He laughs. “No, dear. It’s not 1950 and you’re not a housewife. One bed. It’s a queen, natch. But given Officer Hands-on here’s size, it’s still going to be tight. That shouldn’t be a problem, should it? Kori tells me you two are old friends. Usually, I use that room for guests who somehow end up drunk at my house after the bar closes and feel slightly amorous. But don’t worry, it’s totally clean and ready for your enjoyment. I aim to please.” He says this all with a completely innocent look on his face. And even though I’ve only known him for fifteen minutes, I can still tell it’s complete and utter bullshit. He knows exactly what he’s doing. That bright fire in his eyes is all Helena.
Dom shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “That’s fine with me.”
“You snore,” I accuse him weakly, as if this will be any justification for when I end up sleeping on the couch. Or in the car. Or running back to Bear so he can hide me in the bathtub.
“How would you know?” he fires back. “You haven’t been around to find out.”
Yowza. And just what in God’s name is that supposed to mean?
“Well, this is just peachy,” Sandy beams. “Sounds like everything will work out just fine. Oh my, I just adore having houseguests! Kori, shall we retire to powder our noses before the evening’s festivities? We can have some girl time.” He glances at Dom and me. “Boys, your bedroom is at the end of the hall. There’s a bathroom next door with towels all fluffed and ready for your enjoyment. Feel free to get a little wet. I promise, there’re no cameras set up in the shower.”
With that, he grabs Kori by the arm and drags her out of the room.
Motherfucker.
COZY MY goddamn ass.
This room is fucking tiny.
There’s a queen bed, all right, but it takes up most of the space with hardly any room to move around. A small window lets in the burning sunlight that promises to scorch my skin off. The only other furniture in the room is a small nightstand on the far side of the bed. Atop the nightstand is a fishbowl filled with condoms. Littered next to the bowl are at least ten different kinds of lube called such ridiculous names as “Butt Butter” and “Boy-Ease” (one makes me never want to eat popcorn again, the other wants me to make sure this isn’t actually an episode of To Catch A Predator). A tassel of something leathery hangs out from one of the drawers on the nightstand. I’m pretty sure cows didn’t evolve to have their hides used on an ass filled with butt butter.
“Well, this is certainly new,” Dom says, looking up.
I follow his gaze. Above the bed, attached to the ceiling, is a row of mirrors. Because, you know, that’s what normal people have.
“This isn’t a bedroom,” I groan. “It’s a sex dungeon!”
Dom cocks his head at the mirrors. “I don’t think it’s quite a sex dungeon. I don’t see a swing or a Saint Andrew’s Cross with a mean and surly Dungeon Master waiting to flog you.”
“I don’t know what any of that stuff means!” It’s come to my attention that I’m either a prude or I really need to bone up on my studies of all things sex. Ha. Bone up. That’s funny, in an “I’m about to freak out hysterically” kind of way.
“I’d be worried if you did,” he assures me.
“How do you know what that stuff is?”
“I got strapped to the cross once,” he said. “Whipped within an inch of my life.”
My mouth drops open. “You what?” Who in the hell is this masochistic stranger standing in front of me, and what has he done with my friend? (And, as a random side note that I can’t quite push away, what exactly does one wear when one is strapped to a cross and whipped?)
He rolls his eyes. “It was a joke, Tyson. I’ve busted some kinky people, that’s all.”
“I knew that was a joke!” I most certainly did not and am lying through my teeth.
He sets his bag on the bed. I, for some reason, look up at the mirrors again. There are three of them, all pressed flush against each other. I guess I’ve never really thought about how such a thing could be good for sex, but now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure you could see absolutely everything if, as a hypothetical, someone was on his back and another someone was going to town on him from above. I mean, I guess I can sort of see the benefits of such an angle, and it’d be all fast and hard and dirty and—
Nope! No, sir! I do not need to be thinking about such things, because they will most likely lead to inappropriate erections. And if there’s one thing that ruins a platonic sharing of what is possibly the smallest bed in the world between two friends who used to be like brothers, it’s an inappropriate erection. Well, not that I know that for a fact, but I can pretty much make the assumption here. I don’t want to have to wake up in the middle of the night and explain to my heterosexual bedmate why I’m sporting wood and staring at him in the mirrors above the bed. That is not a conversation conducive to a lasting friendship.
“If you want,” Dom says without turning around, “we can get a hotel. I saw a couple just right down the road.”
Well, that would be the easy way out, wouldn’t it? Say yes and then we’d be in a generic-looking room with scratchy sheets that smell like clinical detergent and oversized pillows that have some stranger’s long black hair on them. But isn’t that what they’re expecting? Of course it is. I’m now utterly convinced that this is part of some master scheme by the psychotic villain known as Kori and her sidekick, Sandy. She may look innocent, and she may play the part well enough for most everyone around her to be convinced, but I see right through her. She obviously called ahead and coerced the drag queen (either by blackmail or brainwashing) into changing what was probably a tea- and sunroom or library or storage area for wigs and feather boas (of which I have to see evidence of any—is she really even a drag queen?) into a guest room. If that’s the case, then Sandy/Helena Handbasket is against me and already a lost cause.
And if Kori is the villain I believe her to be, then I’m obviously the hero of this story and will need to rise up against her in a battle of wit and wills. At the first sign of weakness, she’ll go for the jugular. I need to make sure she believes nothing is amiss. I have to last these next couple of days until I can leave this place known as Tucson behind and return to the land that is my home and begin to plot my revenge.
And why is she doing this?
It’s obvious.
She’s trying to get me to fuck up around Dominic somehow so he’ll learn the true nature of my feelings (rather, how I used to feel, I correct myself pointedly). In doing so, Dominic will be forced to look at me with pity and sadness (Poor little twinkie boy, he’ll say to himself. Poor little Tyson with his crush on the straight guy) and then will let me down in a way that’s gentle but will still be mortifying in ways I can’t even begin to understand (keeping in mind that this won’t happen because I most certainly don’t feel that way about him anymore).