17. Easton

Chapter 17

Easton

What did he just say?

Easton's eyes widened to the size of his mémère's knockoff Ming dynasty saucers that she'd won at church bingo, and his mouth twisted ruefully as uncertainty infused his brain. Unsure if he was more baffled or angry, he sat speechless and stumped, his stare focused on Royal and refusing to allow him to look away. Oh, he'd heard Royal's words plain as day. Royal hadn't stuttered or mumbled or spoken some forgotten foreign language. His speech quality had been of normal rate, volume, and clarity, yet Easton couldn't force the words to make sense. The sentence hung suspended in his brain. The definition of each word seemed out of context in relation to each other and his comprehension of the syntax scrambled.

Make it make sense.

All was quiet except for the hum of the RV generator and the whispering breeze circulating from an oscillating box fan. Because he couldn't continue to sit here looking and feeling stupefied in the strained silence, Easton slowly placed his beer in the sofa cupholder and rubbed his sweaty palms on the front of his jeans, thankful to have a task to occupy his hands and mask some of his apprehension. His lips trembled as he parted them to speak, knowing he was teetering on a potentially dangerous subject. The glint in Royal's eyes spoke volumes.

"What do you mean?"

" Ce n'est rien ," Royal mumbled.

Oh no, you're not getting off that easy.

"No, nothing is nothing, but what you said is definitely s omething. Nothing is the chitchat you make in line or at the Piggly Wiggly or Shell pump," Easton rebuked, verbally slicing through Royal's denial with all the swiftness and precision of a neurosurgeon's scalpel. His head tilted at a defiant angle. "You wouldn't have said what you said while bagging Funyuns and hoagie buns or squeegeeing off your windshield. Speak your mind, Royal. Ne pas as la langue dans sa poche ."

"Fine," Royal sputtered. "I meant he's into you."

Easton's eyebrows shot up, his mixing emotions warming the blues of his irises. "Into me?"

" Oui , Easton, into you as in hooking up."

Easton snort-laughed. He would have accused Royal of being drunk, only he hadn't had that much. "Get out."

"I'm serious. You don't see it because you're oblivious to those kinds of things, especially since it's a guy."

Puffing out his chest, Easton's spine stiffened as he considered how he should interpret the statement. "I think that's an insult." He paused another second. " Oui , it is. I do pay attention. And what do you mean, especially because he's a guy? What difference does that make?"

Royal choked—on what, Easton didn't know.

"You don't mind?"

"Why would I mind?"

"Because it's…." Royal scooped both hands through his hair, his brow knitting. "It's…."

" Oui? "

"You… just…." He didn't seem to be able to complete the sentence. However, the parade of emotions flickering in his eyes indicated that he had plenty to say.

Just say it.

A faint hint of panic flashed across Royal's face, and his pulse thumped visibly in the hollow of his throat.

Royal panicked? Speechless? What the hell is happening here?

Easton leaned back against the couch, his shoulders sagging with awareness and disheartenment. This wasn't how he'd expected to come out. Well, he hadn't exactly. He hadn't said the actual words, but the implications were there. One could assume. Royal could assume. So, had he come out? In any case, Easton hadn't expected Royal to be all open-arms "welcome home, prodigal son," but the scene in his head always played out vastly different than what was before him currently. Narrow-minded anger and yelling, he anticipated, not recoiling in the-plague-has-come-to-visit horror. Royal's expression seemed a hybrid between wanting to sprout Icarus's wings and taking flight as if he were haring off before a leper, but there was something—an emotion Easton couldn't decipher—skulking behind the horror. It looked to be a different kind of terror. It looked like… anguish—the kind that comes after being deeply hurt. Like the horror experience after tripping but before thudding to the ground. Easton grappled to make it make sense.

Royal cleared his throat and spoke softly. "Do you… want him to like you, East?"

Easton considered for a moment, contemplated his responses in this uncharted territory. "Does it matter?"

Royal's jaw tensed. "That's not a denial."

No, it wasn't. The tension in the room rose another notch.

"I already told you. If it's true, it doesn't bother me." For a lack of knowing what to do, he released a slow breath and shoved his fingers through his hair, scraping his scalp. "But obviously it bothers you."

"It does."

And there he had it. Finally, his best friend had uttered the beginning words of condemnation.

Might as well get it all out now that we've started down this path. There's no need to continue the masquerade when we both know what's loitering behind the mask. Speak the truth and shame the devil.

"Why, Royal?"

"He's competition."

"Saint Peter on a scooter! Everyone here is competition. Would it be better if he were a vendor or a stock hand?"

"Not your competition. My competition."

Quoi?

Royal's arrogant streak was no secret, but his dismissing Easton was all-the-way new and nothing that Easton appreciated.

"Listen, you may be in the lead now, but I'm not out of it. I stand just as much a chance of winning as you do."

"Not that competition."

Blinking twice, Easton rubbed his hand across his forehead. "Huh?"

"I don't want to compete with him for you."

Easton tipped his head back and laughed at the preposterousness. "Seriously? Royal, you're my best friend. No one's ever taking your place."

"And if I wanted more?"

"More?" The word ricocheted aimlessly in his mind. And when it didn't take on a new definition as he possibly (and ludicrously) expected it would, he stared wide-eyed and stupefied at his comrade—mouth agape, face ashen, and forehead wrinkled.

More? He can't mean more as in more more. He gnawed the inside of his cheek. Can he?

"Uh…. Okay?"

Who said that? Who says that?

Royal scooted back with an uneasy gleam in his eye. "Listen, I didn't mean to make you feel weird. I'm sorry."

Sorry? What the whole hell is he sorry about? Fuck yeah is more like it —that was if Royal was saying what Easton thought and hoped he was saying .

He searched for the words, but none came. There was only one way.

Don't , his brain warned, but his body was already in motion. With zero warning and fueled by impulse, Easton's palm slinked around Royal's neck, pulling him forward until their lips converged. Goose bumps sprinkled the length of his spinal cord and knotted at the nape of his neck as the cobwebs and realization began clearing. He was the patient one. The quiet one. The passive one. Yet he'd all but lugged his best friend into his lap. This had been such a Royal move. But Royal hadn't initiated it, had he? He hadn't extended an invitation. Easton wasn't sorry. He should be. He may have regrets, but he wasn't sorry. He'd stepped out. Like climbing onto a bull, he didn't always know how it would end, but he rode the bucking beast as if he would win. However, what he'd done now had been infinitely more dangerous. He could be destroying his friendship. Yep, in hindsight, he should have given this more thought.

Retreat .

His mind sifted through the two dozen reasons why this was a bad idea, but his body didn't stop, wouldn't stop. He expected to be met with a shove, punch, or elbow, but instead, Royal immediately opened to him and accepted the tongue that he shoved inside his mouth. Easton pressed his body against Royal's until he heard him moan. Months of pent-up tension exploded and incited him to persist. Encouraged by Royal's nonresistance, Easton slid his other hand across Royal's hip.