Sandbridge Box Set

Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Thirteen Years Earlier

Scooter loathed summers more than anything else. All his friends were out surfing or skating or getting into trouble, but not Scooter.

Scooter had a job. It was a boring job and he barely got paid for it, less than two dollars an hour, and that was ridiculous because the two waitresses were supposed to share tips with the busboy (that would be him), but they didn’t whenever they thought Scooter’s mom wouldn’t notice, which was most of the time. About once a week, Dottie made a show of handing her tips over and Scooter just had to f*****g eat it the rest of the time.

Jason helped, sometimes, but Scooter wasn’t comfortable with that for any number of reasons. Not the least of which was that Jason kept jumping in whenever anyone took it in their heads to give Scooter s**t about being gay, and as a result, Jason spent half his time covered in bruises and scrapes and, on a couple of occasions, bites. Because of Scooter. Everyone in town knew he was gay; Scooter had been outed spectacularly when he was barely ten. Someone had figured it out—maybe it was the way Scooter didn’t participate in the various girls-are-icky dance of playground stupidity, or the way he was a little bit dreamy in class, or even that he was just pretty, for a boy.

Harry Drumheller probably wasn’t the one who’d figured it, or maybe he was just guessing, but he’d passed Scooter a “Do you like me y/n?” note in class, then teased and tempted him out into the playground and around the far side of the slide for a promised kiss.

Instead of getting the kiss, Scooter had gotten exposed as a fairy to most of the kids in the third grade and smacked around while the teacher was just a little too slow in breaking things up. When the principal demanded to know why they’d hit him, Scooter said, “They said I’s gay,” and instead of those kids getting punished, the principal had wondered “Are you?” Jason was the only one who had defended Scooter then, and not much had changed over the last several years.

So most of the time, Scooter would give Jason the easiest parts of the job—wrapping the silverware in the napkins or wiping down the tables—but when that was done, Scooter preferred Jason to just sit on the back steps and sketch, keeping Scooter company while Scooter’s fingers turned pruney in the dishwater.

That day, the one when Scooter’s whole life changed, Jason had taken a particularly tough beating, and from the way his eyes kept going unfocused, Ma was worried he had a concussion. Ma had sent Jason up to the house to sit in the air conditioning and told Scooter to check in on him regularly, in case it got bad enough that they needed to run him up to the ER.

Scooter was coming down the stairs from his most recent check on Jason, where he might have malingered for longer than he should have, because avoiding work was a thing fourteen-year-old Scooter Stahl was getting damn good at. Halfway down, he heard a noise, unfamiliar, from the alley between the main building and the separate garage, where the trash bins cluttered up the walkway and Scooter’s bike often was left sprawled.

It was a deep, guttural sort of groan, followed by a breathy whisper. “God, Chris…”

Scooter crept the rest of the way down the stairs, a strange, urgent panic pounding in his chest that tightened at his stomach and tingled against his scalp. He pressed up against the wall, listening, hands clenched.

“Yeah, that’s my good boy,” said another voice, this one recognizable. Christian Sharpe, the lawyer. His parents were rich. They owned several of the beach properties, one of which they used a few weeks of the year. The rest of them were rentals, ritzy ones. Everyone knew Christian; he was gorgeous and the girls flocked to him whenever he was on the beach. He and his cronies owned the stretch of the beach with the volleyball nets, owned them by dint of defeating all comers in brutal games that left more than one summer tourist sand-scraped and bloody. And he did it with such a broad, sunny smile that the tourists were happy to be beaten by him.

Scooter slid all the way to the corner and stole a quick peek around.

Christian’s eyes were closed, his hands tight in the hair of the man in front of him. And that was good, because Scooter froze on the spot, unable to move, and if Christian had been any less preoccupied, Scooter would have been spotted immediately.

Christian was pressed against the wall, his head tipped back, baring a delicious and sensual throat, his mouth was open. His pants were around his thighs.

The man in front of him—one of the guys Scooter’d seen on Christian’s volleyball team—was on his knees, head bobbing back and forth with quick, urgent rhythm.

Scooter knew what a blowjob was, theoretically. He certainly had never gotten one, and he didn’t much believe the guys at school who said this or that girl had given them one, either. He didn’t know it looked like that. He didn’t know the person getting one would look…like that. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the scene, Christian’s handsome face twisted into an expression of possessive, smug lust. Scooter couldn’t look away.

His heart was pounding in his chest, and then the blood rushed south. Scooter sprouted wood so hard and so fast it ached. He wanted…wanted. He knew he shouldn’t, that what Christian was doing was—His breath caught in his throat.

Christian, the pride and prince of Sandbridge, was gay.

Christian was as gay as Scooter was. He wanted—and did—the same things that Scooter wanted.

Strange, what a suddenly liberating thought that was. Scooter knew he was gay, he knew he favored men, he knew it was wrong, he knew other people had a list of derogatory words for it, that it disgusted them…But it had never before occurred to him that those things came from a place. That they came from a place of knowing other people were gay.

Scooter sucked air, his chest seeming to break steel bands around it that he’d never known were there. Christian’s eyes snapped open at the sound. He looked over his lover’s head, found Scooter peeking at them around the corner. Christian’s brilliant blue eyes were piercing, full of heat and he met Scooter’s gaze without blinking.

He raised one tanned hand to his perfect mouth and pressed a finger across his lips.

Shhhhh.

That was all. Christian wasn’t embarrassed.

He wasn’t ashamed.

Scooter stayed in place, watching, groin aching with need, watching.

Christian stiffened, a soft, whining moan coming from his throat and he shot his load, watching Scooter intently the whole time. The guy on his knees was irrelevant. Christian wanted Scooter.

Scooter nodded, slow. Like a promise.

Nine Years Earlier:

Chris held out the gold-linked bracelet, the expression on his face somehow stiff. “I can’t accept this, Winston,” he said. Scooter wished that Chris wouldn’t call him that, but he didn’t object. He’d never objected. Not to Chris.

“I want you to have it,” Scooter said, pressing the box back toward the older man. Not that Scooter was really a man himself, at just barely eighteen, but his whole world, his whole life, was ending. The bracelet, 18k gold and leather, represented most of his savings and Scooter wanted, desperately, to see it against Chris’s skin. To know that some part of Chris thought about him, every day.

They were under Scooter’s favorite tree in Williamsburg, having their uncomfortable discussion sitting in the grass.

Chris had turned him away when Scooter had knocked on the door of his parent’s house, but had texted later to set up the meeting. Scooter’d had to talk very fast to get his ma to let him take the truck and drive to Williamsburg the day after Memorial Day, with so much work to do.

“Winston, honey, you need to move on,” Chris said, honestly regretful. He looked sad and he still reached for Scooter’s hands and Scooter clung to them, to that gesture. “You have to know how precarious my position is. I can’t be suspected, it’ll hurt my career. I can’t be seen with you again, honey.”

“But I love you.” It was nothing, and Scooter knew it was nothing. It was worthless. But it was all he had to give.

“And I love you, too,” Chris said, aware that he was breaking Scooter’s heart. “I’ll always love you. I’ll always remember what we had, but it’s over now, honey. Okay?”

“No,” Scooter said. He didn’t want the affair to be over, it couldn’t be over. It hadn’t been nearly enough.

Chris wiped the tear off Scooter’s cheek with his thumb and tasted it. He offered a smile; Scooter would have killed for that smile. “All right,” Chris said. “All right, Winston. I love you, you know I do, right? We can…I’ll get us a hotel. But we have to be careful, honey. And…”

Scooter agreed, he agreed to everything. Anything. Anything Chris wanted, if Chris just wouldn’t leave him, please.

Chris f****d him in the Motel Six and let Scooter drive home.

The next day, Chris brought his new boyfriend into Dockside and watched with the merciless eyes of a shark as Scooter fled back to his room to sob himself sick.

Six Years Earlier:

Scooter slumped against the table, sloppy drunk and knowing it. Chris hadn’t even said goodbye, just turned over and reminded Scooter to lock the door on his way out.

Scooter had almost stopped when he got to Williamsburg—his favorite climbing tree was there, a green haven where he’d wrestled with his fears and worries since he was a child visiting with his Ma—but he couldn’t bring himself to let the tree see him like this, covered with Chris’ bruises, Chris’ come still sticky on his thighs. So he’d kept driving, until he got to Yorktown.

Where he’d swung off the interstate and detoured straight for the riverside pub. He couldn’t decide if the smell on the table was clams that were a few days too old, or if he was just smelling the evidence of what he’d been up to. s*x and sweat smelled like bivalves. Who’d have thought that. Scooter didn’t even find it funny, but he was laughing nonetheless. Laughing, because it was easier, and safer, than crying.

He was too drunk to make it home. Ma had pounded it into his head any number of times that he should never drive drunk. He should call her, Ma would come get him, she wouldn’t even be mad. That was a crock of s**t, she’d be f*****g furious, and he knew it. He was too old to be acting the hellion.

But he still couldn’t drive. He didn’t want to be responsible for killing someone, or wrecking his truck. Or even the way Ma would look at him if she knew he’d been driving drunk. He fumbled out his phone and scrolled down to Jason’s contact.

Need u 2 cm pick me up

New text from Jason: U ok? Still need ride? Where are u?

Yrktn pub. Prety drnk nt gd 2 drive. ride?

New text from Jason: Hour and half to end of my shift. B there in 2hrs ok?

Two hours. Two hours to slide under this table and think about Chris. Scooter waved at the waitress for another beer. Thought about getting some food to take the edge off. Chris had left him gas money, he always left Scooter gas money, whenever Scooter drove up to Richmond for a visit. Gas money, s**t. Even as expensive as gas was, and as bad of mileage as his truck got, Chris gave him enough cash to drink himself stupid, and drive back and forth to Richmond a few more times.

Fuck. There were times when Scooter felt like a f*****g w***e. But he didn’t know how to say no to Chris. And, once again, Chris had called him on a workday, so Scooter wasn’t going to be getting paid. He needed the goddamn money, so he took it. He took it and he f*****g hated himself for it.

New text from Jason: Chng of plan, be there in 20.

That was good. Right? Could Jason even get to Yorktown in twenty minutes? Didn’t really matter. Scooter thought about Chris, who’d patted his hair and called him Winston and told him he was good, he was doing good, and his gorge rose. Too much beer and clams. Bad combination. Whose dumb idea was that anyway? He…mostly got to the men’s room in time.

Mostly.

rt. Good Am sad stupidgay asshole undr th tbl thrwng up Cnt miss me

Jase was more or less on time. A little less than more, but he was there, and that was all that mattered, right? He waved the waitress over again for his tab and didn’t even wince when she told him. Instead, Scooter just peeled off the twenties that Chris had given him, left an extra one as a tip for the trouble he’d been.

“Come on, Scooter,” Jason said, getting one arm under him and levering him out of the chair where Scooter’s pants were sticking. Yuck. “Let’s go.”

Scooter opened one eye. “Do you think I’m unlovable?” He was trying for light-hearted and sarcastic, but it came out more like he was an inch from falling over and sobbing like a little kid. “Like, completely, totally, not even worth it unlovable?”

“If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t be here, you i***t,” Jason sighed. He grabbed Scooter’s wrist and hauled it across his shoulders. “Come on, let’s get you home to sleep it off.”

“Don’ wanna sleep,” Scooter complained. “Ma’s gonna freak at me again for bein’ gone the last two days an’ not callin’ her. I ain’t a kid anymore, Jase.” Scooter almost walked right into the door jamb before Jason got them straightened out and into the parking lot.

Scooter was probably just imagining the collective sigh of relief that came from the pub.

“I know, pal, but she’s your Ma. She still worries. Gimme your keys.”

Scooter dug around in his pocket, fumbled a few times. “He put his wedding ring on the dresser, Jase. Right there! On the dresser.” He hitched in a breath that threatened to become a sob. “I don’t…I don’t know…He couldn’t’ve left it at home? Or somethin’?”

“Well maybe,” Jason suggested, unlocking the truck and helping Scooter climb up into the passenger seat, “you shouldn’t be f*****g a married guy, even if it’s just a political marriage of convenience.”

“They’ve only been married like three months,” Scooter said, sullen. “She’s at her mom’s. Stefanie. Stefanie Sharpe. It’s not fair, Jase. I love him. It’s just not fair.”

Jason sighed and closed the door without answering. It took him ten minutes or so to lift his bike into the bed of Scooter’s truck and tie it down so it wouldn’t get scratched up. “Someday,” he promised Scooter as he climbed into the cab, “someday you’re going to find someone who loves you back. Someone who actually deserves your love.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Scooter said. He tipped his head to look up at the ceiling. “Doesn’t even matter. No one makes me feel like Chris does. Doesn’t matter. I love him, Jason. He doesn’t love her. S’not his fault that we can’t be together all the time. He doesn’t love her, he loves me. He does. He said so.” At least, Chris said it sometimes. Not this time. Tears shimmered under his lashes and he closed his eyes, letting them fall.

Jason snorted indelicately as he started the engine. “Christian Sharpe doesn’t know how to love anyone,” he muttered.

“Mmmm,” Scooter said. “He knows. God, he knows. I’m not gonna walk right for a week.” At least he had that. Chris had left those marks all over him. Proof that Chris wanted him. Needed him.

“That’s not love,” Jason grumbled. “That’s just sex.”

Scooter tipped his head back again, suppressing the urge to vomit. “Ugh. Whose idea is it to serve beer and raw oysters at the same bar?” Jason didn’t answer. “Besides, how would you know th’ difference between love an’ s*x, little brother? You been gettin’ some that I don’t know about? Come on, fess up. When was the last time you got satisfied?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jason told Scooter tightly. “When was the last time Sharpe did anything for you that didn’t involve your d**k?”

“Hey, my d**k is prime real estate,” Scooter protested, but he could feel the flush creeping up his neck and staining his cheeks. “We haven’t seen each other since before the wedd—since May. Of course we want to spend it naked. S’not like he cares about m’ stupid classes or my damn job or nothin’.”

“That’s the point, Scooter,” Jason argued. “If he cared about you at all, he’d care about your life! And if you were just getting your rocks off, too, I wouldn’t care. Well, not as much. But he’s making you miserable. It’s driving me crazy.”

“I don’t have a life,” Scooter pointed out. “It’s not his fault. I should…I should just deal with it. I just…I love him an’ it hurts, every time he has to leave me. I should be happy. We get some time together. I’m th’ only one he ever comes back to, Jase, an’ he loves me and I should be happy with that. It’s not his fault I’m greedy. I just…I just want to be able to go somewhere with him, hold his hand, not…not have to worry if anyone sees us. What that’ll do to his reputation. I just…I wish he didn’t have to be ashamed of me.”

“He should be ashamed of himself,” Jason snarled. “You deserve better. You deserve someone who’ll give you more than a couple of days a damn year and will stand by your side, not shove you in a dark corner.”

Scooter closed his eyes for a long while, wishing he could sleep it off. Wishing Jason could understand. Wishing Jason didn’t have to see him like this. “Thank you,” he said. “F’r comin’ to get me. Sorry I piss you off so much. I’d change it, if I knew how.”

“It’s not you, it’s him,” Jason said, sighing. “You know I’m always gonna come for you.”