Page 3 of Julian Shared (Secret Lives of Hot Twinks #2)

Julian

When I get home from the bake sale, there’s no time to waste. I still have some last-minute preparations for the party, and I have to make sure our yard is as spotless as the inside of our house.

I swap my leather oxfords for gardening clogs.

I also slap on sunscreen and don a straw hat to combat the heady weather.

While I resist the urge to march over to Cameron’s house (it’s right next door) and ring the doorbell, I can’t stop checking my phone.

Just in case I’ve managed to miss a call or text from him.

Nope. Still nothing.

I channel my vexation into gardening.

My roses are the pride and joy of all the greenery in our yard. Mostly because this is the first time Joel and I have stayed at one post long enough for me to transfer anything from a pot to the ground.

We have roots here. Fragile roots, but roots just the same.

It isn't exactly pruning time yet, but I never leave my flowers without proper tending. I'm kneeling to uncross the stems of the most stubborn rosebush out of the hedge when I notice movement from Cameron’s house.

Someone walks out the front door…and it isn’t Cameron. Or his husband, Trevor. I stop tending my roses and squint to get a better look. The mystery man isn’t much of a mystery. I’d recognize that wily shit-eating grin from a mile away.

“G’morning, Julian!” he calls out while lingering on Cameron’s porch to light up a cigarette.

“Good afternoon, Buddy,” I huff while he puffs, “and it’s Mr. Flores, please.”

It’s not morning anymore. And he’s not really my buddy. That's just his name. Well, it’s not his name either. He’s actually Sergeant Budd, but nobody calls him that.

Buddy is just…Buddy.

“Dude, c’mon. No it’s fucking not.” Buddy bounds off the porch and leans up against the white picket fence separating my yard from Cameron’s.

“We’re like the same age. You know that, right?

I’m not calling you mister anything. Cute hat, by the way.

It come with the bow or did you tie it on yourself? ”

Buddy has a stare to go along with his grin. I get the sudden urge to get up off my knees. I huff again. He’s still puffing. While I peel off my gardening gloves, I watch the smoky plumes he makes in the air.

I haven’t smoked in years. There’s…a lot I’ve given up over the years.

All for the better, of course.

I can tell Buddy’s making fun of me, but I don’t care. I clear my throat and adjust the brim of the hat to make sure it’s fully shading my face. “I did more than tie it myself. I made it. Sewed the rest of the hat too.”

I hold my head high even as I wring my gloves. They’re handmade too. I hate the texture of the store-bought synthetic ones and rubber should only be used for cleaning. My gardening gloves are Deerskin leather, cured from a buck Joel shot on a hunting trip with his cousins.

Buddy laughs and takes another drag of his cigarette “Holy shit, how’re you real?”

“What are you doing here?” I counter and glance back over at Cameron’s door. I’ve no clue what he could have been doing inside.

Buddy has permission from command to do odd jobs around post, but his handiness only extends to yard work and outside maintenance.

The one time I tried to hire him and help me repaint my dining room’s wainscoting, well, he had to ask me what wainscoting was.

Cameron’s front door opens again and I hold up my hand to silence whatever smart-ass reply or rude joke that was due to come out of Buddy’s mouth next.

"Cameron, hello?” I call out after spotting him. “So nice to finally see you out of the house. Do you happen to know what time it is?"

"Oh. Hi, Julian." Cameron has a large sketchpad shoved underneath one arm. He stops beside Buddy at our fence line with a shy smile. "Um, yeah. It's noon or something?”

Cameron looks like he just rolled out of bed. His blond bangs are plastered across his forehead and he's dressed in dumpy sweatpants that are too big for him. Paired with a V-neck top that's, frankly, a little too tight for him.

I nod my head patiently. "Right. Do you not know what day it is? Or where the church is?"

I'm trying not to be catty. Okay, well, maybe I'm being a little catty.

But Cameron is always so eager to please. He's like a puppy, really. Show just the right measure of disappointment, and he'll come right back to do better next time.

Cameron's big green eyes go wide. "Crap. That was today?"

"Yes, Cameron. Today was the bake sale." I cross my arms. "Don't you remember? I emailed you the itinerary last week."

"Ooh." Buddy lets out a low whistle as he glances between us. "The malewives are fighting."

"We're not fighting," I say with a cluck of my tongue. "We're having an…open and productive discussion. And it’s house spouse, not malewife. That just sounds offensive."

I turn my attention back to Cameron.

"You have to be more careful,” I tell him. “If you don't start showing up at things, you'll be stuck on the no-bake tier for every charity event and you don’t want to be there when Christmas rolls around.”

Horrific. I shudder at the very idea of it.

"I'm really sorry, Julian." Cameron frowns and rubs the back of his neck. "I got…distracted this morning."

"It's fine,” I tell him. “Soon, the housewives with kids will be way too busy with the PTA and extracurriculars. We'll be able to pick up the slack. Back-to-school season is when we child-free gays really shine."

I smile at Cameron.

“You’ve really been nailing that cheesecake recipe lately. I think you’re ready for me to start teaching you cakes next.” After Cameron moved in next door earlier this summer, I took him under my culinary wing.

“Fuck, yeah, Cameron. Your cheesecake is real tasty,” Buddy agrees and that just brings on more questions than answers.

I try to take a discreet, but deep breath as Buddy takes the final drag of his cigarette and snuffs it out on the bottom of his boot.

Even after all these years, the smell of smoke brings on a wave of yearning rather than disgust. I miss it.

My fingers are already twitching with the muscle memory of holding a cigarette poised between them.

I look back at Cameron. His face is about as pink as my prized drift roses. What's wrong with him? He's being odd. And awkward. More so than usual.

Cameron flashes me his puppy-dog eyes. "I'm sorry about today, Julian. I promise I'll help you out with the next charity thing, okay? I gotta go though.”

“Yeah,” Buddy nods. “Cam forgot to set his alarm, so Trevor sent me over to get him ready for lunch.”

I look between them. “How nice.”

Cameron’s cheeks turn an even darker shade of pink. Right on cue, Trevor's truck rolls down our lane and pulls up to the curb.

"Don't forget to put on sunscreen,” I remind Cameron.

“Right, thanks. And your roses look really pretty,” Cameron says over his shoulder as Buddy steers him toward the truck.

Trevor leans out the driver's window to wave at me and I wave back at my neighbor.

And so does someone else. Trevor's not alone.

There's another someone in the passenger seat.

Cameron clamors into the backseat along with Buddy and then they take off.

Well. Seems like everyone but me has been invited out for a late lunch.

That’s fine, I’m busy today anyway.

Wielding my gardening shears, I turn to my perfectly tended roses. I cut off a singular stem with a vibrant bloom and bring it inside to keep me company.