Just the Three of Us

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

Until Lane Anders met Remy, he had never been lucky in love. He could count the number of “real” relationships he’d had on one hand, with a finger left over. He always knew he was gay, but he didn’t actually admit it to anyone until college. So all through middle and high school, he didn’t date.

It wasn’t until his senior year, when he started working nights at Wal-Mart in the stock room, that he even let himself be attracted to another guy. There it was relatively safe—Jamie had gone to a different school, and had graduated the year before, so no one Lane knew outside of work knew Jamie. Their relationship blossomed during breaks and after their shifts ended, when the two of them would sit in the front seat of Jamie’s battered old Toyota Corolla, the windows up and the radio loud, smoking cigarettes and the occasional reefer and shooting the s**t. At some point, Jamie’s hand found its way onto Lane’s knee, and their time together progressed to a make-out session in the deserted parking lot after hours. One time Jamie unzipped Lane’s jeans and gave him a sloppy blowjob—Lane came from the excitement and not from any real skill on Jamie’s part—but that climax was the only one. Soon after, Jamie was fired for stealing and, when the store pressed charges, he spent a couple years in jail. Lane saved up his money and graduated to go to a college out of state. He never heard from or saw Jamie again.

In college, Lane embraced his sexuality, but he was still awkward and gawkish around sexy guys. There was one in particular, a year or two older than he was, who caught his eye. Tommy Mason had casually mussed hair and soulful eyes, and once Lane noticed him, he seemed to be everywhere on campus. Partying in the freshman dorm where Lane stayed, hanging out in the cafeteria between classes, browsing the bookstore and library. Wherever Lane went, Tommy seemed to follow. It wasn’t until he came back from winter break his first year that Lane realized why Tommy seemed to be everywhere. Because he had a twin, just as heart-breakingly gorgeous, named Timmy.

Sophomore year, Lane wound up on a dormitory floor with the twins just down the hall. Things moved quickly after that—at a party on their floor, Tommy came onto Lane and the two ended up in Lane’s narrow bed, fumbling beneath disheveled clothing in the dark. Or had it been Timmy? Lane wasn’t sure, and soon both brothers took turns vying for his affection. Lane didn’t know who he liked better—and, since they both liked him, he didn’t much care which one he was with. As long as he wasn’t alone, and the Mason boys saw to that.

Eventually, though, Lane knew he would have to choose. Unfortunately, the Masons transferred or graduated or dropped out, he never really could figure out exactly which, but they left the campus and made the choice for him. He never saw either twin again. He knew sometimes he’d strike out on his quest for true love, but two at one go? It was crushing.

After college, he stayed in Virginia. His parents wanted him to move back to New Jersey, but he liked Richmond and especially liked the fact that it didn’t snow nearly as much as it did back home. He liked snow just fine, but only when it was falling. When it accumulated on the ground and piled up into dirty drifts, he was ready to be done with it. The Virginia summers were a bit warmer than he liked, but he could always go back home to visit when he wanted.

His first job after getting his degree was as a draftsman for a local planning firm. There he met Reggie—and really fell in love for the first time. Reggie was as tall as Lane, with large hands and large feet, and a large, booming laugh that seemed infectious. He wore his dark, kinked hair cropped close to his scalp, and his eyes were the same rich color of Hershey’s kisses. He was Lane’s first lover—no more frantic handjobs or half-hearted blows, but fully nude, wrapped together in bed, pinned to the sheets lover. Reggie was the first guy Lane ever let in, all the way, and when Reggie was above him, filling him, loving him, Lane felt the rest of the world disappear.

In the mornings, he would lay quietly and watch Reggie sleep. The early light cast an ashiness over Reggie’s warm, mocha skin, making him look frail and small. But when Lane reached beneath the covers and stroked his lover’s limp p***s, teasing it erect, the illusion shattered. Reggie would barely crack open his eyelids, just enough to see Lane watching him, and a slow, languid smile would slide across his face. “Someone wants some loving this morning,” he’d murmur, his voice gravelly with sleep.

Lane would tug on Reggie’s d**k, tweaking it awake. “Only if you’re up for it.”

“Boy, with you, I’m always up.” And Reggie would pounce, tackling Lane to the bed, holding him there with hungry kisses as their hips ground together deliciously.

* * * *

At first, Lane thought what he had with Reggie was it. Real, everlasting, forever. They even talked of moving in together—it wouldn’t be much of a stretch, since they shared a bed as often as possible. But one evening Reggie said he had to head back to the office for some last-minute work on a grant application due the next day, and in his haste, he left his cell phone behind. Lane didn’t even notice it, tucked between the cushions of the couch, until it beeped a few minutes after Reggie was gone. Lane heard the sound and dug out the phone. He glanced at the screen and read, Where R U baby? M horny 4 U.

The name displayed was Shanice, a woman their firm contracted with to do labor compliance paperwork on federally funded projects. Lane had met her a few times. What was she doing texting Reggie?

Maybe she had the wrong number. It was a stretch, but Lane could think of a scenario where she might have Reggie’s cell saved in her phone—compliance-related questions when Reggie was in the field, perhaps. And she was waiting for a friend or lover to show up, so she sent the text without even realizing she’d sent it to the wrong contact…

The phone beeped again, this time in his hand. Lane glanced down and read, Reg babe U cuming or whut? My p***y’s hot.

He threw the phone on the couch, his face burning with embarrassment and shame. No, she had the right number. How long had Reggie been playing him? How long had he hoped to carry on without Lane finding out?

That was the end of their relationship. At work the next day, Reggie was already at his desk when Lane came in. He went straight to Reggie’s office and, dropping the phone into Reggie’s lap, said simply, “We’re through.”

The look of shock on Reggie’s face was genuine. “Laney, baby, what—”

“Ask Shanice,” Lane said simply.

Reggie paled, if that were possible, his face turning a sickly gray. Too late, he stammered, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then check your messages,” Lane told him. “And don’t bother trying to hide it.”

“Lane,” Reggie tried again.

“f**k you.”

He kept it short and sweet and civil, and ignored Reggie whenever his ex-lover tried to talk to him about getting back together. He found a position in another company, and within a few years, had saved up enough money and contacts to start his own small firm. Eventually time dulled the ache in his heart, but not his resolve. No more dating bisexual men. It was bad enough to be left behind when someone he liked moved on. Worse when they cheated on him, and he no longer trusted anyone who straddled the fence.