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----- A Drink with a Stranger By: Sean Roberts -----
-- Chapter 11 --
Lane picked one of those places where a suit and tie were required, and did not get drunk before going. He did bring his ID so they could order wine, though.
"What's the occasion?" Ellis asked after, with some of Lane's prompting, they ordered the largest steaks on the menu. Lane was feeling like he was too skinny, anyway.
"Do we need one?" Lane asked.
"I guess not." In pretending not to be distracted, Lane paid close attention to Ellis. He fell even harder for him as they spent the evening. Lane thought about how humiliated Ellis would ever be if he found out what Lane had done to him—in fact what Lane was doing to him, right at that moment. It was nine o'clock—Finn should just be arriving at the school.
The plan was that Finn would park down the street and walk through the soccer pitch to get to the school. Whoever was there watching would be in the parking lot, watching the front. Tonight, Finn was going to wear the full ski mask, so that if someone did see him, there would be no identification. As long as nobody figured out who he was, there would be nothing to worry about. At around half past nine, Lane excused himself to use the little boy's room. He checked his phone. It was done.
Ellis insisted on paying the cheque. They sat in Ellis' car in Lane's driveway, in the back seat. Ellis started to get Lane undressed; Lane sat there. He was going to let Ellis have this one. Ellis noticed that Lane was not participating.
"What's wrong?" Ellis said.
"Nothing. I ... I just want to do what you want." Ellis gently pulled Lane's head downwards, between his legs. Lane licked his boyfriend, sending a spasm of pleasure through Ellis' body. Lane became hard himself as Ellis' moans directed him.
Lane's hair was dishevelled; his suit was stretched and crumpled when he got home. He shed the now ruined suit onto his floor and sat at his laptop. It was going to be an all-nighter. He wrote an essay on Macbeth.
When he was finished, he sent an email back, requesting previous writings in order to match the style. Once that was done, it was time for his morning swim.
--
Lane parked in Ellis' driveway and called him.
"I want to take you out for breakfast." Ellis agreed, and came outside with messy hair and a uniform thrown on hastily. Lane did not ask him what happened, not right away. He waited until they had coffee. "I'm really sorry I woke you up early," Lane said.
"You didn't. I couldn't sleep."
"How come?"
"Can you keep a secret?"
"Of course."
"Alright. Well, look. You know how I'm trying to figure out this whole assignment purchasing deal? Well, I figured what better way than to buy one and see who picks up the money. Well, he was wearing a mask. Or she. Who knows? How could I have been so stupid?"
"How much did it cost you?" Lane asked.
"A grand." Lane spit out his coffee.
"Fuck, Ellis."
"Well, yes and no. Any kid our age who's a thousand dollars richer is going to brag about it to someone. Or buy something stupid and flashy with it. I'll get it figured out, I think." Filling Lane in on the plan may not have been such a good idea, but it was the whole point of them spending so much time together. Ellis was serious—about this and about everything else. The way he dressed, the way he played soccer and the way he wrote—there was a passion there which Lane himself enjoyed. He watched Ellis close his eyes when he sipped his coffee, really savouring it. Lane took a deep breath. He was falling in love.
"Well I was up studying all night. I shouldn't have. It just got to that point where it was too late to stop. Listen Ellis; fuck school. The house is going to be empty."
Ellis borrowed a pair of trunks and they swam away the morning. They showered together, cleaning certain parts of each other very well while neglecting others. They stayed naked and burrowed into Lane's bed. They held each other and slept. It was a deep, comfortable hypnotic sleep. When they woke they were stretched out in strange shapes; legs over each other, hands on stomachs and hips. Their hair, wet when they climbed into bed, had been electrified almost into the troll style from the 90s. Ellis was much cuter than the trolls, Lane thought. They smiled at each other. Ellis made Lane cry out as he pulled on him, much too hard. Lane dug his fingers into Ellis' back as he kissed his neck, his other hand ending up on Ellis' erection.
He squeezed Ellis' foreskin before using his fingers to pull it back, holding it tightly and squeezing the head. He moved his lips further down, onto Ellis' chest and stomach, kissing every inch of the muscular boy's torso. He pulled the skin all the way down and licked the back of Ellis' head, over the tip, making the boy groan. He put his mouth over it and Ellis' hips gyrated in response. Ellis closed his eyes, his hand entwined in Lane's hair and the other grasping the sheets. Lane pulled his mouth away and stroked him, watching Ellis' come fly straight into the air and come spattering back down.
Lane licked just a drop off Ellis' stomach, and then touched the tip of his tongue to Ellis' lips. Their hands found each other as they kissed. Lane rubbed his body against Ellis, gasping for air as he came. He collapsed onto the bed beside Ellis and rested his head on Ellis' shoulder, his tongue darting in and out like a lizard, licking drops of sweat from Ellis' neck. Lane closed his eyes and kissed Ellis' shoulder as he heard the mail notification sound coming from his computer. He ignored it and drifted off again in Ellis' arms. He woke up, hours later, in an empty bed. Ellis had left at some point, the first thing he saw was his open laptop, logged into his second email account.
Ellis did not answer his phone, respond to email or to text messages. Lane called Finn who also had not seen him. Lane knew that he was the last person who Ellis wanted to see, but there was no choice. He drove over to Ellis' house.
Ellis was sitting against his bed, wearing nothing but pyjama bottoms. His hair was still a mess from earlier in the day, and his face was red and blotchy, like that of a child who did not get dessert. He was playing with the drawstrings of his pants, twirling them around his fingers, then unwrapping them. He was rocking slightly. He turned to look at the intruder, his fingers not stopping.
He looked at Lane with red eyes for a while, without saying anything. He looked back down at his fidgeting hands. Lane approached him slowly, and sat in front of him.
"Ellis," he said firmly. Ellis looked up; again just for a few moments; then back down at his hands. It was as if he were a broken toy. Lane really fucked up this time. Lane leaned forward and took hold of Ellis' wrists. He grasped them firmly and looked into Ellis' eyes.
"Please ..." Ellis said. He said it in a barely audible whisper. He went back to rocking. His fingers were moving even though Lane was restricting his hand movements. Lane's breathing quickened. He was getting worried; this was a situation he was not equipped to handle. "Leave," Ellis said. "Please fucking leave."
"No," Lane replied. He let go of Ellis' wrists and looked around the room. There was a half empty bottle of water on the desk. "Not until you drink this." Ellis did as he was told, draining the bottle and tossing it to the side. It helped. Lane rubbed his knee; rubbed his naked arm and then went to sit beside him. He pulled Ellis' head onto his shoulder. Ellis started to cry again.
When he was done, Ellis told Lane not to move, and he left his bedroom. He came back a few minutes later, his hair straightened and his face washed.
"You are a fucking asshole," he growled at Lane. "It was you. The whole time it was you. After what I told you; it was you. But you still talked to me, and touched me, and let me go on a wild goose chase. You made me spend a thousand dollars to humiliate me."
"No—"
"Shut the fuck up, Lane. I don't want to hear a damn thing you have to say. Do not ever speak to me again. Don't ever look at me again. I'm resigning from the paper. You can fucking have it back. It's what you wanted, anyway. You can go back to your solitary confinement in that fucking office. You can buy a thousand dollars worth of liquor to keep you company while you help people cheat their way into college. You're the worst fucking person I've ever met, Lane." Lane was shaking. His heart was pounding. He had been thinking about a way to return the money, but this was not how Lane had wanted that to happen. It was supposed to be done secretly. Everything Ellis had just told him was undeniably true.
"You're right," Lane said. "But before we talk about that, I want to know that you're okay. When I came in just now--" "I am not okay, since you asked. But that is one hundred per cent your fault. So please get the fuck out of my life."
Lane brooded in his room over a glass (it was more, but who's counting?) of scotch before going downstairs, turning on the television and laying on the couch like a naked woman in a classical painting. He flipped channels and increased the volume periodically. He had dinner with his family so they would not ask him what was wrong, then he went back to the television. The noise kept him distracted until he finally fell asleep.
His head was pounding when he woke up late the next morning. He told his parents he was not feeling well; they called the school for him and let him sleep. He drank some more as soon as they left the house so he could fall asleep again. He woke up again, hot in his day old clothes. He looked at himself in the mirror. His skin sallow and his vampire eyes, groggy and barely open, looking at himself. Or some version of himself that resembled a train wreck. He looked around his room. There were things thrown everywhere; two empty bottles lay leaking onto the carpet. He picked them up quickly and threw a towel over the spill. It was two o'clock—he would have some privacy for a while. He started on the next journey. Another bottle was always the best solution to a hangover.
His head was pounding even more. His throat was dry and his mouth tasted like stale vomit. His forehead felt wet. He touched it. It was thicker than sweat. He squinted at his hand and saw blood. Then he heard the voices becoming slightly louder. He felt like groaning, but his throat was too dry. He shut his eyes again.
He felt himself being shaken awake, his name repeated over again by three different people.
"Don't worry kiddo," one of the voices said. "He's okay." Lane forced himself to open his eyes and saw his brother. There were tears coming down Taylor's face. Finn had an arm around Taylor.
"Can you sit up?" he heard Ellis' voice say. He must have been still drunk; there was no way Ellis could be there. He felt a hand on his shoulder. "Can you sit up?" He had better try. Lane forced himself to sit up. The room spun violently and he was almost sick, but remembering that there were people there, he managed to hold it in. He felt a firm hand on his shoulder, and another holding up his head. "There we go," Ellis said. "Just take it easy there." Ellis let go of his shoulder, and he felt a warm, wet cloth wiping his forehead. He mumbled an explanation, got out of bed, pushed past Ellis and ran to the bathroom to throw up.
He threw up a lot, and returned to his bedroom feeling only very slightly better, though his head still felt like a bag of bricks being hit repeatedly by a bag of bricks. He sat on his bed and looked up at the three of them.
"You okay?" Ellis said.
"I've been better," Lane said. He buried his face into his hands.
"Drink this," Ellis said, holding out a bottle of water. Lane took it and started to sip it.
"There you go buddy," Finn said. "He's okay. So, Taylor, why don't we go kick the ball around a bit? Ellis will watch him. Won't you Ellis?" Ellis looked at Taylor, smiled and nodded his head. Taylor had at least stopped crying.
"Your brother is unreal, you know that?" Ellis said. "You hit your head against your desk as you fell down. At least that's what we think—there was blood there. He found you, and the bottles. And instead of telling your parents he called Finn and I, because he didn't want you to get into trouble. Then—"
"Ellis—"
"No, Lane. You don't get to talk right now. Then, while we were waiting for you to wake up, he cleaned your room. He told your parents we were up here with you, and that the four of us were hanging out, and then they ordered us pizza. He made it all seem completely normal so they wouldn't come and check on you. They decided to go out for dinner, which is a good thing, because at least they aren't here to hear you throwing up. What the fuck are you doing Lane?" Ellis moved his chair aside and motioned towards the desk, where the whiskey bottles had been lined up. Lane had nothing to say. "Well, here's what's going to happen. I'm going to have a little chat with your parents when they get home. I'm sure they'll find a nice place to send you—"
"No. Ellis. Please, don't say anything to them," Lane said groggily. He sipped some more water. "I'll stop. I promise. I was just—I didn't know how to handle—please—"
"As you wish. But make sure you do. Because Taylor deserves better from his brother." There was a downside to Ellis' seriousness. It hurt more that Ellis was not yelling, or sounding angry. He was just explaining the situation to Lane. The tears started to come down Lane's face. He stared at the ground, shaking. He felt Ellis' hand rubbing his shoulder before Ellis left and Lane really allowed himself to start crying.