Kickass Anthology (33 page)

Sheldon looked at Jay. “Did you…?”

“I didn’t know if it would work, but when I saw those guns, I had to do something so they wouldn’t find our bodies when it was all over.”

 Sheldon shut his eyes and gave a silent prayer of thanks.

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with our bodies.  A little battered at the moment, but still functional, I think.” Shel gave Jay a quick hug. “Officer, do you know if anyone recorded the conversation?”

“All 911 calls are recorded, sir. Don’t worry. Those guys are not going anywhere but jail. Sure you don’t want to get that lip stitched up?”

“Home’ll be fine.”

“Okay. We know who you are, Mr. Abel, and we know what happened. We can take both your formal statements later or tomorrow.  Just call and we’ll send a car to bring you to the station when you’re ready.”

They thanked the officer, got out of the cruiser, and limped and groaned their way upstairs. Sheldon seated Jay in the kitchen, carefully cleaned his cut lip and put a butterfly bandage on it. “It looks nasty, but that should keep it from scarring too much.”

“Damn!” He winced. “ I was thinking of telling everyone it was a dueling scar.”

“Dueling scar?”

“Just getting into character.  I think my next book is going to be about swashbuckling pirates on the high seas.” He grinned. “Ouch!”

“And I suppose your father’s desk will be in the Captain’s quarters.”

“Mmmm hmmm.” Jay couldn’t answer properly because his lips were busy being kissed. “Hey, ouch.” He touched the bandage lightly.

“I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for coming home. Thank you for being so brave and smart and handsome…”

“Shhh. No more talking, Shel,” he said leading him to the bedroom. “Let me show you how you can thank me.”

THE END

 AUTHOR

Nancy Hartmann
began writing in elementary school with the epic of Ernie Erectus (!) whose exploits created the world and everything in it.  After coming up with the sweeping theory of everything at the tender age of eleven, she went on to earn a living writing nearly everything from advertising, to program notes for ballet, grant proposals, tv and radio scripts, reviews on Amazon and fortune cookies. In 2013 she discovered the world of M/M and found Mr. Erectus was there waiting for her.

ILLUSTRATOR  Kate Pavelle

SOME THINGS ARE WORTH FIGHTING FOR

By Mia Kerick and Michael J. Bowler

Dear Mr. Brooks,

despite my valiant effort at stoicism, my voice shook as I read the letter aloud. In truth, this was the third time I’d read this brief sentence, but only the first time I’d read it aloud.

It is with great regret that we must inform you that you do not meet the requirement

for summer employment with the Boy Leaders of America organization.

Not only was my voice shaking, but the hand that held this life-altering letter was also trembling.

“No freakin’ way! Lemme see that…”

I hadn’t thought Sergio was even paying attention to me as I sat at my desk, opening mail and babbling in stunned shock to no one in particular. Once again he surprised me. Within a split second, he’d hopped up from where he was sprawled out on my bed, completely wrapped up in playing
Angry Birds Star Wars
on his iPhone, and snatched the letter from my hand. I didn’t even make an attempt to retrieve it. When Sergio Martinez wanted something, chances were excellent that he was going to get it. I knew the guy well enough to be fairly certain of that fact.

“What the… Is this some kinda joke or something, Ev?” He basically bounced over to the window, letter in hand, and then screeched to a halt in order to hold it up in the morning light, as if he was a crime scene investigator examining the letter for critical evidence.

“How can you, Evan Brooks, ‘Poster boy for Boy Leaders’,” he inserted air quotes in the appropriate places, “be anything less than a freakin’ dream counselor for the BLA?”

“I don’t know, Serg. I don’t get it… I mean, I led my own troop last summer and got stellar reviews by the kids and the parents. Plus, my supervisors in the organization never had a bad thing to say about me.” 

Okay, call me astounded.

I could totally be knocked over with a feather if Sergio had a mind to try.

“Think this is cuz of what your old homies wrote on your Facebook page the other night? You know, the comments about
me.
Like what was the ‘lucky guy’s’ name and was I cute?
”
He smirked. “Course, the answer to that one is
yes
.”

Still sitting at my desk, I fired up my laptop, thinking maybe the comments that were posted on my timeline the other night
hadn’t
been missed by the BLA higher-ups as I’d hoped.  I posted that I was in a relationship at maybe ten that night, went to bed, and then, first thing the next morning, as soon as I saw the comments, I deleted them. And I messaged my buddies asking them to lay off. I gulped in a deep breath. 

“I knew the BLA could check my social media sites because that’s part of their hiring practices. I just didn’t think they could do it that fast.”

“That’s a creepy policy.”  Sergio held the letter out to me. “But I
am
a ‘lucky guy’.” More air quotes.

I thought back to the chain of events that had brought me to this moment.

It had started last Friday night, when Sergio and I had gone out to dinner to celebrate our anniversary of six (blissful, according to Serg) months together. I’d met Sergio in my Freshman Critical Reading and Writing discussion group, shortly after we’d arrived at the university.

We’d quickly discovered we had a lot in common, in particular that we had both figured out we were gay back in middle school, and had spent most of high school fearfully hiding in the closet, so to speak. He’d been on his swim team and had to be super careful with all the locker room paranoia and such.

At the end of senior year in high school, we’d both taken a step out of our closets - we’d each informed a few of our closest friends that we were gay and they’d been cool with it. I just assumed I would start my college years lurking in that same closet I’d hidden in during high school, but then I’d met Sergio, who’d quickly changed my plans.

After only several dates, it had already become clear that he was special. Sergio made me laugh, and laugh hard. He encouraged me to look at life in a different way, making me think outside of the conventional box. And I liked this new, open-minded, laughing Evan. So I’d embraced him and been open about my sexuality here at school. And so was Serg. He’d gotten a swim scholarship and, while not blabbing to everyone on the team, had informed his coach that he was gay. The coach, Serg happily told me, was not concerned in the least.

But because of my longstanding relationship with the very old-school Boy Leaders of America, I knew that my openness had to have limits. Since I knew that the BLA frowned on public recognition of one’s “gay status”, I’d told Sergio point blank that I couldn’t acknowledge our relationship on social media. He’d reluctantly accepted my condition.

And I’d stuck to this policy. No cuddly pictures of Serg and me hit my timeline, no heartwarming, “awww”-inspiring one-liners of devotion to (or from) my boyfriend were expressed. In fact, over the course of our six blissful months together, I’d never even changed my status from “Single” to “In a Relationship.”

No point in that, I figured.

It would only lead to questions.

Well, think again, because as it turns out, perpetually laughing Sergio wasn’t laughing anymore about our relationship being completely denied on social media for the past half-year. I discovered that disturbing fact on the evening of our six-month anniversary, over chocolate fondue and a few irresistible Sergio-pouts. So, as soon as I got back to my dorm, I powered up my Mac and logged onto Facebook, and bam!

Evan Brooks…
In a Relationship.

That was easy, I’d thought, smiled widely at the mere thought of the blush that would stain the brown skin of Sergio’s cheeks when he saw my change in status, and went to bed. In the morning, when I’d checked in to see what was going down in the Facebook world, I saw the comments.

“That’s awesome, dude! What’s his name?”

“Hope he knows he’s a lucky guy!”

“Looks like there’s somebody for everybody, Evan—even you. LOL! Knew you’d find your guy!”

I will admit, I deleted those comments faster than a speeding bullet, and speeding bullets are damned fast.

“Earth to Ev, come in, Ev.”

“Huh? What?”

“You’re in such deep thought you’re actually drooling, man. Ewww!” Sergio moved into my personal space and wiped my chin with his sleeve, and no, I wasn’t complaining about that because he always smelled so good. “At least you need to find out why you got dumped.”

“Huh?”

Brilliant, just brilliant, Evan.

Clearly this handsome young man who was now staring at me, his mouth hanging open, was
not
dating me for my conversational skills.

“You can’t take this lying down! Email the BLA and make them tell you in what way you don’t meet the ‘requirements’ for summer employment. Seriously, man, you freakin’
live
for your summer job with those kids. You talked my ear off about ‘being a role model to younger boys’ constantly since the night I met you. That place is, like, your whole childhood.” Sergio stopped delivering his motivational discourse long enough to send me what I thought of as his “significant” look.

“E-mail them.”

I stared at him,
my
jaw now hanging loosely because I was rather intimidated at the prospect of speaking up for myself. But when he dropped his hands on my shoulders and gave me
that look
for a second time, I had no choice but to comply.

We crowded together on the chair at my desk, and I found the email address to the Boy Leaders of America’s main offices. I opened an email and cc’d it to our local BLA chapter president, Marcus Brent, a man who’d known me since I was born.

“I don’t even know how to start this…” I was at a complete loss. Maybe I was still in shock. “I mean, I’m sure it’s because of those comments.”

“Just say your friends were joking around.” Sergio paused and glanced down.  His voice grew quiet. “It’s okay. I don’t wanna be the guy who made you lose your job. It means too much to you.”

I reached out a hand to gently lift his chin so we could make eye contact. I may not be much of a fighter when it comes to myself, but I
always
stand up for people I care about. “You mean more.”

Sergio flashed that grin that had roped me in at the beginning: a rakish, confident, and very sexy grin. “Yeah?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I’m not gonna hide you anymore. Or me.”

Sergio stared at me in silent astonishment. He was rarely at a loss for… well, for anything. Then the grin grew even larger. He took my hand and held it a moment, his look turning thoughtful as he considered the situation.

“Okay, all they saw were comments, right?”

I nodded.

“They don’t know for sure you’re gay, so start by saying that the letter you got confused you because you thought you did a great job last year.”

I started typing. After a respectful greeting and a brief introduction of who I was and my long history with the BLA organization, including the fact that I had received top honors at the highest ranking of Boy Leader, as well as my positive experience with last year’s summer job, I quoted the line from the letter I’d just opened that said I did not meet the requirements for employment.

I explained my confusion at reading this, as I’d had such glowing reviews from students, parents, and staff, in regard to my work.

I then added my feelings of dismay at this news because I had looked forward to returning this summer, but also because I had been depending on this job as a source of income. Last summer’s job with the BLA had paid for all of my books at school, as well as covered my need for spending money.

Finally, I very politely requested a reason for why I no longer met the requirements for employment with the BLA.

For the entire time I typed this email, Sergio made no attempt to hide the fact that he was reading over my shoulder. When I typed something he thought was too weak, he made this
uh, uh, uh
sound, and when he approved of what I wrote, he uttered, “uh huh”, that let me know that I was right on the money. I should have found this live auditory commentary disconcerting, but instead I found it reassuring.

I checked over the letter a final time, and then I asked, “Think it’s okay, Serg?”

“I’ll answer that in two words, bud.” Sergio winked at me and my heart did that quivering thing it sometimes did when I was close to him. “Press send.”

As I pressed ‘send’ and the email sailed out into cyberspace, I experienced this rush of jubilation that probably came from standing up for myself, an undertaking that had never been easy for me to accomplish in the past. And knowing my roommate wasn’t due back for another hour, I pulled Sergio over to my bed, thinking I could kiss him until we both saw stars. But sometimes the best laid plans never came to pass, because just as we stretched out beside each other on my narrow twin bed, we heard the ding of an incoming email.

Climbing up off my bed, I exclaimed, “That could be the BLA already. Maybe they’ll be saying it was a mistake and the letter was meant for someone else and…” I opened my newest email that was, indeed, from the BLA.

It appeared to be a form letter from the National BLA organization.

Dear prospective employee;

Thank you for your inquiry. It is our policy that we do not comment on application decisions for employment beyond the standard notice of employment or the decision not to hire that you will receive by mail at the end of May.  We sincerely thank you for your interest in employment with our organization.

~Boy Leaders of America National Board~

I didn’t even have time to react when my computer dinged again. This time it was an email from Marcus Brent, the local chapter president.

I opened it.

Dear prospective employee;

Thank you for your inquiry. It is our policy that we do not comment on application decisions for employment beyond the standard notice of employment or the decision not to hire that you will receive by mail at the end of May.  We sincerely thank you for your interest in employment with our organization.

~Boy Leaders of America National Board~

It was now crystal clear: I’d been fired from the Boy Leaders of America without even a “don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

“HEY, DAD. It’s me.” I had to make this call; there was no way around it. But that didn’t make it any easier. Sergio had gone to his late afternoon class and I was alone in my room, screwing up the courage to call my dad and tell him.

Too nervous to sit, I stood stiffly beside my bed, phone pressed to my ear.

“Evan… it’s been a while. You forget that your old dad was up here in Cottonhead working his butt off trying to put his son through college?” Dad laughed, but his words made it even harder to spit out what I had to say.