Bunny Ch. 22

If you haven't read part 21, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

 Independence Day is a three-day-weekend, but Brandon doesn't go home. I'd like to say that he stays with me, since I volunteered to earn holiday pay at the coffee shop on Monday. It's late at night and there is a commercial for the movie Secretary. A woman crawls down a hallway with a letter in her mouth. I snort.

"It's not a bad movie," Brandon mumbles, eyes on the television. I'm sitting close to him because I let him sit down first. Our knees are touching.

I glance at him. "You've seen it?"

"It's not bad," he repeats, a little defensively. "It's more of a romance, but in kind of an artsy way. Not bad."

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The Roommate Is Now an eBook

I had forgotten how close I was to finishing this short story until I was procrastinating on Strange Bedfellows. Now it's available as an ebook on Smashwords. There's a coupon at the end of it for anyone who doesn't have MMM already in their library.

If you've ever wondered, the hardest parts to write are the sex scenes. There are only so many ways I can describe two men fucking without it getting ridiculous. Strange Bedfellows will be out…in the middle of this month, as promised. Watching Him back will be finished…later. Sandalwood will show up…later.

By the way, for anyone who already downloaded MMM, there's now a coupon at the end [of the updated version] for forty percent off Lance Oliver Jordan, just to say thanks for reading. Despite my curmudgeonly ways, I really do appreciate you.

Bunny Ch. 21

If you haven't read part 20, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

"The dumbbells are working," Brandon announces as he walks through the door.

I'm at the kitchen counter, preparing a sandwich. "Pardon?"

"The dumbbells," he restates, gesturing towards my bare arms. "I can see a difference."

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Bunny Ch. 20

If you haven't read part 19, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

It's Sunday. The library is closed. I'm clearing tables at the coffee shop when then hair on the back of my neck rises. My hands pause before I think—the lunch rush demands that I collect dishes and wipe tables in haste—and I look out the window. I tell myself that not every black limousine in the city belongs to Mr. Hale. Despite this, my fingers fumble the cups and saucers and my heart rate increases.

It might not be him. It isn't him.It can't be him.

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Bunny Ch. 19

If you haven't read part 18, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

I had expected to feel lighter as I walked away, unburdened, carefree, but instead it is as though the sun had dimmed. My heart hurts, my chest hurts, my head hurts, and my eyes are stinging.

My feet take me to Brandon's apartment. He's grinning from ear to ear when he opens the door, but his expression quickly turns to concern when he sees my face.

"What's wrong?" he asks, pulling me inside.

"I don't know," I say hollowly. I can tell he wants to say something, a lot of things, but he shuts his mouth.

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Bunny Ch. 18

If you haven't read part 17, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

My fantasies usually involved a huge confrontation with Mr. Hale. I would yell, he would bluster and flush in shame of the searing truths I would hurl at him, and I would slam the door so forcefully that the frame would crack. Sometimes the fantasies involved him attacking me in indignant rage, and the subsequent use of combat skills that in reality I did not possess. The household staff would watch and be ashamed that they had never thought to help me, and would resign posthaste. The fantasies never went any further—I never had any clues as to what I could possibly be doing without Mr. Hale.

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Bunny Ch. 17

If you haven't read part 16, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

 It is Brandon, whether wittingly or unwittingly, who pushes my life from strained static and dooms me to climax and release. We have been spending my work hour together for months now; I am sure that the only reason that the head librarian resists interrupting is because she pities me. With Brandon I have a cheerful enough disposition to be grateful for my obvious social awkwardness.

I am laughing under my breath and shushing Brandon as he follows me around the library, reading aloud passages from an abhorrently bad romance novel. It's the kind whose covers feature bared chests, spilling cleavage, and embossed titles such as, "The Noble Bandit," or "His Secret Baby." He's supposed to be reading from the book Mr. Hale picked out, L'Étranger, but was distracted by the paperbacks I re-shelved earlier. Brandon is torturing me with a poorly written paragraph about itchy palms, perky breasts, and instant erections. To shut him up I hiss, "I am convinced that you like this stuff."

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Bunny Ch. 16

If you haven't read part 15, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

Climax: the tension that pulls and pulls until one feels so stretched that a dénouement must be over the horizon, one begs for release from traction with every breath and thought—is it any wonder that we apply the word to the moment of sexual release? The terrible difference between the climax of my private life and the one to which Mr. Hale approaches as he twists and pummels and thrusts, is that the sexual climax is one towards which we strive. It is a goal to reach that ultimate dizzying height; we may prolong and tease and create tension, but never do we intend altogether to deny ourselves orgasm's consuming ecstasy

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Bunny Ch. 15

If you haven't read part 14, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

 Rebuilding a relationship after a stumbling block like the one placed in Brandon's and my path (my mind rejects everything but cryptic phrases such as "what happened," or "the incident") is, I find, a slow process. I want to go back to our old camaraderie immediately, to be able to laugh without caution or the need for a quick glance to ensure Brandon's shared mirth.

Going home to Mr. Hale helps nothing.

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Bunny Ch. 14

If you haven't read part 13, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

I revel in my quiet rebellion. It had begun inadvertently; my morning tutor had recently moved to Ohio, and Mr. Hale had indulgently asked me what I wanted to study next. Ordinarily I would have continued with English literature, but what I told him was, "I would like to resume French, please, in order to read L'Histoire d'O in its original form."

A student from the local university, a French girl from the Loire Valley, was hired to teach me to read, speak, and write in French. Though my reading and writing skills progressed rather slowly, my speaking ability is, as Elodie claims, "almost adequate." I learned that she was rather homesick, and was eager to converse with anyone in her native tongue. On my way to the new coffee shop I practice on my own: "Salut, mon ami. Ça va? Tu me manques."

Hey, friend. How's it going? I miss you.

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Bunny Ch. 13

If you haven't read part 12, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

A week passes, then two, and every day I curse the boy in the mirror whose spine is missing.

In stories and what I remember of films, character development jumps after a major crisis. A resolution is made and a revolution occurs. Were this not my life, I would have walked out on Mr. Hale within a week of the incident, or Brandon would have stormed the house and whisked me away for a happily-ever-after. It should have been my breaking point, when I said to myself, "Anything is better than this," and shook the dust from my shoes as I left. However, the shocking and unfortunate encounter on that fateful Sunday was a minor mishap, one that barely wrinkled the fabric of my relationship with Mr. Hale and was quickly ironed out.

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Bunny Ch. 12

If you haven't read part 11, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

I do not awake until I am summoned for supper.

Mr. Hale sits at the head of the dining table no matter who is present or what we are eating. When I first arrived I sat on his right. I would nervously pick at my food while stealing glances at the handsome, intimidating man who savored his meal and ignored me.

During my mid-teens my tutors would sit on his right, I on Mr. Hale's left in an armless dining chair whose legs were an inch or so shorter than the others. I would attempt to make myself unobtrusive as Mr. Hale inquired after my studies and made suggestions. I did not speak. If the tutor revealed an insolent remark or a low grade, Mr. Hale would say, "I'll take care of it." He would not look at me again until it was time to punish me. In those days I was clothed, and the only contact he made was through a wooden paddle, and the withdrawal of any warmth was far more painful. However, if the tutor praised an intelligent comment or exceptional test score, Mr. Hale would turn to me. I would replay those moments in my mind; his blue eyes would meet mine, crinkle slightly at the corners, and Mr. Hale would gift me with a close-lipped smile and a soft pat on the cheek.

Through the past four years I have been kneeling to his right unless his business associates visit; any tutors are more likely to be Mr. Hale's "special friends." In the beginning it was a thrill every time his fingers presented a morsel of food. His hands were smooth and well-kept, and knowing that I alone had the privilege of feeding from them was a tranquilizer to any brain activity. The closeness of Mr. Hale's body intoxicated me. I could feel the heat radiating through his clothes and would breathe deeply, inhaling his warm masculinity. The first and only time I dared initiate bodily contact was after a long night. I was so exhausted that I let my head fall against his corded thigh. Mr. Hale's fingers in my hair startled me from sleepy comfort, and I tensed, my breath caught in my throat. Instead of punishing me for being lax in my abeyance he stroked my scalp briefly, sending pleased shivers tripping down my spine. Then he pushed my head so that I was sitting upright.

"Did you read the book I gave you?" Mr. Hale asks when I enter the dining room.

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Bunny Ch. 11

If you haven't read part 10, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

 On Monday Mr. Hale gives me three dollars for the coffee shop and tells me to put the change in Brandon's tip jar. I'm angry, and ashamed of myself, but haven't the courage to throw the money in his face and walk away. The book in my plastic sack is heavy; I think it might be Dickens, finally, as payment for the scene I provided yesterday. I'm guiltily looking forward to my reading. I think, I am a whore.

The hand I raise to push the door open is shaking. I'm praying that Brandon is on his break in the back, and that he won't notice how stiffly I'm walking, or mention the events yesterday that sent him running from the house. His tousled head, however, is in its usual spot behind the counter. I debate bolting from the store and shivering in the park for the next hour, but I see him remove his apron and go in the back.

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The Roommate Ch. 4

It’s been a week, so when Preston calls, asking to come get his barbecue grill for when he finds a new apartment, I decided to let him. I had blown off my steam, talked to Lance and Peggy, whined to my parents (my mother tried to convince me that things could be fixed, she had always liked Preston), and have come to the conclusion that despite current feelings, I’ll get over him eventually. I just have to face the fact that he and I are never going to happen.