“Sometimes,” Jet told me once, “there is no getting over something when it’s sunk its claws too deep. You can only drag it with you and get used to the extra weight as you move on.”
I stare in shock at the image on Christa’s phone. She and Sarah, her office mate, are silent.
If I hadn’t walked inside, cursing my paranoia all the way, I wouldn’t have seen it. But here I am, looking at a picture of myself with Jet and Candy outside our building, all of us holding hands and smiling, myself in the middle.
And worse still… it’s posted in the comments of a blog called Candy Boys. The blog my sis told me about. The caption says, “The real Candy Boys—Joel and Jethro.”
That’s it. But the comments below have exploded, asking who we are, where we live, what we do, if we’re really as kinky as the story describes us. If Jet really tops me. If I like taking it up the ass. If Jet likes spanking. If we like fucking Candy on the kitchen top.
Jesus Christ.
“Give me back my phone,” Christa demands, but her voice is unsure.
I ignore her. All this time I was worried about the old scandal when a new one was brewing. My chest is so tight I can barely breathe.
Back then, I was naïve. I hadn’t realized anyone could see me with Ellen and her girlfriend from the back well enough to take that picture.
But I thought I could trust Candy. She never mentioned this blog. I had to find out by chance, and even worse… this picture. And our names.
Why? I thought we had something good going. I thought she cared for us like we care for her.
Fucking stupid, Joel.
“Hey, Joel?” Christa is behind me, and I jerk around, dizzy. “Um, look, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry.” The blog is open for everyone to see. Anyone. Everyone can see it.
Fuck.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Sarah says, and I expect her to start laughing, but she looks quite solemn. “Being with Candy and Jethro.”
“It’s the twenty-first century,” Christa chimes in, and it all sounds like a bad joke to my ears. “Maybe you wanted to keep it a secret for longer, but so what? As long as it works for you. I’m happy for you.”
She’s not happy for me. This is all fake, a façade. Who else has she shown this to in the office?
Hell, I could lose my job over this shit. The boss might have turned a blind eye to the first scandal, but now?
Jet. Has Jet seen this? What if someone tells him? What if his boss finds out?
“Have you told anyone else about this?” I demand, shaking the phone at her.
Christa actually takes a step back. “Calm down, Joel. We haven’t. It’s just a blog. Not many people would recognize you. It’s not even a clear picture of you.”
The hell it isn’t. I throw the phone on her desk and turn to go.
“What’s the big deal anyway?” Sarah asks. “You’re not in the closet or something, are you? We’re open-minded, but are you?”
Her question echoes in my skull as I gather my jacket and my keys from my desk and get the fuck out of here.
I need to find Jet.
***
I call his cell phone, but he doesn’t answer. Typical. Probably forgot to charge it, or switch it on—or he’s walking. I pass by the store, but the Closed sign is on, so I drive on home, wondering what I’ll do if Candy is there.
Lose it like a motherfucker, probably.
Which makes me glad there’s only Jet when I enter the apartment. He’s in the bathroom, hands braced on the sink, shirtless, only clad in his briefs. He meets my gaze in the mirror, and it roots me to the spot.