So In Love

Caught Off Base-3

Ange’s car took up much of the garage apartment where he lived. As the car eased to a stop, the front bumper just inches from the back of the pull-out sofa that doubled as a bed, Ange grimaced at the squalid room illuminated beyond his headlights. He raised his voice over the ragged sound of the engine off the corrugated tin roof. “Be it ever so humble.”

Tyler offered, “It’s nice.”

“You think?” Ange climbed out of the car and stretched, his arms reaching high above his head as his back lengthened, working out the kinks that had settled in during the day. The hem of his shirt pulled up to expose a flat stomach, smooth skin the color of damp sand, a few dark hairs hinting at more just beneath the belt that rode low on his narrow hips. He felt Tyler watching him, trying to figure him out.

But Ange was a private person who kept to himself. Picking a kid up off the streets wasn’t something he normally did, and even now he wasn’t sure it’d been a good idea. What if the guy was a murderer or thief? Ange could wake up tomorrow and find his meager savings wiped out, his apartment overturned, his car gone. Or he could never wake up at all. Why take the chance tonight? Because it’s raining, he told himself. If it were me, I’d want someone to do the same. But why did it have to be him?

He looks like Stacy, Ange thought suddenly.

The answer came out of nowhere and blindsided him. Stacy, a former friend ‘with benefits,’ as they liked to say. Who had crashed with Lamar for half a dozen years until he finally found someone to lift him up out of that shitty relationship and lay the world at his feet. Someone who loved him, someone he loved in return.

In another life, that someone might have been Ange, but whatever he felt for Stacy had been locked away, deep inside, and by the time he got around to telling his friend, it was too late. Stacy had already met his prince and Ange wouldn’t mess that up. Stacy deserved more than this garage apartment, a back-breaking nine-to-five job, sweaty sheets on a pull-out sofa. He deserved so much more than Ange could offer.

In all honesty, Tyler didn’t look like Stacy—they were about the same height, the same build, were both white boys with dark eyes, and that was where the physical similarities ended. But there was something about Tyler that reminded Ange of his old friend, a wounded pride evident in his bold swagger, a hurt that ran through him like a chasm, daring Ange to try to bridge the gap, to find the real boy inside the hard shell. More than his appearance, that undercurrent of pain Ange suspected lay just beneath Tyler’s façade attracted him to the boy. He wanted to chase away the shadows that haunted those black eyes.

As Tyler circled the car, trying to look everywhere at once, Ange resisted the urge to touch him, just wrap his arms around those squared shoulders and hug the boy back against him, assure him everything would be okay. They were here now, he was safe. Like Stacy, there was something in Tyler Ange wanted to protect, something he wanted to shield from the rest of the world, an ache he wanted to take away and a soft innocence he wanted to buffer and save for himself.

You just met the guy. The kid would probably be gone tomorrow; why even torture himself comparing him to Stacy? He wasn’t one to wallow in self-pity or regret—Stacy was beyond his reach now, and Tyler only passing through.

Pushing his thoughts away, he brushed past Tyler and led the way into his tiny apartment. “Kitchen’s over here.” Ange’s voice came out more brusque than he intended. He waved a hand to the back left corner of the garage, where a small fridge sat with a microwave on top. Beside it was a stove with tiny burners, two cabinets, a dingy sink filled with empty plastic cups, and a card table with two folding chairs. Tyler stared with wide eyes, entranced or disgusted, Ange couldn’t decide which.

He kicked the sofa, already open, the mattress strewn with bunched bed sheets. “Sleep here, it’s the only place to stretch out but it’s big enough for two. I got some clothes that might fit you.” With a critical eye, he looked Tyler over. “They used to belong to a friend of mine but he left them here so you’re welcome to them. You’re about his size.” The dresser sat squeezed into the corner opposite the fridge, the foot of the bed blocking the lower shelves. One of the drawers gaped open, its front panel on the floor halfway under the bed. Ange grabbed a handful of clothes from the open drawer and began sorting through them, looking for the pair of Stacy’s boxers he had found the other day.

Beside the dresser, a slim door led to the apartment’s cramped bathroom, which Ange pointed out with a nod over his shoulder. “Shower’s in there. It’s small but it works. You’ll have to stand in the stall to undress, there’s literally no room in there, so don’t turn the water on until you’re ready.”

For a few moments more he rooted through the clothing, but when Tyler didn’t move toward the bathroom, Ange glanced up at him to find the boy staring back. “You okay?”

Tyler’s eyes wavered and he looked away. “Fine.” His voice was thick and he sniffed, wiped the sleeve of his hoodie across his eyes, then sniffed again, louder this time, struggling with his emotions. Ange turned away and pretended not to notice. “Thanks, man.”

Ange shrugged as he found the pair of boxers. He remembered the last time he saw Stacy wearing them, the way the thin material had spread across his friend’s full ass. If he remembered right, Stacy hadn’t stayed in them for long.

He wondered if Tyler had enough junk in the trunk to fill the shorts out, do them justice, then he shook that thought away. He wouldn’t take advantage of the guy, not at a vulnerable time like this. In his head he heard Tyler’s words again, Sick pervert. Shaking the shorts out, Ange set them aside and smiled sadly. “Don’t mention it.”