Page 7 of Coming Clean

Jeremy

I rushed through brushing my teeth, then did a quick sweep to make sure I hadn't left any dirty underwear lying around. Was there anything else particularly personal out in the open?

Oh, shit! I ran to my bed. Where was that damn lube from last night?

My face burned at the memory of the fantasies that had played out in my head.

Connor, and his perfect ass, had starred in every single one.

I finally found the little bottle under my pillow.

I stuffed it in the nightstand drawer and buried it under some nice existentialist poetry journals.

I tried to think straight, but my brain felt like it was swimming in cotton because I'd skipped coffee this morning. My plan was to walk to the cafe up the street. Hopefully, I could manage it without collapsing. I was utterly useless before my morning caffeine fix.

I shoved my laptop into my bag. What else did I need?

My notebook—the old-fashioned, dead-tree kind.

Headphones. A pen. I rummaged through my bag but didn't find any good ones, just those crappy ballpoints.

I never bought those. Where the hell did they even come from?

My office? I dug deeper, finally locating a decent pen.

Was that everything?

The doorbell rang, and I walked calmly to the door, no sliding this time. I was even wearing shoes. Well, sandals anyway; Connor would probably dismiss them as exactly what a professor would wear. But at least there were no neon socks, and I wasn't going to crash into the door.

Despite trying to brace myself, when I opened the door, I had the same reaction as before.

Paralysis. Connor had this presence, this way of looking at me that made me want to agree to anything he said.

I'd be on my knees in a second if he told me to, and I didn’t take orders from anyone, not since I'd come out, grown up, and started running my own life.

Most people saw my delicate features and smooth skin and assumed I was submissive.

But while I had fantasies about letting go, I liked control and didn’t give it up easily.

I needed to know I was safe before I could let anyone fuck me, and I rarely felt safe.

I'd made a mistake with Silas the Asshole, ignoring the shitty way the man treated me.

I wouldn't do that again, but something about Connor made me trust him more than I had anyone besides David in years.

"Good morning," Connor said, his expression expectant.

Maybe he was waiting for me to step aside and invite him in instead of just staring at him. "Come on in."

Connor set a bag of cleaning supplies down by the door and glanced around. "Looks like you've unpacked a lot more stuff."

"I tried. Some of it's up in the attic, but things should be out of your way."

"Whatever's not, I'll work around it." Connor waved dismissively.

No need to stand around making awkward small talk.

Connor seemed like the kind of man who liked to get straight to work.

I refused to let that disappoint me. "I'm going to grab my bag and head out to get some work done.

Just text or call if you need anything. I might be back before you're done, but if so, I'll stay out of your way.

" And try not to stare at your ass too much.

Connor looked perplexed, but I wasn't sure why. Maybe he wasn't used to clients worrying about interfering with his work. I still wasn't used to the idea of hiring someone to clean. It felt odd, like I ought to be helping.

"You're working today?" Connor asked.

"Yes."

"I thought you were taking a… what's that word?"

"Sabbatical?" I asked.

"Right. Isn't that like a vacation?"

"Not really. I don't have to show up at my office, and I won't be teaching any classes during the fall semester, but I am supposed to make progress on my book. I've been trying to write it for over a year but never had enough time with all my teaching responsibilities."

Connor nodded. "So you're still working, but on your own schedule?"

"Right."

"Well, good luck."

"Thanks. I'm still mostly organizing notes at this point, but you probably don't want to hear about that, either."

"Actually, I think it's cool you're writing a book. I can't imagine being able to do that. Pulling all those thoughts together and doing all that writing, making it sound good and all."

"It's not easy, but it is doable. I think anyone can write a book if they put the time into it."

"Really? No way I could do that," Connor insisted.

"You might surprise yourself."

Connor shrugged.

I wasn't sure why it mattered so much to me, but I didn't want Connor to belittle himself. "You could do whatever you wanted if it was important enough to you."

Connor studied me for a few seconds. "You really believe that, don't you?"

I realized I did believe Connor was a man who could accomplish anything, and I wanted him to believe it too. "Yes, I do."

Connor smiled, a soft smile with none of the commanding presence he'd shown earlier.

After ordering a mocha and a slice of spinach-and-onion quiche, I found a table by the window. I resisted the sticky bun I really wanted, but there was a huge chance I'd return to the counter for it later, after a dose of protein and vegetables.

I opened the file for my book and sighed.

How could someone want to write a book so badly, complain endlessly about not having the time for it, and then resist writing it with every fiber of his being once he had time?

I clicked on my browser and scrolled aimlessly through social media, not caring about the posts I read.

People sharing their own coffee and breakfast choices.

Complaints. Bragging. Ads. I rarely posted anything myself.

I was one of those social media spies, watching everyone else's life but not contributing.

Email came next. Nothing of consequence there. I could always read some blog posts by other professors not doing their work. Or I could actually write the book I said I wanted to write.

Several minutes later, I found myself taking a quiz on which career I should have. Writer, it said. As if. I hadn't written one word yet.

Get to work .

Right. Work. I pulled out the notebook I'd scribbled some ideas in—references to track down and poems to re-read.

That wasn't writing either, but at least it had to do with my book.

I made a few more notes, but internet puppies were calling me.

Surely I needed to see more puppies being cute and puppyish.

Several hours later, I'd managed a few thousand words—all of it crap—and was ready for lunch.

There was a sandwich shop down the street; I could head there and keep working.

As I packed up my laptop, a man I knew I should recognize walked in.

He was tall, with exquisitely styled auburn hair and broad shoulders, his muscular arms shown off by his tailored dress shirt.

I should be salivating over him, but there was something off-putting about him.

"Jeremy Parks!" he boomed.

I resisted the urge to lean away from the sound. "Hi." Who the hell are you?

"You remember me, right?"

No. “Um…”

"Tony, from the lit magazine."

Oh, Tony. The beautiful, popular boy from my class who got caught cheating on an English test and was forced to work on the literary magazine with the nerd crowd. "Of course. How are you?" Still bullshitting people, if I guessed right.

"Great. I own a dealership on Patton Avenue."

"Of course you do. I mean… that's great."

"You live in the neighborhood now?"

"Temporarily. My aunt and uncle passed away recently, and I'm staying in their house while I get it ready to sell."

"Ah. I'm sorry for your loss, but it's great that you're close by now."

Seriously? I hadn't spoken to him in over ten years. Tony sat down without asking and looked me over like he was assessing my worth. "We should get together. Do you have plans tonight?"

Wait. Was he flirting with me? He was straight, wasn’t he?

Or did he think I was going to do his bidding like I'd very stupidly done in high school?

God, how I had wanted him then. My teenage hormones had gone nuts over the body Tony had honed playing every major sport he could fit into his schedule.

I might have been a sex-crazed idiot back then, one who'd "helped" Tony with his articles—aka written them for him—but I had no need for Tony's shit now.

"I'm gay." The words burst out of my mouth with no warning. What was wrong with me? Maybe I really was as socially hopeless as David feared.

I half expected Tony to shove his chair back and run so no one would see him sitting with a gay man. Instead, he grinned. "I know. That's why I asked you out."

I frowned in confusion. "You're looking for a gay friend?"

Tony's boisterous laugh seemed to fill the whole shop. "That's a good one! No, I'm gay too, and I want you."

I stared, trying to make sense of Tony's words. "W-what?"

"Don't be coy. You had to know back in high school."

I glanced around for hidden cameras. This had to be a prank, a weird, creepy prank. "No, I promise I had no clue."

"You wanted me, admit it."

"I…" I almost did admit it, but I cut the words off quickly enough.

The smug look on Tony's face, the absolute certainty that he could have whatever he wanted from me—my help on writing assignments, my favorite pen, a copy of the novel we were reading for class, my ass—stopped me.

"I may have made some unwise decisions in high school, but I'm smarter now. "

Tony's smirk never faltered. "Is someone waiting for you back at home?"