Chapter 36
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 fucked 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. Sex 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 shit, she’d be fucking 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, shit. 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 fucking whore. 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 fucking 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.