Family Recipe

Chapter 3-3

Justin knew he was asleep, but he didn’t care. He knew he was dreaming, because this time the neighbor didn’t say ‘If you need anything…” This time the neighbor said, his voice a low, husky whisper, “I know what you need, baby” and gave it to him. He splayed his fingers against Justin’s bare chest, his hands big and capable, and pulled him back tightly against him so that Justin could feel his d**k—hot, hard, huge—pressing against his ass, and Justin was allowed to have this. He was allowed, because this wasn’t real, but at the same time it was exactly what he needed.

He was asleep, but not all the way. He was vaguely aware of the sunlight making cascading patterns of light on the walls from the way the branches shifted in the trees outside. He was aware enough to close his eyes and sink further into the fantasy, grinding his d**k against the mattress to chase the friction.

In his dream, the neighbor dipped his face against the curve where Justin’s neck met his shoulder and kissed him there, and his beard was soft and scratchy at the same time and Justin whimpered and moaned as he melted into the sensation.

“That’s it,” the neighbor crooned. “I’ve got you.”

Justin learned back, pushing his ass against the hardness of the neighbor’s erection. He was buzzing with sensation, every nerve in his body simultaneously numb and alight. He felt like he was drunk, or high. He wanted to turn around, to face the man, to kiss him, but a part of him knew that would break the spell, and Justin wanted to live here in this fantasy for as long as possible. He moaned, the noise made thin and thready with desperation.

“That’s it, baby,” the neighbor said his breath hot against Justin’s throat. “I’ll give you what you need.”

One hand slid down Justin’s torso, fingers skating over Justin’s abdomen and making him flinch back from the tickling sensation. The neighbor laughed, his body vibrating with the sound, and Justin moaned again and squirmed so that the neighbor’s hand dipped lower. His fingers slipped into the low-slung waistband of the sweatpants Justin wore, lower and lower and—

There was a crashing sound from the kitchen, and Justin jolted properly awake. He was hard and aching, and there was a damp patch on his sweatpants and on the sheet. Justin grimaced as he climbed out of bed, tugging his shirt down to hide the wet spot. He willed his erection away, but it took no effort at all. The hard reality of the morning—of his life now—did most of the work for him.

Scarlett was sitting up in her crib, blinking dozily at him.

“Hey,” Justin said, his voice scratchy. “You look a lot better.”

She reached out to be picked up.

There was another noise from the kitchen—a clattering this time. Justin carried Scarlett down the narrow hallway to the back of the house just in time to see Harper drop the broom for a second time as she tried to clean up the smashed glass.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Justin said.

She glared at him, and Wyatt, standing in the middle of the mess, flinched at his tone.

“You’re not in trouble,” he said, wincing as Harper dragged the broom through the mess of glass and orange juice. “But you’re both in bare feet. Just don’t move, and I’ll get my shoes on and get you out of there.”

So much for his wet dream.

Real life was back with a vengeance.

Justin went and set Scarlett back down in her crib to keep her out of the mess. He caught a glimpse of the time on the bedside clock. s**t. Harper was supposed to be ready and waiting for the school bus in ten minutes.

He ignored Scarlett’s outraged yell as he shoved his feet into his shoes and darted back into the kitchen.

He lifted both Wyatt and Harper free of the glass. “Wyatt, go sit in front of the TV or something. Harper, you need to get dressed. Did you have breakfast?”

He wrenched open the cabinets and found a box of granola bars courtesy of the food bank. He threw them, and as much wrapped food as he could find, into Harper’s backpack. How the hell had he forgotten to set his alarm last night? Jesus, it’d be a miracle if Harper didn’t miss the bus.

“Harper!” he yelled. “Hurry up!”

She was back in moments, yelling at him because she had no clean socks. Justin dug through the pile of dirty laundry and found a pair that wasn’t too grubby. Then Harper yelled at him when he tried to do her hair.

“You’re not doing it right!”

“That’s because I don’t know how!” he yelled back at her, wincing when he drew the brush back and discovered it had broken off pieces of her hair.

“I hate you!” she screamed at him, and then grabbed her backpack and bolted out the kitchen door and around the house to the front driveway. Her hair was like a dark frizzy halo around her head.

Justin didn’t follow her. He watched from the front window instead, making sure she climbed on the yellow bus when it turned up only a few seconds after she reached the end of the driveway.

He felt a rush of relief when the door of the bus shuddered closed and Harper was out of his hair for the day.

She was just…she was hurting. He knew that. Of course he did. She was hurting and some guy she didn’t even know walked into her life and tried to tell her what to do when he couldn’t even do anything right himself. He couldn’t even brush her hair without breaking it.

Justin took a deep breath.

Tomorrow he was going to do better. Which was exactly what he’d told himself yesterday, and the day before that. Tomorrow he’d figure out how to deal with Harper without making her mad, and meanwhile today he’d concentrate on looking after Scarlett and maybe even trying to get Wyatt to say something.

But first he had a mess in the kitchen to clean up.

* * * *

Justin wasn’t sure where the hours in the day went. The only thing he knew for certain was that he wasn’t getting on top of anything. He hadn’t even got around to getting the laundry on before Harper got home from school, shoved a note in his hand and stormed off to the living room to watch TV.

Justin blinked down at the note.

Harper’s teacher wanted him to call and schedule a time to come in and talk about Harpers “behavioral issues.”

Justin put the note into one of the kitchen drawers to worry about later. Another thing to add to the ever-growing list. He put it to the back of his mind while the afternoon wore down into dusk. He got the laundry on and remembered to start dinner before it was too late. He bathed Scarlett afterwards and got her into bed by seven. Then he folded laundry in front of the TV until eight and got Harper and Wyatt into bed.

And then the house was quiet, and Justin took a moment to just breathe. To just breathe, and not let everything overcome him. He poured himself a juice and went and sat on the back steps to look at the stars. He found himself closing his eyes instead, and trying to summon the ghost of this morning’s dream. The neighbor’s hands on his body, his voice in his ear. Justin had been impossibly turned on and yet at the same time he’d felt so safe.

He wanted that feeling for real.

Justin let out a long, slow breath and opened his eyes. He stared down at the slope of the dusty backyard to the screen of trees that hid the gully. He imagined walking down through the gully, crossing the field and then following the glow of the porch light all the way to the neighbor’s front door. He pictured the neighbor opening the door, his hair pulled back into a messy bun and his eyes crinkling with a smile, and Justin’s heart beat faster just at the thought of it because he knew he wasn’t brave enough to ever do anything like that. And then his imagination failed him entirely, because even in this fantasy scenario where he had the courage to knock on the neighbor’s door like that, Justin couldn’t think of anything he’d say. Nothing smart, nothing clever, and nothing remotely flirtatious. Anyway, just because the neighbor was gay that didn’t mean he’d want anything to do with Justin. The O’Dwyers were nothing but trouble, nothing but trash, and Justin had proved that last night.

But the fantasy was nice.

Justin watched a raccoon pick its way across the back yard, and then tipped his head back and closed his eyes and imagined the feel of the neighbor’s hands on him.

The fantasy was nice.