People will riot at your concerts. They’ll burn flags. No one will respect you.
It didn’t take much to believe him. I knew from experience how much people would hate me. I listened to my father spew horrific things about people in the LGBT+ community. I couldn’t wrap my head around the positivity I’ve witnessed in recent years. There weren’t people standing on the corner with FREE HUG t-shirts during pride parades when I was in elementary school and liked Simon as much as I liked Susan. Support was harder to find before social media became popular, and by the time it did, I was locked fully in the shame of what I was. My preferences were unnatural, an abomination, a disgusting fetish according to my parents.
As much as I’d like to blame my manager for urging me to claim addiction, it didn’t take much for me to lean in that direction myself.
I don’t know how long it will take me to relinquish the shame I feel for how I was born, despite knowing deep down, I shouldn’t.
I made a promise to myself to be who I am and not give a shit what others thought about me. It’s why I hired Blackbridge Security in the first place. I could do that with a certain level of protection. I could show the world I was a man that liked men.
I could admit my mistake instead of blaming mind-altering drugs for making my choices.
But the damage train is already on the tracks.
People hate me for being an addict.
People hate me for being bi.
People hate me for even insinuating that I had to be high to touch another man.
People just… hate me.
Guilt swims in my gut again for how I treated Fletcher. He didn’t deserve it. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to let go of that remorse. If I’m being honest with myself, I don’t deserve to be free of it.
The libel and slander case my former drummer has brought against me makes sure of it, but I can’t expect to treat my oldest friend like a piece of shit and expect to get off easily, now can I?
“It’s something.”
“What?” I snap my eyes back up to Brooks’s face.
“The look. Listen, Archer, I’m sor—”
“Can I show you something?”
He takes a step back—the first one since he walked into the room—and the foot of distance now between us feels like a million miles.
His eyes narrow. “Is it your dick?”
I chuff a laugh, not expecting him to take that route.
“Is that an option?” I ask with a grin.
“No.”
“Okay, maybe later. Follow me.”
I don’t look over my shoulder as I leave the room and ascend the stairs. I don’t have to. My body is so aware of his proximity that it should scare me, but I’m a little too nervous worrying about what his reaction is going to be to focus on it.
“Is there going to be a St. Andrew’s Cross and a rack of pain implements in there?” Brooks asks as I reach for the doorknob.
“That room is on the third floor,” I joke.
“Right,” he says, as if he really believes me.
“This room is actually a little more deviant than that. Behind this door is years of deviancy.”
I shove the thing open like I’m confessing my sins, like I’m admitting a high level of guilt.
I expect him to step inside and roll his eyes, to make fun of me, but he doesn’t.
Brooks Morgan crosses the threshold to this room with wide eyes and a little awe turning up the corners of his mouth.
“Holy shit,” he mutters, stepping toward the wall on the far side of the room.
“Don’t touch,” I snap when he lifts his hand
He chuckles, a warm sound that settles deep inside of me in a way I never expected.
“They’re in cases.”
“Please, just don’t touch.”
“Hundreds,” he whispers, his eyes still locked on the wall.
“Thousands,” I correct, walking toward the marble-topped counter in the center of the room.
After gently placing the two new bottle caps on the table, I watch as he takes in my addiction. The walls are lined with bottle caps, each one in their own individual plastic case.
He doesn’t just glance at them the way I expected him too. He moves slowly, looking at each and every one of them like he’s genuinely amazed by them.
“I never knew this was a thing.”
“People collect all sorts of things. I started when I was younger, and it just kind of stuck. I lost many along the way.”
“And there isn’t a window in this room to help prevent them from fading.”
“Correct. I’m actually surprised you knew that.”
“I know a lot of people that collect art. They’re the same way.”
I feel a little judged, as if my hobby is less valuable than whomever he’s referring to.
“This is stunning,” he praises as he steps back. “I never would’ve thought to arrange them this way.”