainty little sip like that? More.*quot;
Colt takes another sip but this time Marc's index finger touches the bottom edge of the glass to hold it there, forcing Colt to take more or spill it. Colt is making that ridiculous face he makes when he drinks liquor by the end of it and Marc is grinning at him.
*quot;Happy?*quot; Colt asks.
*quot;Yep. I brought you some food too. Which, it looks like you could use it with whatever burned crap that is right there.*quot;
Colt puts the plate to the garbage can and lets his burned sandwich slide into it. *quot;My attempt at dinner. I got distracted.*quot; Distracted by whiskey. Distracted by Marc. Maybe the two are one and the same.
*quot;Alright. So let's eat and talk.*quot;
They take the food and drinks to the coffee table and sit on the couch. Marc starts dolling out cartons of Chinese takeout. Out of the brown paper bag full of booze he grabs a bacon flavored bone and tosses it over to Emmitt. The Dane starts to chew on it happily.
Colt secretly likes that Marc thought of something for his dog.
*quot;This is great. Thanks. I was starving.*quot;
*quot;Welcome. So tell me what's on your mind.*quot;
*quot;Loaded question. There's a lot on my mind and I can't really make sense of all of it right now. But... what happened today... at the library...*quot;
*quot;Was hot... and necessary.*quot;
Colt opens his mouth to speak, closes it again. *quot;Okay maybe it was hot, I'm not gonna try to lie and say it wasn't hot, but was it really necessary?*quot;
*quot;Yes.*quot;
How does anyone argue with that? Colt shakes his head, takes a few bites and only speaks after he's had a few moments to think. *quot;You're very intense, Marc. I don't know if I'm ready-*quot;
*quot;You are. You're ready for me.*quot;
Colt sets his carton down and turns to face Marc. *quot;I don't even know what this is between us. I barely know you! You barely know me. It's...*quot;
*quot;It's meant canlı bahis siteleri to be. From the second I saw you performing, I knew.*quot; Marc hands Colt the half full tumbler from the table, not giving him an option but to take it. *quot;I'm gonna fuck you up, Vanilla. And you're gonna love every minute of it.*quot;
*quot;If you fuck me up then I won't be vanilla anymore. You said you liked vanilla, remember?*quot; Colt tries to logic through the illogical. *quot;What will you do then, throw me to the curb?*quot;
*quot;No one's throwing you to the curb. You're mine.*quot;
*quot;Yours?*quot;
*quot;Since the moment I saw you.*quot;
*quot;When did you see me?*quot;
*quot;About three months ago. I'd had a shitty day and I was getting some beers. Your band was playing that night. I couldn't look away. You were the only good thing about that day.*quot;
*quot;We only met about a month ago.*quot;
*quot;Yeah... it took me awhile to figure out how to go at you. You're different from most people in my circle, alright?*quot; Marc says. *quot;Then that night you were right by me at the bar and we kept talking and I knew I'd been right.*quot;
*quot;Have you always liked guys?*quot;
*quot;Yeah.*quot;
*quot;Does your family know?*quot;
*quot;Yeah. My parents don't like it, but they can't say much since my uncle, my dad's brother, he's the same as me.*quot; He smirks and shakes his head. *quot;They get on me for liking who I like and my uncle finds out about it? Ain't nobody gonna cross my uncle... not if they know what's good for them.*quot;
*quot;He sounds dangerous.*quot;
*quot;You're not wrong.*quot;
*quot;Are you dangerous?*quot;
Marc answers with a noncommittal shrug and taps the glass in Colt's hand. Colt, deep in thought, takes a drink while he chooses his next words as carefully as possible.
*quot;I've never been attracted to men before, not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just... I'm not gay, Marc.*quot;
That makes Marc grin crookedly as he studies Colt and Colt can feel his chest grow tight again at the sight of it. Why does that smile make all the sharp, rough edges of whatever's happening here melt away?
*quot;You're not, huh?*quot; Marc asks.
Colt shakes his head and takes a deep breath before choosing to take another drink of the whiskey left in his glass. His nose wrinkles at the taste until he feels Marc's index finger sliding down the bridge of it.
*quot;Crooked nose. I never noticed it before.*quot; Marc says. *quot;I hate that asshole of a father you had. I hate what he did to you. But I like your crooked nose.*quot;
His nose has always been one of his insecurities because of the way it set after the second break. Colt doesn't want to be glad that Marc likes his imperfect nose, but he is. Somewhere deep down, he's glad.
*quot;You don't have to put any label on what this is, alright? Fuck labels.*quot;
*quot;It's confusing.*quot;
*quot;For you.*quot;
Colt nods. *quot;For me. And I don't want to lead you on in any way.*quot;
*quot;You're not. You don't have to do anything. Just let me keep being the brave one for both of us, yeah?*quot;
*quot;I don't know if that's fair to either of us.*quot;
*quot;I say it is.*quot;
*quot;Oh, well if you say it is.*quot; Colt resorts to sarcasm in the face of the direction this conversation has gone.
Marc grins and pulls back from Colt to reach into the paper bag and grab a new bottle of whiskey.
As Colt watches Marc fill his tumbler full again, he wonders if Marc has really listened to a word he's said tonight or if Colt just got steamrolled into acquiescence.
Nothing feels resolved.