“Is that what you think? That I'm into the weird stuff, and I want to walk on the wild side?” The waitress brought their drinks, and they took the time out to thank her politely. Tristan unwrapped his straw and placed it in his lemonade. “Like, next you'll see me all tatted up on some old guy's leash with a ball gag in my mouth.” He held his napkin in front of his mouth so he wouldn't laugh so hard he spit his lemonade out.
“Well, isn't that like you? Big motion, big air, big rush?” asked Michael, and to Tristan it seemed he really was trying to understand. To be…a friend. How totally weird.
“Well, yeah,” said Tristan carefully. “I'm kind of an adrenaline junkie. I like to do stuff that's not particularly safe sometimes.”
“But putting yourself in the hands of strangers? That's not so good, yeah?” said Michael with concern in his eyes.
“This is too bizarre. I can picture you having the same talk with Viper about me. With Viper, I'm the guy, right? I'm the predator. Now I'm the one that needs to be protected? I'm a guy,” said Tristan. “I can take care of myself. Anyway, how do you know I'm not some serious Dom, and you shouldn't be warning those guys about me?”
Michael smiled, but said nothing. He squeezed the lime through the neck of his bottle and took a sip, savoring the way the bitter bubbles tingled in his mouth. When the waitress came back, he ordered for both of them.
Michael relaxed back in his seat, but Tristan found himself fidgeting. He arranged and rearranged his silver and picked his right leg up, sitting on it, getting comfortable. In constant motion, he was rapping on the table when the onion straws came.
“Oh, I love these,” said Tristan, taking the first one and eating it with his eyes closed like a sacrament.
Michael picked up a few and ate them, dipping them first into the sauce. “Me too. I come here a lot because I'm always doing stuff for my mom. She works at Borders.”
“She does?”
Just my damn luck
. “Just that one, right? Not the one in Savi Ranch?”
“You little shit! You're already thinking of taking your show on the road.” Michael laughed. “I'm not here to kill your fun, Sparky. I just want you to be careful. I'm sure I've said enough on the subject; just eat your lunch and I'll take you back to your house. You still live with your folks? Didn't you want to go the dorm route?”
“No, not really. My dad passed away a couple of years ago, and I like to hang around with my mom and help her with my brothers and sister.” He blushed, thinking that sounded stupid. “Free room and board doesn't suck, either.”
“Well, it's UCI, so it's close, right?” said Michael. “That's lucky, anyway.”
Tristan pushed the straw around in his lemonade and didn't look up.
“What?” asked Michael.
“I could have gone someplace else. I got into Stanford and Georgetown. My mom doesn't know.” He pushed a lemon around, finally digging it out and sucking on it, ripping the flesh away with his teeth, his tongue lapping at the bitter white pith. He shuddered. “Lemons, man, it's a total love-hate relationship.” He looked up to find Michael's eyes on him in a way that made him burn. Michael broke eye contact first and picked up his cell phone, playing with it.
“You're a good guy, Sparky,” said Michael finally, as their sandwich came. They traded sides, fought over the pickle, and generally managed a good-natured lunch together.
“Have you got brothers or sisters?” Tristan asked, amazed to find that he wasn't just making small talk; he was actually interested.
“Nope, it's just me and Mom. My dad didn't hang around after I was on the way.” He swirled the last sip of beer around in the bottle and downed it. “I bought a duplex in Fullerton, and she lives in the other place. She's what you might call a free spirit.”
Tristan grimaced. “I don't know if I like getting to know stuff about you. It's like playing cards with the enemy on Christmas Eve.”
“I'm not the enemy, Sparky,” said Michael, picking up his phone again. He held it for a few minutes, fidgeting with it, then Tristan's beeped to indicate he had a text.
Hey, Sparky
, it read. Michael smiled over at Tristan, who fumbled with his own phone, making Michael's phone beep.
Hey, Officer Helmet
.
Tristan grinned and said, “I hope you have unlimited text messages on your plan. You're kind of like my friends, texting each other in church.”
“I'm shocked,” said Michael.
Tristan's phone read,
U text in church?
Yep
, he sent back. Out loud he said, “The phones are all set on vibrate, and every so often someone will jump, and it's like, 'Can I get an
amen
.'”
Ask me again
, Tristan read on his cell phone.
Ask what?
he sent back.
Why I call you Sparky
. Michael fumbled with the keys, not looking up.
Well, sure, why?
Tristan sent back.
You light me up
, came the answer, and Tristan's nimble fingers stopped on the keys. He stared hard at the small screen on his phone, the text message right there, waiting to see if he would send a reply. He just sat and stared till his phone turned off, unable to look up into the oh-so-blue eyes of the man who had sent it.
“'Scuse me,” Tristan said, getting up and walking quickly to the men's room. He opened the door and made a straight path to the one stall with a door and sat on the edge of the toilet, hardly daring to breathe until it became an absolute biological imperative.
I light him up
, he thought, all the breath whooshing from his lungs at once. The phone beeped again.
I M R U?
it said. Well, shit. He didn't need his Captain Queer decoder ring for that, either.
What the hell?
he typed, stupidly. No way,
no way
was that man gay. Michael was just messing with him, trying to scare him off the deal. Scared
straight
like the documentary, except with cops instead of felons and more consensual man-sex.
Need a hand?
Michael sent with a smiley icon, and Tristan nearly dropped the phone in the toilet.
Who R U?
Tristan sent back. He heard the door to the bathroom open and moved his feet from the floor to the toilet like a third grader, to hide.
“I'm the guy you caught today, Sparky,” said Michael's amused, musical voice. “I paid the tab, time to go. I know you're in there.”
“Oh, all right,” said Tristan, stepping down and unlocking the stall door. “If you're through messing with me, I guess I could use that ride home now.” He marched out, keeping his eyes down, prepared to follow Michael out of the bathroom.
“Okay, come on.” Michael walked casually through the restaurant and out the door and across the parking lot, still holding Tristan's skateboard. He used a remote to unlock a monstrous black truck with four doors and light bars everywhere. He tossed the skateboard into the back seat and got in, watching as Tristan climbed up. He waited until Tristan buckled his seatbelt.
“I live down State College,” Tristan said. “Past the university.” He still didn't look up. His fishing expedition had gone so spectacularly wrong he was already coming up with a new plan, one which involved never leaving the house again and maybe enjoying gay porn for a while.
“Sparky, look at me.” Michael didn't start the car, he continued patiently in a war of wills with Tristan, who didn't really want to see those mocking eyes ever again.
“No. I get your point. I'm scared
straight
already.”
“Jeez, I hope not.” Michael put his hand on Tristan's face and turned it toward him. “I really, really hope not.” He pressed a kiss to Tristan's lips, running his tongue gently along the fuller lower lip, which stuck out as if Tristan was pouting.
“What are you doing?” asked Tristan shrilly.
“What do you mean? You were trying to get picked up, so I picked you up.” Michael ran his hands through his hair. “Are you kidding? What normally happens when you do that whole gay book thing?”
“I don't get picked up by cops.” Tristan neglected to mention that so far, he hadn't gotten picked up at all. Except he had, hadn't he? And he hadn't even felt it.
“Nothing wrong with cops unless you're doing something illegal,” said Michael. He laid his head back on his headrest and looked anything but comfortable.
“Well, I wasn't, so I don't know what you want with me,” said Tristan.
“Are you an idiot?” Michael asked, and Tristan felt the blood heat his face. He knew he was turning an ugly shade of red.
“Wait, don't tell me, I go with you, and it's a one-way ticket to county lockup for soliciting a cop, right?” asked Tristan, disgusted. “Gonna let the inmates scare me straight, huh?”
“Sparky, you are out of your mind,” said Michael. “This is like teaching queer remedial at the continuation high school. You were fishing, and you caught
me
. Don't you get that?”
“Oh,
hell no
.” Tristan just stared.
Michael rolled his eyes and started the car. “I'll drop you, don't worry about it,” he said, his face impassive.
“Look, it's not that—”
“Save it,” snapped Michael. “Just save it.”
“Okay.” Tristan was unable to think. Michael's big truck slid through the now worsening late afternoon traffic on Associated, and the sun was beginning to set. Michael's mouth was compressed into a thin white line, but the rest of his body was still relaxed and easy, and Tristan thought it might be costing him an effort to keep it that way.
Eventually, on Yorba Linda Boulevard, Michael casually asked, “Okay, where to from here?”
“Um, left on State College,” Tristan said, directing him the rest of the short drive. When they pulled into the driveway of Tristan's house, he sat there for a minute, completely unsure of what to do. “Look, I can pay for my lunch.”