“I’m straight as a banana,” Rich announced and took another puff.
“Uh-huh. I’ll just open some windows, okay?” Olly walked around the room and yanked the windows open, then he went through the kitchen and opened the back door. Hopefully, the air would start moving and clear the stink out.
Back in the living room, Rich had taken his feet off the cooler and was fumbling around inside. “How about a beer?” He waved a bottle in the air.
“Sure, why not.” Olly took the bottle and twisted the cap off. The cold drink felt good slipping down his throat. He flopped down at the other end of the couch. “Where’s Sandy?”
Rich made an overlarge hand gesture. “Out. About. Something about some missing kitchen cabinets. She told me to stay here in case the delivery men arrive, but they haven’t. So it’s just me and you here, Square Fruit.” His lips pulled sideways and curved, and he showed teeth. Olly realized Rich was smiling for real. He should’ve done it more often—it looked good on him.
Olly knew his reasons for coming here were moot—he wouldn’t be able to have a serious conversation with Rich any time soon, but he could at least have a beer and enjoy the kinder, softer Rich for a little while longer. The trip wouldn’t have to be a total waste. “So, Rich, tell me about yourself.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“You said you were out of work,” Olly said, dredging up the throwaway comment from his memory.
Rich jerked one shoulder in a scornful shrug. “Lost my job because I called a client a cunt.”
“Why?”
“Because he was a cunt. I don’t wanna talk about it. You’re killing my buzz,” Rich said, frowning.
“Fine,” Olly agreed. But he was determined to find out something personal about Rich, no matter how insignificant. “What’s your favorite color?”
“Blue,” Rich replied, staring at Olly’s hip. “Whassat?” he asked, pointing in the same direction.
Olly looked down and realized that, scratching his stomach, he’d pushed the hem of his shirt up, and blue ink was showing over the rim of his jeans. He pulled the shirt up more. “Tattoo.”
“Of an octopus?”
“Nope.”
“I see tentacles,” Rich pointed out, quite correctly.
“It’s Cthulhu. Wanna see?” Without waiting for a reply, Olly hopped off the couch and unzipped his fly. He pushed his jeans and briefs down enough to show the whole tattoo. The bulk of it was at his groin and hip, so the edge of his pubes peeked out, but it couldn’t be helped. And it wasn’t like he was waving his dick around.
Rich’s eyes got very big and very dark as he stared at Olly’s mythical monster. He leaned forward as if in a daze, and, putting the beer down, he reached his hand out. It froze in midair.
“You can touch,” Olly said encouragingly.
Rich’s fingers were rough but his touch light. He slowly traced the ink lines, causing goose bumps to spread like a California wildfire across Olly’s skin.
Olly held his breath and stood perfectly still as the moment teetered on the edge of the unknown. Then Rich pulled away and sat back with a face full of turmoil. All Rich needed right then was the slightest push to tumble from the straight and hetero. Olly knew this in his guts. But Rich was drugged, and even if it was self-administered, it made no difference—Olly would be taking advantage of someone whose judgment was impaired.
With resignation, Olly zipped up and surreptitiously adjusted himself in the process. He took his spot on the couch and began to chat as if nothing had just passed. “I got it four years ago to hide an appendectomy scar. At the time, I was going through a Lovecraft phase, so Cthulhu was the obvious choice.”
Rich pressed the cold bottle to his temple, and tension gradually faded from his expression. “How old were you?”
“Seventeen. Almost.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
Olly nodded. “Yeah, eighteen is the minimum age for tats, but Wade—the tattoo guy—wanted to get into my pants something bad. He inked me in the back room after hours.”
Rich seemed to think this over. “Your parents flipped out?”
“Nah. They were cool. Dad baked a cake in celebration. For the tattoo, not Wade wanting to get into my pants. I didn’t tell them that part.”
“Huh?”
Olly slumped lower, making himself more comfortable. “You haven’t met my folks—they’re old-school hippies.”
“Those still exist?”
“Endangered species, but they are around. They mostly stick to the coast or hide in the desert. You don’t often see them in the city.”