Randy starts to wrap up his life in Cleveland.
Thanks, yet again, to LarryInSeattle for his editing assistance.
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By the end of the week, we were falling into a routine. We're both habitual early risers. Also, we're both feeling like our pants are getting a little tight, so breakfast is easy enough. Coffee, black and Greek yogurt with either raw nuts or fresh fruit. There hasn't been a drop of rain so after breakfast I get the damn sprinklers going. I've decided I hate, I really fucking hate sod. I've begun to seriously consider moving to the desert.
Before it gets hot enough for your balls to melt and drip down your pant leg, we head out and I show Kent my hometown. I always bring my camera and I've gotten some good shots. I went back to the record store and got the okay to hang out and take photos as long as no one complains and I stay out of the way. I decided to go with black and white. I haven't had time to process them but I think a couple of them could be the best shots I've taken. I'm almost afraid to work on them.
We get back before lunch and I move the fucking sprinklers. We shower. I change the dressings on Kent's hands. We read or listen to music during the hottest part of the afternoon. One of the CDs Kent bought is by a group called Arcade Fire. Outstanding. He shows me a clip of them singing with Bowie. Totally fucking cool. The other is from a group called Cloud Cult, also amazing. My idea was better than I realized. I'd never heard of either of those groups. I love 'em and not because Kent picked them out for me but because I really love their music. Kent seems to dig the Bowie albums I picked out. He's not convinced that going back to vinyl makes any sense. He may be right. For me, it's more of a nostalgia thing. If I'm honest, which I am most of the time, I can't say the sound is that much greater. I'd love to get an audiophile hipster into a sound booth and have a sound engineer play him, or her, analog music versus digital and see if he can really tell the difference. I did hear a story about a sound engineer who could tell, from listening to a tape, what amplifier was used. So, maybe I won't test my theory. I know what I want to buy him next, well, sort of. I'm going back and forth between "Meddle" and "Dark Side of the Moon". Or maybe we should switch from music to books. Or movies. Damn.
After supper, we sometimes hit the local watering hole, sometimes watch a movie, or catch a game on TV if the Tribe or the Pirates are playing. I'm not sure what we'll do if the Tribe ever ends up playing the Pirates in the World Series.
At times, those thoughts freak me out. The idea, this soon into a relationship, of wondering what book I should buy for him or how we'll deal with sports rivalries, seems strange. For that matter, even thinking of this as a 'relationship' is strange. I've known him less than a month. Yet, after a week, we've already fallen into a routine.
I'm breaking the routine today. Dale, a high school acquaintance and realtor is coming by to look at the house. So, instead of touring greater Cleveland, we enjoy a second cup of coffee and shower. We've learned to shower separately, if the primary purpose is to shower. The sex is still great, really fucking great, but we're not fucking like bunnies. I think we went almost 48 hours without one of us cumming the other day. Even so, and even with a tiny ass shower, if he gets in with me, one or both of us is getting blown. That's right up there with death and taxes. Death, taxes, Kent joins me in the shower, blow job. For a guy who claims to be 'mostly' a bottom and whose hands are wrapped in gauze, he sure loves to fuck. That's yet another evolution in our relationship -- condoms. Neither of us is worried about disease but they sure make clean up easier. It's not as messy as people seem to imagine but it is messy at times. I assume porn stars prep like they're about to have a colonoscopy. We're both on the neat freak side of life but, hey, it's a butt. Sometimes there's a little mess and Mr. Trojan makes life simpler. As much as they simplify life I'm not a big fan of condoms. I hate the taste of latex. Once he's had one on his dick, sucking him sucks. Of course, if he's been fucking me in the ass, he always washes up before I suck, if he didn't cum in my ass I mean. I've never had more than hookup with a man. I want to ask him how he and Brad had managed stuff like this but I don't really want to get into a discussion of how they fucked each other.
I'm just putting the last piece of tape on Kent's dressings when the doorbell rings. As I open the door, my mind flashes back to the afternoon I opened the door for Matt and his photo shoot. Dale is no competition. He's an okay looking guy but there's no part of my head that wants to get him naked. I show him around the place and we sit down at the kitchen table. He throws a couple of glances at Kent. I've introduced them, of course, but I can see the wheels turning in Dale's head. I motion for him to sit down before Dale starts talking to me about selling the place.
When Dale left, I was more confused than ever. I'd looked at online ads and he thought the price I had in mind was a good one but he didn't think I should sell. He pulled up several years of data, prices had been increasing all around my neighborhood. He was sure this area would be next. I found that hard to believe but Dale was convinced. We were close to downtown. We were close to major highways but they weren't in our backyards. He pointed out that two new restaurants had opened nearby in the past year. His recommendation? Rent it. That would provide income and if it looked like the market was overheating, I could sell then. I'd heard horror stories about renting out a house. Dale also managed properties. He'd deal with the leasing, maintenance, evictions, all that crap for 10%. I'd get a check every quarter.
After I showed him out, I sat back down at the table.
"What ya think?"
"Do you trust him?"
"Yeah, I mean I guess so. I knew him in high school. Our moms were friends. He sold mom's house for me and that went fine."
"He seems to be keeping an eye on the market. What he said makes sense."
"Yeah," I shake my head. "I was counting on the cash though. I offered to go in with Glenna and Leon. Help with the resort."
"You did?" I nod. "Did they agree?"
"Well, no, not exactly. I told them to think about it. That I'd have no hard feelings if they said no. I haven't heard their answer yet."
"Why did you ask? Is running a resort something you've wanted to do?"
"Nope. Never occurred to me. But the cinnamon roll idea seems to be a good one." I'm talking as much to myself as I am to Kent. "I think the place could be something really special. A place with a nice little restaurant, one that people would eat at even if they weren't guests. I was serious when I told Liam to fix the ceviche for them. And the limeade. I can see it as a romantic get-away spot, if the cabins are fixed up a bit and the restaurant idea works out."
"Lot of families and kids running around for a romantic get-away," Kent offers.
"True," I agree, nodding my head. "We could work that angle too. Maybe work out something with a fishing guide, water skiing lessons, stuff like that."
Kent nods, then gives me a long look. "But you don't know if any of that interests Glenna or Leon, correct?"
"Yup. Correct." We're both quiet. "You know I slept with Glenna? To try to help them have a kid, right?"
He nods.
"Well, I had, I don't know, a vision, dream, something. I saw myself playing with their son. He called me Uncle Randy and I was teaching him to swim in the lake."
"So, you don't think it was a dream? You think it was like that stuff you were telling me, about seeing what happened to Leon, in college before you ever knew him?"
"Yeah. I feel crazy for thinking it, much less saying it, but, yeah, I do." I run my fingers through my hair. "I don't believe in God or spirits or any of that shit."
"Well, given what you've told me, you might need to re-evaluate."
The room grows quiet enough so that when the refrigerator kicks on, I jump.
"I never told you about the accident." Kent's voice is so soft it barely disturbs the quiet.
"You don't have to talk about it," I tell him.
"It's not the accident per se but what happened right before it."
"What do you mean?" I have the sudden fear he'll tell me the accident was his fault.
"I was following way too close to that truck. My mind was a million miles away. I should have ended up smashed under the back end of the trailer but I didn't." He looks up from the table. "A voice told me to get off the highway. Ordered me to get off the highway. I didn't think about it. I'm not sure I even used the turn signal. I hauled the wheel over and took the exit. I was barely off the road when, wham, I saw the car go flying through the air."
"You heard a voice?"
He nods.
