T.J. Klune - Bear, Otter, and the Kid 2 - Who We Are (35 page)

I smack him on the chest. “You’re totally angling to get laid again, aren’t you?”

 

He laughs. “Is it working?” he asks, grinding his groin into my stomach. “Uh… I… what did you ask me?” I say, trying to stop my eyes from rolling back in my head.

“That’s what I thought. Let’s go find the guys.”
“Is this where I should do the whole ‘what if they don’t like me’ thing?” He leans down and kisses the tip of my nose. “Hey,” he says. “Hey, yourself,” I say back.
“You’re not really worried about that, are you?”
I think for a moment and can’t come up with an answer so I shrug.

“Bear, I know you don’t see it, even though I tell you constantly, but you are the most amazing individual that I’ve ever known.” Seriously, Otter should really give up photography and write greeting cards. But damn if it doesn’t cause my heart to beat faster. “They’ll love you, and even if, on the slimmest of chances they don’t, it won’t matter. What matters is
I
think you’re pretty damn cool.”

“You think I’m
cool
?” I say, trying to keep the incredulousness out of my voice, but not succeeding in the slightest. “Well, I think you’re rad.”

He grins, and it’s that grin I know. “I think we’re meant to be, then,” he says with a faux wistfulness in his voice. “After all, you said you’re the only one who could put up with my bullshit.”

“Damn right.”
“So, no nerves okay? It’ll be fine.”

“Thanks, coach. I’ll make sure I score the first football goal.” I pause, considering. “I don’t think I know that much about sports.”

“Not much, it seems,” Otter reassures me. “But, hey, that’s okay too. You can just stay home with the kids and make sure dinner’s on the table when I get home.”

“Bastard.” I scowl as I hit him, trying to cover up how the word “kids” has shot straight through me. “I’m not your fucking wife.”

“No,” he says, his eyes suddenly thoughtful and looking like he’s far, far away. “No, you’re not. But… hey. This may not be the best time to talk about this.” He takes a deep breath. “Bear, I’ve been thinking. A lot. Have you ever thought about… what… what if we—”

I don’t get to hear how he finishes that sentence as he’s suddenly pulled from my grasp and spun around, a delighted bellow coming from whoever has seen fit to interrupt whatever scary thing Otter had been about to say. Countless things shoot through my head, from Otter proposing that we adopt a Haitian child and name him something weird and trendy like celebrities do (for some reason, I imagine our Haitian baby would be named Textile Mills Thompson or Banana-Rama McKenna) or telling me that he was serious about me being his version of a stay-at-home mom (I would have to make sure I could find the brownie recipe and start pricing minivan/SUV crossovers—hell, I’m already a member of the PTA at the Kid’s school, so why not get my hair permed while I’m at it? This (of course) makes me wonder if men ever get their hair permed, and for that matter, do women still even do it? Or is that an eighties thing? I remind myself to look it up on Google when we get home).

Otter roars with laughter and wraps his arms around another guy, the man’s handsome face on his shoulder, eyes closed until they open and find me, and the smile widens. Jordan. He looks exactly like I remember him, his blond hair falling in waves down onto his shoulders, the beard on his face dark and thick. He’s gotten bigger than the last time I saw him, almost as big as Otter, and I wonder if it’s still possible I could go through a growth spurt at the age of twenty-one. Jordan’s still got that chip in one of his front teeth, and I vaguely remember him telling me it was from a time he’d been hit in the face with a bat in high school where he was apparently hot shit until he’d busted out his knee while roller-skating. I remember making fun of him incessantly about being so cool as to admit that he went roller-skating. Then, like so many things, he’d disappeared from my life after my mom left, after Otter left. I almost let myself focus on that, but I shove it away. Now’s not the time to wallow in self-pity. I’m in a gay bar, after all.

Jordan says something to Otter as he lets him go, and Otter glances back at me, and his eyes are bright as they watch me, and he says something back to Jordan as he holds out his hand to me. I reach up and grab his fingers and am pulled forward. “Jordan, you remember Bear,” Otter says, the obvious pride in his voice causing my face to burn. “He’s mine now.”

Jordan ignores my outstretched hand and wraps me in the same tight grip that he’d given to Otter. I yelp as I’m lifted off my feet and spun around in circles, Jordan’s laughter echoing in my ears. After what seems like days (and I’m pretty sure I’ve spilled the last of the world’s Coke all over the drag queen behind us—oh, woe, the loss!) I’m set back down on my feet, and Jordan puts his hands on my shoulders and grins down at me. “How could I forget?” he says, his voice whiskey smooth. “So, Bear, you’re the one I’ve got to thank for finally bringing this idiot to his senses and making him come home?”

My face is probably the color of a stop sign by now. “Uh… I don’t know about that. I think there was a bunch of other stuff too.” I shrug.

Eloquent as always, Papa Bear,
it laughs.
Life of the party, you are. Stop talking like Yoda!
I snap at it.

But talking like this, I like. Try it, you should. Popular, it make you at the gay bar.

Otter grabs my hand again, entwining his fingers in my own. “He is,” Otter tells Jordan. “He just doesn’t like that much pressure put on him. That whole blush thing he’s doing right now? That’s because he’s embarrassed that we’re talking about him.”

I scowl. “Not helping.”

 

Jordan looks amused as he glances between us. “You know, Bear, I was surprised when Otter finally called me back and told me what was what.”

“Oh?”
“I was busy,” Otter mutters.

Jordan shrugs. “We didn’t think you swung that way. You know, back in the day. Otter here would just get this faraway look in his eyes anytime your name was mentioned, and it was sad to watch after a while.”

Now it’s Otter’s turn to blush. “Oh
really
?” I say gleefully, feeling a bit more like myself, the first since we’d walked into the bar. “Otter? Care to comment?”

Otter blushes harder and looks down at his feet. But I feel the squeeze of his hand against mine, and I can’t help but to laugh. “You
love
me,” I tease him.

He rolls his eyes. “Duh. Glad to see you think that’s funny.”

Jordan puts his arm around my shoulder and starts leading us away from the bar toward the back, where more people are sitting at tables and booths that line the walls. “It was always ‘Bear this’ and ‘Bear that’,” he says, loud enough to make sure Otter can hear him over the
thumpthumpthump
of some has-been pop star’s remixed latest cry for attention. “‘You guys will never believe what Bear said today.’ I’m glad you finally came to your senses and took pity on the poor guy. He’d have been lost without you.”

I don’t get a chance to reply as we come up to a table with a handful of guys. Some are vaguely recognizable. Others are strangers. One is my little brother’s fifth-grade teacher. Neat. I start to pull in on myself when Jordan says, “Gentlemen. Gentlemen! If I could have your attention, please! The prodigal son of Seafare has returned, and he’s brought his partner”—(
oh, fuck me)—
“who’s been the center of his world for as long as I’ve known him.” (
Goddammit, Jordan!
) “I give you Otter and Bear!”

The guys at the table immediately jump and start hollering so loudly it’s a wonder that anyone could actually still hear the music that’s being played. Immediately, I’m jostled and hugged, back-slapped and ass-grabbed, my hair ruffled, my cheek kissed, my ear whispered into, and I think someone said something to me in Spanish, but no one looks Latino, so I might just be making that up. Two seats appear as if by magic, and we’re thrust down into them, us on one side of the table and the other six on the other side. They grin at us.

I start to sweat.

 

“You okay?” Otter asks, as I’m sure he can feel how clammy my hand is.

I nod and reach over and chug half his beer.
He laughs at me and leans over to kiss my ear. “I got you,” he says. “Awww,” our audience sighs.
Lame. Kind of.

Everyone starts talking at once, and I try to follow along with the conversation, but it’s almost impossible. Otter removes his hand from mine (probably because it’s dripping wet and gross) and sets it on my thigh, stopping my leg from bouncing up and down nervously. He leans forward and laughs at something someone says. People include me in the conversation, and I try and answer as best I can (read: as best as I can hear) and I take the time to scan the rest of them that I don’t quite remember/know. I suck at names, so there’s Muscles Magoo, who looks like his shirt will burst at any moment, his pecs giving serious consideration to crushing the table. There’s Guy With Glasses, who looks like he has a nervous twitch under his left eye, but then he glances at me and smiles, and I realize he seems okay. Captain Ass Muscles (David Trent) is doing his best to talk to a distracted Otter. I almost want to ask him how Ty’s doing in class just to get him to stop staring at my boyfriend like he’s the only thing on the menu. He probably doesn’t want to talk shop on a Friday night, but then I don’t want him eye-fucking Otter. Jordan is directly across from me, sitting next to a small man I’ve dubbed Mini Me, as he looks exactly like a smaller version of Jordan, and I try and remember if Jordan has a little brother or not. The last guy is Beer Me, four empty beer bottles in front of him, a glazed happy look on his face. I think I’ve met him before, only because I remember him being drunk then too.

But that all goes away when hands drop on my shoulders. I lean my head back, the effects of the half beer that I drank causing my skin to feel warm (I
really
need to work on my tolerance), to find a smiling face staring down at me.

Isaiah.
What’s he doing—
Oh, shit.
I almost fall back off my chair.

“Care Bear,” he says, grinning down at me, that wolfish smile in full force. “You look fucking gorgeous. Glad to see my clothes rock that tight little body of yours.” He leans on my shoulders to keep me from tipping over, the pressure of his hands digging into my skin. He’s wearing a black sleeveless shirt that’s entirely too small for him, but I think that might be the point because every muscle in his upper body looks like it’s straining to burst out through the fabric. His hair is wild and messy, like mine is, and his grip tightens even harder for a moment before I realize that the conversation at our table has stopped.

I look forward and see that everyone is staring at me (us?) and I immediately feel guilty, like I’ve done something wrong even though I can’t quite pinpoint what that could be. It’s only then that I realize my thigh is also in a vise grip, and I glance over at Otter to find him staring at me as well, except his eyes aren’t filled with gentle confusion like the rest of the table; no, his eyes are glittering dangerously, not quite yet black but growing dilated even as I watch. I try to think back to any time that I could point out where Otter was put in a position to show his jealousy and possessiveness, but can only come to when I’d told him about Isaiah and that whole debacle. We’d never really been in a position for
him
to feel jealousy (me, on the other hand, got to contend with Jonah. Oh, and David, who’s sitting across from me, now staring at Isaiah with something akin to finding a hundred dollar bill covered in crack on the sidewalk—do you take it or leave it alone?). But whatever Otter’s feeling is pouring off of him in palpable waves, so much so that it’s raising the temperature in the room and causing me to sweat again.

“Isaiah,” I say in greeting, amazed that my voice comes out sounding somewhat normal. “Nice to see you.”

Isaiah laughs, and it comes out deep as it rumbles. “Oh, Bear. ‘Nice to see you’?” he mocks me. “That’s really all I get? I thought we meant more to each other than that. I mean, you were
in
my apartment, after all. With your ex-girlfriend, no less. God, that was a good day.”

“Bear,” Otter says, sounding like the last remnants of his control are about to snap. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

I could think of at least seven hundred things I’d rather do, but I don’t think I should say that for fear of making the situation worse. If Otter and Isaiah don’t let up their holds on me, I’m going to be covered in bruises tomorrow. And even though I know I’m completely devoted to Otter, part of me thinks that sounds fucking hot. I am not a good person, it would seem.

“Isaiah, this is—”

 

“Oh, you don’t need to tell me,” Isaiah interrupts. He lets go of my shoulder as he turns to Otter. “Let me guess, you must be Walrus?” I groan.

Otter stands, pulling himself to his full height, which is impressive by normal standards, but standing next to Isaiah (who’s the same height as me) makes it all the more intimidating. Isaiah might be buff, but he’s still a dwarf compared to my man. And that look on his face is not a happy one; if I didn’t know Otter and he was glowering at
me
like that, I’d probably be shitting myself silly.

But Isaiah doesn’t look scared or intimidated; as a matter of fact, he looks strangely amused and impressed. “Holy shit,” he breathes. “You’re a big fucker, aren’t you? I’m sure you’re… quite the handful.” He glances down at me. “Why didn’t you say he was a fucking gorgeous behemoth?”

“I did,” I say, scowling.
“No,
Anna
said that. You said he was neat.”
“He
is
neat. Like, super neat.”

Wow,
it muses
, don’t lay it on so thick. You won’t sound believable at all.

 

“He’s the neatest guy I know,” I add.

 

“So you’re the guy that kissed my boyfriend, huh?” Otter says without a single trace of irony, ignoring my extolling his virtues completely.

“Ohhhh,” our audience exhales. Guy With Glasses and Beer Me immediately start to whisper to each other, Muscles Magoo just flexes his arms, Jordan And Mini Me glare at Isaiah like he’s the Antichrist (which, to be fair, he just might be), and David Trent looks like he’s enjoying himself far too much, and I want to reach over and karate chop that smug expression off of his face, but two things stop me: a) he’s my little brother’s teacher, and Ty is mad at me enough already; and b) I don’t know karate. Well, I kinda do, only because I’ve seen
Enter the Dragon,
like, seventeen times. I’m sure I can be a quick study. If not, I can just keep practicing on David’s face until I get it right.