Better late than never, I always say. . .find myself saying that a lot lately, but anyhoo. Below is the holiday free read I promised you. Enjoy!   

Predictable by Bryl R. Tyne

Predictable©2009 Bryl R. Tyne

All Rights Reserved

December 31, 2009

Home by seven-thirty—in and out of the shower by eight—towel hanging slightly cocked, exposing enough of his left hip to drive a man wild. Ian Maroni, my roommate this year, drives me bat-shit crazy. It’s been a long first month of pure torture and I still don’t know if he’s gay or not; but I don’t care. He’s gorgeous. How many times have I dreamt of telepathic powers? Just once, I’d like to will that towel loose of those narrow hips. Frustrated as ever.

Martin Berman

Ian cocked a brow as he rounded the bathroom doorway and strolled to his side of the closet on the far side of the room. I closed my notebook. He eyed me over his right shoulder. “Didn’t know jocks kept journals.”

Smartass. “It’s not a journal.” I stuffed the notebook into my backpack. “Professor Perkins says—”

“Behavioral Psych Professor Perkins?”

Fuck.

“It’s a journal.”

I ignored the look he threw me as I passed behind him, heading for the bathroom. He’d have dressed and either gone to the library to study or parked on his bed combing over his latest violin ensem when I finished showering. Predictable torture . . .

. . . And there he was cross-legged, back against his headboard, chin to his violin, when I emerged from the bathroom towel-drying my mop. Funny though, no music lay open on the bed before him, he appeared lost in a simple melody. “Not studying tonight?”

Ouch. I fingered my sore ear. Could’ve done without the missed note.

“It’s New Year’s Eve, nimrod.” His glare cut deeper than his words.

Nothing unusual, though. I mean, look at him sitting there on his boney ass all proper-like. He envied me. I knew it. Who wouldn’t be jealous of this quarterback physique? He’d probably never stepped foot inside a gym. His anti-social behaviors weren’t my fault, though. If he wanted to live like a shut-in, he should’ve rented a place off-campus. Without another word, he laid his violin down softly then marched over to his dresser.

Oh great. Out came his Marlboros. He lit one up as he stalked to the sliding glass door then jerked it open. I shuddered as he stepped onto the balcony into an exhaled plume of smoke. Suddenly, that perfect ass concealed by those skin-tight jeans didn’t look so inviting.

I thumbed through my clothes, pulling the first black t-shirt I came to off its hanger. Jerkwad knew I hated smoking. Just the thought of kissing someone with smoker’s breath made me gag. Oh hell, who was I kidding. Like I’d ever get a taste of him. I finished tugging up my jeans. He’d told me before that he only smoked when he was stressed out. Fastening my pants, I wondered if this time, it was my fault he’d felt the need to light up. Barefoot, I padded across the room and stuck my head out the open door.

“Melanie should be here any minute. Change your mind about the party?” I asked, knowing his answer would be the same as always. He never went anywhere, unless it served a purpose. Social functions, according to him, were what slackers majored in.

He dragged deep on that cancer stick. I couldn’t help stare at the way his lips tightened around it so determined, wishing he’d use that same determination on me someday. Ashtray-breath or not, even in one of his moods, his stance beckoned me to give him the once-over . . . one more time. So damned sexy. “I’ll go,” he said, exhaling the stench-filled smoke through his nose.

* * * * *

Melanie and girlfriend, Sue, rented a house about three miles from campus. Not a long ride, but in the backseat of Melanie’s car, Ian toyed with the stitching of his jeans the entire time. Though she’d picked up a few others along the way, I’d made sure Ian got a window seat in case he needed to smoke. Crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in the backseat of her Hyundai, I knew he was Jonesing for one bad. He didn’t light up though. I found that abnormal—really strange, for him.

As soon as we were inside, he asked where the bathroom was. Whatever. Hungry as always, I snagged a glass of beer and headed for the kitchen.

“Hey, Marty. Does he know?”

Scanning behind me, I turned to find Melanie on my heels. Through the open doorway, I watched the swarm mingle about the living room. Still no sign of Ian. “Give it a rest. Will you?” I found an apple in a fruit bowl on the counter. “I told you. I don’t even know if he’s gay for chrissake.”

“Well, he showed up here, didn’t he? Surely he knows this party is exclusively for Lesbians and Gay—”

“I didn’t tell him.” I took a hearty bite of apple, hoping she’d shut up.

She did, and just in time as Ian hustled into the kitchen looking a bit unsettled. “Sorry,” he said, and turned around. “I didn’t mean to interrupt any—”

“Oh no, sweetie.” Melanie caught him by the arm. Squeezing past him in the doorway, she gave him a shove further into the kitchen. “I was just leaving.”

Ian pinned me with his stare, but it wasn’t his typical glare of distaste or envy. Breaking eye-contact, I lifted the lid on the cooler on the table. “Want a beer?” I handed him a bottle as I looked up to find him still staring. “What?”

As he grabbed the bottle from my hand and his fingers brushed over mine I could’ve sworn I caught him stifle a quick smile. “You didn’t tell me this was a gays only New Year’s Eve party.”

“Well, Melanie and Sue are friends . . . and they asked me.” I cracked open a bottle and held it out in exchange for his. He was still staring as I took the unopened bottle from his hand and replaced it with the one I’d just opened. But before I could open my beer, he was sucking his down. Damnit. Was there anything those lips couldn’t tackle to perfection? “Listen. If you’re uncomfortable—”

“No. I’m cool,” he said, lowering the bottle from slightly swollen lips.

Again, I tried hard not to fixate on that almost smile and turned away. Sipping my beer, I made my way past Ian and into the crowded living room. Catching the game on the big screen or shooting the bull with friends should keep my mind occupied. Anything but worrying about what that smile meant.

One of the reasons I liked hanging out with like-minded buds, at least “Star Quarterback Kisses Man” would be far from breaking New Year’s Eve gossip come Monday morning. Most professors could give a rats ass about who’s schtupping whom, but the students? As quarterback of the football team, I had an image to uphold. I gave Ian one last glance, before disappearing into the sea of people. Still staring, he nodded my direction then raised his bottle in salute sporting a now, huge grin. What had I done by asking him here?

* * * * *

Though I succeeded in avoiding Ian most of the night, he stumbled past me a few times—always on his way to the bathroom. Despite his reaction to my actions tonight, with the help of Melanie, I’d resolved that I was getting a midnight celebratory kiss come hell or high water. If he ratted me out to the entire student body, so be it.

I eyed the clock—three minutes until midnight. Looking around, I noticed most everyone had paired off and seemed particularly happy with their choices for the evening. Just as I was deciding between Emo Rogers lingering alone in a back corner or goofy Jim, who’d lost himself in table-top dancing all night, I was catapulted forward from a sudden jar to the back.

“Hey!” I caught myself seconds before careening over the back of a winged-back chair and whirled around. “Watch where the fu—”

“Sorry,” Ian said, steadying his balance with the assistance of my outstretched arm.

“You lush.”

“Am not.” With a hiccup, he wiped in vain at his beer-drenched t-shirt, before meeting my gaze.

My attention drifted behind him, and I shook my head. Melanie and Sue stood across the room, giggling.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I said, eying the clock as the crowd began migrating closer the big screen behind me. Emo Rogers had disappeared and goofy Jim was down to nothing but his thong. So much for celebrating the New Year. “Come on. Let’s head out. I’ll get a cab.”

Ian’s eyes widened as another wave sent both of us closer to the television which now sported the count-down ball. The noisy room grew louder, trying to drown out the screaming crowd on the TV. With my back against the chair, any space on either side of me was filled with the next wave of partiers and the few remaining steps between Ian and I disappeared just the same.

“Ten!” The crowd reiterated the television’s blare as Ian inadvertently shared the moisture of his t-shirt with mine.

His half-finished bottle teetered as much as he did as he leaned to set it on an end table; I caught him before he made a fool of himself.

“Nine!”

“Hold on before you fall over!” I yelled above the crowd.

He wrapped both arms around my waist, but his gaze locked hard on mine as he found his footing. “I’m not drunk.”

“Eight!”

Yeah. Right. My straight roommate had a death grip on the back of my t-shirt and wasn’t as much as flinching at us being pressed junk-to-junk by the drunken mob. He was sober—my ass. I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Seven!”

The intensity of his glare multiplied and if I didn’t know any better, I swore he pulled himself flush against me. “I need a cigarette,” he said.

“Six!”

Well, that was news to me. I’d figured he’d snatched a drag or two each time he disappeared into the bathroom.

“Five!”

“It’s a New Year’s resolution.” His glare softened into a different look, a look I’d never seen on him—a look of hunger. “For you,” he said, leaning closer, filling any remaining distance between us.

“Four!”

At that moment, I must’ve had that deer in the headlight look, but my predictable roommate had thrown me for one helluva loop. “For me?” I stammered as his stubbly jaw scraped across my neck and his hands wandered my back.

“Three!”

“I didn’t know you were gay, until you asked me to the party.”

“Not many people do. I got an image to uphold for chrissake.”

“Two!”

His warm breath rushed over my neck, sending heat coursing through me and pooling down below. He licked a wet trail to my ear, and my cock hardened accordingly as my mind rallied around the fact that my roommate was most likely gay. If it were the beer messing with me or his actions, I didn’t care. I reciprocated his hold, brushing over what could only be one fine boner as I ground against him. “Happy?”

With a chuckle, he adjusted himself. “That’s just my toothbrush and toothpaste, dork.”

“One!”

In that instant, as his lips covered mine, his reoccurring bathroom visits made sense. Wanting to ensure my first taste of him left a pleasant imprint, he had been brushing his teeth throughout the evening. And at that moment, when our tongues collided and I fondled his skinny ass beneath my palms, I realized, I didn’t really care if he tasted like an ashtray or not. My beer-soaked shirt clinging to my chest, Ian clinging to me, I’d happily trade one predictable torture for another.

 

* * * * *

January 1, 2010

Even the predictable is unpredictable. My New Year’s Resolution: Quit over thinking. Ian’s home—gotta run.

Martin Berman

Enjoy,

Bryl