Chapter 10

Ten

Titus tossed Pedro a towel, and they went to the table where they'd lunched earlier that day. On it was a tray with a plastic pitcher and some salt-rimmed cups.

"I made Margaritas?" Titus said. "Wait. Is that–?"

"Cliché?" Pedro grinned. "Yes. Sensitive? No. I love margaritas."

"Good. I'm glad. I usually drink beer, but I wanted something special for tonight."

Titus stirred the pitcher with a wooden spoon, poured, and handed him a cup. Pedro sipped, eyes brightening. "Mm. This is delicious."

"I hope so. I'm not much of a bartender, but I found my dad's old Mr. Boston book."

"Mr. Boston?"

"It's like a bartender's bible. Recipes."

"I see."

"And Mike was kind enough to make a delivery."

"Mike?"

"Yeah. His old man owns Pop's Package Store. Mike's another teammate from school."

"Did he know you were entertaining a guest?"

"I didn't say anything. If he was curious, he didn't show it. He talked me into some top-shelf booze, though–" Titus gestured to a half empty bottle of tequila. "–so I talked him into delivery. It was a good sale. He was happy."

"It's delicious." Pedro took another sip. He could already feel the spirits intermingling with his body chemistry, relaxing him further.

"Yeah? I thought so too. I had one before you came… and maybe a shot."

"Aha! That explains your boldness."

Titus reddened.

"You're very cute when you're shy."

"You wear blushes better than anyone else. I'm convinced. You're—" Titus searched vainly for words, settling on, "–so beautiful."

Predictably, Pedro's gaze went down as his own color rose. Titus was growing fond of the reaction.

They were quiet for a while, enjoying the sound of crickets chirping while gazing at the glowing blue water. When Titus spoke again, he asked, "So, what's your story, P? How the hell did you end up in the booming metropolis of Spoon, GA, population thirty-five hundred?"

Pedro smiled, acknowledging Titus's sarcasm. "Well, let's see… I already told you I'm from Chiquilá. It's on the Yucatán Peninsula."

"Where is that?"

"It's at the eastern tip of Mexico, on the gulf but across, and due south of Alabama—surprisingly close to Cuba, about a hundred and fifty miles west. It's a tiny town, less than half your population. My family was what you'd call middle class, I guess. We were comfortable, with a roof over our heads. My father was a teacher; my mother is a seamstress."

Titus sat back, relaxing into his chair and sipping his drink. His eyes locked in on Pedro, immersed, like a child at storytime.

"Papa became ill six years ago—cancer. We struggled. I was near my last year of preparatoria—what you would call a junior in high school—and he wouldn't let me quit to help support our household. Mi madre–my mother–worked around the clock and missed out on a lot of his final… moments. God knows what he did during the days, but I was up most nights with him, sleeping when I could before school the next day."

"So, you do know what it's like," Titus said, recalling Pedro's commiseration from earlier in the day. "I didn't realize we had this in common, too."

"We do. Yes."

"And he wasn't in a hospital."

"Occasionally, and at the end, but never for a long time. Without him working, we couldn't afford it. We found ourselves living on other people's charity."

"I thought doctors in Mexico were less expensive."

"Maybe for Americans." Pedro said. "But our wages are much lower. It's a known issue. There's talk of universal healthcare, but who knows when that will happen? Too late for us anyway."

"I'm sorry, P. You had it much worse than me."

"Maybe. It doesn't matter. Losing someone you love is terrible in any situation. We made do."

Titus admired Pedro's sense of pride, knowing that he would have done the same had the situation been reversed. Only he'd never had to consider such things. His family had always had money.

"You said you lived by the sea." He continued probing. "Is that why you're comfortable in the water?"

Pedro's smile returned. "I love the water. It's the thing I miss most other than my mom."

"So, how did you end up here, land-locked?"

"I almost didn't. My friend, Rico, works in Morehead. He's a painter with Burgess Construction."

"Jim. Jim Burgess."

"You know him?"

"Yeah. Not well, though. We went to school together."

"Did you go to school with everyone ?"

Titus chuckled. "No. But most folks in Spoon and Morehead know each other—small, adjacent towns with only one high school. Anyway, Jim's older than me. Is he friends with Silas?"

"He is. They both run crews that are predominantly Mexican. They both sponsor immigrants."

"Cheap labor." Titus scowled. "They're not paying you fairly, P."

"I know. It's OK though. It's part of the process. When I become a citizen, it'll be worth it."

"It still makes me burn."

"I can tell. Anyway, I didn't want to be a house painter. I prefer the outdoors. The smell of paint gives me a headache. I like fresh air and working with plants. It relaxes me."

"So, Jim hooked you up with Silas."

"Yes. But first, Rico had to plant a seed ."

"You know, my grades weren't great, but I do believe that is what they call a metaphor."

Pedro's eyes lifted to the stars. "Somewhere, my father is smiling at you right now."

"Even though I just ravished you in the pool?"

His eyes fell back to Titus. "Maybe he didn't see that part."

"So, Silas hired you based on Jim's recommendation via Rico?"

"Exactly. A lot of Mexican workers, documented workers with green cards, are referrals from existing immigrants. At least that was my experience."

"Makes sense. How do you like working for Silas? Be honest . It's just between you and me."

Pedro considered, then shrugged. "He's my boss. He pays me on time. He's fair with work assignments and seniority. I'm happy. It could have been a lot worse, T. I really don't have a choice. He is my sponsor."

Titus said nothing, only nodded slightly.

"You don't like Silas. I picked up on that earlier. Why is that?"

"He beat up a kid at school, someone much smaller than him–a Black boy."

"Without provocation."

"From what I heard. He just picked that guy because he was smaller and knew he would win the fight. Had I been there, I would have stopped it."

"That, too, echoes of West Side Story ."

"There's too much fighting," Titus said, disgusted. "People need to chill out, enjoy life. We're not here forever. You and I both know that firsthand."

Pedro nodded. "But you come from a place of privilege, no? Perhaps you've not dealt with certain insecurities? … Rivalries? … Shame? I'm just speculating out loud. Please don't think I'm judging you."

"I don't," Titus said, then grinned. "I may not be book-smart, but my instincts are pretty sharp. Otherwise, I wouldn't have had the courage to invite you here tonight. But I've known those things you mentioned, P. Serving time in the closet has nothing to do with wealth or privilege. That's fear, insecurity . And even though I was a celebrated football player, I had rivals, especially in Morehead. There's a long-standing rivalry between Spoon and Morehead, if you don't know that already."

"I know a little. Silas hates Morehead. He's always bad-mouthing the town. I don't understand why."

"We're spoon-fed it—pardon the pun—at an early age. It goes way back to the Revolutionary War and the original thirteen colonies. No one even remembers why. But in Silas's case, I'm certain it's something to do with his competition—Fowler Landscaping—being there. Elijah Fowler, the owner, refused to sell the business to Silas's dad back in the ‘80s."

"So you're telling me that the twin cities?—"

"Towns," Titus said. "Sorry to interrupt. But there ain't nothing here that remotely resembles a city. Yeah, there's Twin City Country Club in Morehead, but they're just trying to sound fancier than what they are—a cinderblock building with a golf course, and a shitty bar with cheap drinks."

"I see."

"Members have to be sponsored there. Do you know what that translates to, Pedro?"

"No."

"White people only."

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

"And did I mention that Elijah Fowler is Black?"

"My head is spinning."

"Sorry," Titus said, pouring them both some more from the pitcher. "Now you know why I stay home. That kind of stuff gets my goat."

Pedro stared, confused by the expression.

"It aggravates me," Titus clarified.

"You should be mad," Pedro said. "It's unjust."

"Damn right it is. But it's in Morehead, out of my dad's jurisdiction. Honestly, I don't know that he would do anything about it even if he could. He is a politician—small town, but just the same."

"So, the towns hate each other." Pedro sipped from his drink.

"In a manner of speaking. I'm sure there are other people like us that know better. But there's a specific family in Morehead that especially doesn't like me or mine—The Barksdales—Milton and Mason. They're the Morehead version of my dad and me here. Mayor and son."

"Does everyone's name have to begin with the same initial?"

Titus grinned. "Yeah. It's kind of a thing. Dad owns businesses and is mayor here. Milton is the same, only in Morehead. Mason, his son, was on the football team with me. I was a bigger and better player, though, so I got more attention. I also knocked up and married the girl he loved. It's a lot of drama. Seemed important then, but now it's just stupid."

"Did you?—"

"No."

"You didn't let me finish, T."

"You were going to ask me if I did it on purpose because we were rivals."

Pedro's eyes dropped.

"Told you I had good instincts, and you're not the first to ask. But no. Violet and I were tight. She was head cheerleader, so I always saw her at practice. We also had classes together, and she helped me keep my grades up so I could stay on the team. I may be gay, but we still got close. And I loved her, P. I did. I just wasn't in love with her. I know that now. We were teenagers, hormones in overdrive. Does anyone that age ever really know?"

"No. Probably not."

"Yet it's been happening since the dawn of time. If humans came with an instruction manual, it should read: Enjoy life, have sex, use condoms, and never marry or have kids before you're thirty . Twenty-five, at least."

"And you're twenty-three," Pedro said.

"Yep."

"That's a wise perspective from someone so young."

"I'm a widower with a four-year-old. Experience has aged me."

"Well, you don't look a day over twenty."

"Thank you."

"My pleasure," Pedro said. He was slurring slightly. "I say we leave the past behind?—"

"Ha ha. Very clever."

"—for now. This tequila is making me a little woozy, perhaps lowering my?—"

"Inhibitions?"

"Yes."

"My secret plan revealed."

"You don't need one. I don't need alcohol to be attracted to you, Titus. You're a sweet soul, and I think you're incredibly sexy."

"Don't stop." Titus raised his cup in a mock toast. "Keep going."

"Nope. That's all for now. No, wait. I want to ask you something."

"Sure. Anything."

"Why do people call you Big Britches?"

Titus rolled his eyes. "Two reasons. One, because I'm six-four, two-hundred and forty-seven pounds."

"But you're not gordo . I like your big body."

"I like your body too. You're just the right size—strong, but soft. Sexy."

Titus leered at Pedro again, his friskiness resurfacing.

"Behave. I want to know the other reason."

Titus sighed. "What you said earlier… about privilege. When I first played football, folks assumed that because of my size, I would play defense. When I became a tight end—an offense position—people assumed they gave it to me because of my dad and our family's history with the town."

"Your social status?"

"Yeah. They called me Big Britches because people didn't think I could live up to my position in the game. They felt my aspirations were too high—that I was too big for my britches —and that I got it only because I was Truman Shepherd's son."

"And you proved them wrong."

"Damn straight. I've never been that way, P… riding on my family's clout. It's just not me. But folks love to judge, and those kinds of rumors linger like the heat. Anyway, the name stuck. I try to tell myself it is because of my size. That way, I can embrace it, too. Kind of badge of honor."

"I like that story. It suits you."

"Can I ask you something too?"

"Of course."

"Did you see me in the window today?"

"Um—no. Why?"

"Never mind."

Pedro grinned coyly. "Were you stalking me, Titus?"

"Nah. I would never."

"Really? Because it kind of turns me on."

"You're sure you didn't see me?"

They played exaggerated poker-face briefly. Pedro relented, eyebrows lifting. "I may have seen the curtain move."

" I knew it . Nobody rubs a water bottle all over their body like that."

"I was hot."

"I'll say."

"I'm glad you feel that way. Tu tambien eres muy guapo—so big, so muscled, and so American ."

"You do realize Mexico is part of America, too."

"You know what I mean."

"What? That I'm southern?… Green-go?… Red-neck? " Titus pronounced each of the two-syllable words with a progressively over-the-top twang.

"All of it. But mostly, you make me feel safe."

"I'm gonna say this once—not because I want to scare you, but because you should be aware. After that, we'll move on."

Pedro sobered, concerned.

"Silas Compton was mean as a snake when we were in school. I'm fairly certain he beat up that kid because he's racist. There's plenty of that going around in both Spoon and Morehead, but that's a conversation for another time. And people do change, I know that. Maybe he's no longer that way. But I don't believe it for a minute. I want you to keep an eye on him and let me know if you ever suspect I'm right. I'm not keen at all on him being your boss."

"OK. Sure. I will. Thank you for telling me. Hopefully, he has changed."

"Meanwhile, I'm gonna let him know I need you at least three days a week."

Pedro choked mid-sip. "How? He won't?—"

"Yes, he will. You leave that to me. I may not get out much these days, but I haven't forgotten how to play the game."

"I'm reclusive, too. I only know my coworkers, Barb, and now you."

"Did you speak with Barb about me?"

"I did. I hope that's OK."

Titus's brow furrowed with a faux scowl that quickly morphed into a grin. "Yeah, it's all good. She'd've figured it out, eventually. Barb wants me to be happy. When Violet died, she hounded me about finding a man. It was just too soon, though. I wasn't ready."

"She speaks very highly of you."

"The feeling's mutual. We're close because we grew up together sharing the same secret. I think when I married Violet, she may have felt a little betrayed."

"How long have you known each other?"

"We used to run around this very yard in diapers."

Pedro shook his head, bemused.

"It's a small town. You'll get used to it. I like it out here in the country, though, away from others. Just me, and Tucker, and now you. I hope."

"So, tonight? This isn't just a booty call?"

" No ." Titus said, his expression incredulous. He sat up, taking Pedro's hands the way he had earlier that day. "No way. Whatever gave you that idea?"

"I don't know. Everything just happened so fast. And you were naked when I got here."

"Ah, shit. I—I," Titus stammered.

"–not that I minded," Pedro added.

"It's just–this is all new to me, P. I'm flying by the seat of my pants."

Now Pedro's brow creased. "Pants are britches, too, no? Is it the same meaning?"

"Sorry. Yes, they are, but no, different saying. What I meant is that I'm going by instinct here–what our bodies are saying to each other. I always thought sex between men would be easier. Fewer worries—especially with things like pregnancy. Seems to me we should be less uptight about it all."

"Do you think I'm uptight?" Pedro said, perhaps too abruptly.

"No. No. Not at all. I'm an idiot. That's what I think. I thought we were on the same page. I was hoping maybe you felt the same as me."

"How do you feel, T?"

Titus opened his mouth to speak, but words wouldn't come. Aside from Tucker's birth, he'd never been happier than he was right now. But his joy came from so much more than the sex. Everything about Pedro rang of possibility–the companionship, the conversation, the camaraderie. Sure, physicality played into it, but only because Titus wanted to feel everything that had anything to do with the man before him. He wanted to experience as many things with Pedro as he could–eating, sleeping, laughing, crying, touching, holding, soothing, pleasing… So much so that his tongue felt thick and cumbersome, unable to articulate any of it. Pedro had consumed his thoughts this way ever since having laid eyes on him.

"It's OK," Pedro said. "I get it. It's no big–"

"Do you believe in love at first sight?" Titus blurted.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Do you believe in love at first sight?"

"I believe in lust at first sight… especially after today."

"What if that's just a part of it?"

"I don't know." Pedro shrugged. "I've always thought of the notion as purely a literary device–a trope . I've never really considered it, though, in the real world."

Titus nodded, acknowledging silently, trying his best to shield any insecurity.

"Wait," Pedro said. "Are you saying–?"

"Nope. I'm not saying anything else. I'm too scared of what you might say."

"Let me say this then. I enjoyed what we did and I wouldn't be against to doing it again. I was stressing out for most of the day about several things but, now that I'm here with you, I'm completely at peace."

"What are you so worried about?"

"You name it. That tonight is just sex, or that maybe it isn't just sex. That I'll jeopardize you as a client, and Silas will find out. That I'll lose my job, my sponsorship, not become a citizen, not move my mother, not–"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. That isn't gonna happen. None of that. You have to trust me, P."

"I know, and I do, now. When I'm with you, all of my worries evaporate. I'm not saying that they're no longer concerns. I just realize that I'm human, and I have a right to be happy, too."

"You do. And even if things didn't work out between us, I would never turn against you. That's just not me. I would always be in your corner, doing everything to help you realize those goals–your dreams ."

"Thank you. I think Barb was trying to convey that to me this afternoon."

"I like you, P. The more I get to know you, the more I like you. You remind me that I'm still young, and that there's more to life than just being a father. The future holds endless possibilities. It's a little overwhelming."

"So, you're not just going to have your way with me, and then throw me to the dogs?"

"Hell no. If I could, I'd keep you prisoner and never let you back outside that gate. What was that phrase you said earlier… the one from the movie? See me?—"

" See only me ."

"Yeah. I like that. Now, how about coming over here closer to me?"

Pedro set his cup on the table and went to Titus, clutching the towel at his waist.

"You don't need that towel, you know? We're dry now, it's warm out, and there's no one else around."

"I don't know," Pedro said, glancing at the slight rise beneath the towel in Titus's lap. "I might need an extra layer… for my protection ." He grinned.

Titus spread his legs, stretching the towel taut and patting his thigh. Pedro sat, curled his legs up, and leaned into him.

"Back to what I was saying earlier… I like your body, too. I love the caramel color of your skin, so soft… and your dark brown eyes, so sweet… and your neck—don't even get me started. You're well-proportioned and strong, but petite enough to fit into my pocket."

Pedro laughed, resting his head on Titus's shoulder. "I'm not that small."

"Nope. You're not. I can personally attest to that."

"Dirty mind."

"You like it."

"Yes, I do."

They sat there for a minute, quiet. The only sound was the persistent pulse of crickets. The sky was full of fireflies now. When Pedro stared at them, it seemed almost as if their flashing was synchronic with the crickets' drone. Titus was holding him tight, and he felt a sense of calm that he had not felt for a very long time.

After a while, he stirred, standing.

"Where are you going?" Titus said sleepily.

"Nowhere."

He removed his towel, folded it, and placed it at Titus's feet. He stood there a moment longer, giving Titus plenty of time to observe. Titus said nothing, and Pedro sensed that, regardless of how imposing he was, the large man was nervous.

He knelt between Titus's legs, reaching out, undoing the towel, and laying it open so that he too was now naked. Titus's cock was semi-hard and growing. Pedro took it into his mouth, wanting to feel the final transformation internally. Titus sighed, relaxing deeper into the chair cushion.

Pedro sucked slowly, steadily. Though he had sex with johns as a teenager, none of those occasions were enjoyable or memorable. Knowing this was Titus's first time with a man, he wanted it to be special, and he was prepared to do everything in his power to make it so.

He closed his lips around Titus's cock, contouring his tongue while taking him deep, mentally suppressing his gag reflex. Titus gripped both chair arms tight, as if in the ejector seat of an airplane. Pedro pulled back slowly, cradling Titus's testicles in his right hand before he went down again.

"Oh, man, oh, man, oh, man," Titus chanted, squirming ever so slightly, but remaining locked down.

Pedro could taste him now. His tongue was slick and salty, and his eyes rolled back with the hormonal surge. Even though he was on his knees, the forced proximity of Titus in the chair's confines felt somewhat empowering, giving Pedro a sense of control. He only wished he could access more of Titus, as Titus had him when they were on the pool's edge.

Next time , he thought.

He went down again, Titus's cock large and so hard now, difficult to manage. Pedro went as far as he could, tugging at Titus's weighty ball-sack.

"Pedro. Sweetie. You better pull off. You need to pull off quick."

Instead, Pedro pulled up to just the tip. He began sucking at Titus's swollen head, ripe like a plum, stroking him full-length in his fist, applying similar pressure to the underside as Titus had done for him. Juice was flowing freely now, and Pedro was relishing it like candy, flicking his tongue in Titus's slit and using his lips to keep a tight seal around the crown. Titus seized, groaning unintelligibly, and Pedro's mouth filled fast, his tongue completely immersed. He swallowed quickly to avoid overflow.

Can't have that .

It filled again, far sweeter this time, and Pedro had the luxury now to indulge and savor. He clutched at Titus's thighs, attempting to calm and stabilize his trembling, all the while remaining fastened, coercing Titus to empty those years of pent-up frustration.

As the tremors subdued, Titus's breathy words and moans mingled, becoming indecipherable. His hands dropped to the sides of the chair, arms hanging limply. Pedro glanced up, awaiting the peace, then finally, mercifully, opened his mouth and released him.

Titus stayed melted in that position, head back facing the stars, eyes closed, murmuring.

Pedro laid his head on the man's thick thigh, closing his own eyes, thinking…

This is not a dream.

This is not a dream.

This is not a dream.