Taming Tyler

Chapter Four

Tyler

M itch has a husband. He has a husband . He lives in a small bungalow in Santa Clarita, and he has a husband. And he just murmured ‘Come with me. Come meet Cal,’ like it’s the most natural thing in the world to have your ex-stepdad introduce you to his gay husband. Because, yes, Mitch is gay. He’s gay . We arrived in the residential area where he lives with his husband, Cal, five minutes ago. I followed him there on my bike. He threw one glance at Patricia and decided that she was gonna swallow me whole and drag me to hell or something.

‘I’ve got my truck over here,’ he told me after he’d convinced, or rather intimidated, me into listening to him. Nothing like the imminent threat of going to prison to get your boy to listen.

‘Where’re we going?’

‘My place,’ he threw over his shoulder as he went to his car, a real sweet burgundy Chevrolet truck, but I wasn’t gonna tell him that.

‘Why the fuck are we going to your place? I ain’t going to your fucking place, Mitch.’ I saw him wince again. He does it every time I call him Mitch, so I’ve made a note to do it all the time. Throw in a few extras just for good measure.

‘Because I want you to meet Cal,’ he sighed, coming to a stop in front of his truck. ‘Now, get in the truck, please.’

‘I’m not getting in that piece of shit hick truck,’ I spat, trying for my best disdainful look. The one Dale taught me. Mitch groaned loudly, as he seemed to make a quick cost-benefit in his head.

‘Fine. Suit yourself. Follow me then.’ He reached to open his door but stopped mid-movement. ‘But don’t get any ideas. This is it, Tyler.’

‘Fiiine,’ I threw him a sugary-sweet smile. ‘Anything you want, Mitch.’

“So, what? You’re gay now?” I ask as I trail behind him up the wooden stairs to a deck that probably goes all the way around the bungalow. Real Little House on the Prairie -style coziness in the middle of middle-class LA. The question’s been burning through my mind during the thirty-minute drive here and for the past five minutes since he left me in front of his house with a ‘Wait here. I’ll be right back.’

He turns around when he reaches the deck. He tilts his head but doesn’t say anything which is a little annoying. Because I was hoping he would give me the whole ‘You don’t just become gay, Tyler. It’s not a choice. I was born…’ blah blah blah speech. Because he could’ve fucking fooled me. For eight fucking years, he did. Fool me, that is.

“You comin’ in or what?” he says quietly, apparently going for Mr. Cool, Calm, and Collected parole officer, Mitch Cain. Or maybe he’s not a Cain anymore. Maybe he took his husband’s— Cal’s —fancy name, whatever it is. Maybe Mitch is the bitch in their relationship.

“It’s just… I’m a little confused, Mitch .” I go for my best clueless look. The one that has gotten me out of quite a few misdemeanors over the years. My ‘ I’m so sorry, officer. I didn’t know you weren’t allowed to relieve yourself against a McDonald’s’ face . “So, you left Mom for a dude? Is that it? Am I getting all the details straight?”

“No, I didn’t leave your mom for Cal. I left her for me . Now, are you comin’ in or what?” He turns and opens the door, leaving it open for me as he takes off his boots. But what about me? I wanna scream in his face. Why the fuck did you have to leave me too? Was I just collateral damage, Dad? Oh, shit. No, not Dad. He’s not my dad. Never was. He’s Mitch, remember? He’s Mitch and you hate him.

Something smells really fucking great, though, and since I haven’t eaten today, I decide to put my hate on the back burner for a little while and follow him inside. Yeah, I’m only following him inside because I’m reaching the level of hunger where my stomach is trying to eat itself. I shuffle behind him in my biker boots—I ain’t removing ’em in case I need a quick contingency plan—all the way into a large, open-plan kitchen. The unidentified food smells even better in here, like real fancy restaurant type of shit good, and my stomach growls like a feral animal, causing Mitch to snigger.

“What?” I sneer.

“Nothing,” he shrugs. Was Mitch always this passive-aggressive? I don’t recall. There’s a loud clanging from somewhere behind the kitchen island, and a hissed fuck. Must be the infamous husband, aka Cal the Homewrecker.

“Cal? Sweetheart? Meet Tyler,” Mitch calls out, a soft nuance to his voice that brings back memories I’ve tried so hard to delete from my hard drive. Then, a giant of a man surfaces from behind the island, a roll of kitchen towel in his hands, cheeks flushed behind his light brown beard. With a tentative smile, his hazel eyes flicker between Mitch and me. Then he holds up his hands, shrugging apologetically.

“Sorry, Tyler,” he says like he fucking knows me. “Can’t shake your hand right now, man. Piss,” he lowers his voice, shaking his head, his slightly blonder hair spilling onto his forehead.

“Shit, again,” Mitch blurts, rushing to him, inspecting the floor. And… I’m confused. What the fuck is this? Did Cal the Homewrecker just piss himself? He doesn’t look that old. I mean, sure, he’s got that whole rugged-Daddy style going on, but he can’t be more than his late thirties or early forties. Huh, come to think of it, Mitch’s hubby is pretty fucking fine, but if he has an incontinence problem, I’m out. No impromptu golden showers for your boy.

“Yeah,” Cal says. “Third time this morning.” Third time. Wow. “I’ll just go wash up and then we can eat.” He leans in and presses a quick kiss to Mitch’s chin, and then he disappears behind the corner. Mitch glances after him; no, he actually ogles him, and although I should be fucking livid at their lame DDA— Domestic Display of Affection —there’s just something so tender about it that I want to fucking cry. Because they look happy. And I feel like an intruder looking in on a life that was once mine, or at least resembles what I once had with Mitch and Mom.

“You hungry?” Mitch asks as he walks to the stove and tips the lid on a large brass pot. And sweet Jesus at a sauna club, the scent that comes out of that old banged-up pot is heaven. Pure, unadulterated heaven.

“No,” I say, my tongue trying to navigate the ocean of drool building in my mouth. But my stomach is the greatest traitor of all, eliciting a loud, pitiful growl. Mitch pretends to ignore it as he reaches for some ceramic bowls from a shelf above the counter.

“Grab some glasses, will ya?” Mitch nods at a glass cabinet behind me. In a daze, I move, stopping in front of the large cabinet, shelves upon shelves of glasses of all sizes and colors lined up in front of me. And I just stare because they’re all so goddamn pretty and I have no clue which ones to choose. How do you choose between so many pretty glasses?

“Take the orange ones,” a deep voice says to my right, a waft of warm breath hitting my neck. “They’re my favorite.” They’re mine too , I want to say. Orange is my favorite color. Then the warm presence is gone again and replaced by a quiet, intimate murmur around the island.

I open the cabinet door and pick out three orange glasses. I carry them to the kitchen island like they’re the fucking holy grail or something. Three glasses, all in my favorite color. Apparently, Cal’s favorite color, too, because it wasn’t Mitch’s familiar voice that brushed against my ear before. I would be able to pick out Mitch’s voice in a line-up even after all these years. No, that was all Cal. I place the three glasses on the oak kitchen island one by one, counting them in my head as I go. One. Two. Three. One is always alone, right? Two are company. What are three then? Family? Are three a family like we used to be, Mitch, Mom, and me?

Then Mitch places the large pot on the island, followed by the eager clang of cutlery. The smell of melted cheese and freshly baked bread enters my nostrils, while Cal or Mitch, or whoever, chuckles at something. And it’s all too fucking much. It’s just too much. Because here I was, a few hours ago, thinking that I could just run my usual bullshit act past some deadbeat parole officer, and now I’m here. In Mitch’s house. With his husband, Cal. Setting the table for three and we’re having fucking…

Cal opens the lid, beaming brightly at Mitch, his hazel eyes sparkling.

“Ta-da!” He grins while Mitch looks close to swooning. I sneak a peek inside the pot and what the hell is this?

“What the fuck is that ?” I point at the pot like it’s a venomous snake.

“It’s onion soup,” Cal says, still smiling. “It’s Mitch’s favorite.”

“I ain’t eating no fucking onion soup,” I spit, because shit, I’m so mad right now. At that imposter onion soup. No fucking onion soup should be allowed to smell so good. This onion soup is now my sworn enemy, like Dale the Dipshit and corn on the cob because it always gets stuck in your fucking teeth.

“Fine,” Mitch shrugs as he starts filling a bowl with steaming hot traitor soup. “The dog can have yours.” Dog? Dog? They have a dog?

“You have a dog?” I squeak.

“Yeah, somewhere around here we do,” Cal says, still fucking smiling.

“You can’t miss her,” Mitch says. “Fat AF.”

“She’s not fat,” Cal mock-scolds, accepting the bowl from Mitch as he breaks off a piece of bread. Looks home baked and all. I decide I hate the bread, too.

“She’s fat, sweetheart. When she turns around, it’s Christmas again.”

“M, cut it out,” Cal laughs in that hearty way that goes straight to your chest—or your balls, if I’m being 100% honest. “She’s not fat. She’s fluffy.” He smears a thick layer of butter on his bread, some dripping down his thick fingers, and I just want to grab his hand and suck the buttery digits into my mouth. Because I’m famished but somehow, I forgot why.

“Fluffy my ass,” Mitch murmurs, filling another bowl.

“You know it is,” Cal smirks and Mitch blushes as he attempts to suppress a moan. What the fuck? I feel like I’m in the goddamn twilight zone.

“Why am I here?” I blurt, and they both look at me like I just asked some advanced mathematical question. Then they look between them, Cal licking butter off his bottom lip like I’m not already close enough to screaming as it is. Then Mitch clears his throat.

“You’re here, Tyler, because you’ll be doing your six months of community service at Cal’s bakery.” Then he starts eating. They both do, fucking humming around their traitor soup. And I’m rewinding like crazy because did Mitch just say what I think he did?

“I’m doing my community service in a fucking bakery? With your stupid baker husband?” Yeah, I know I sound like a bratty kid, but I kind of feel like one right now.

“Yeah,” Cal says, licking that goddamn lip again. “I’ve got a spot open, so you’re in.” I’m in. Hell, no, your boy ain’t in. I’m so out. I’m more out than when I actually came out at sixteen.

“Fuck this shit!” I say, scrambling to my feet, the stupid fancy kitchen stool scratching across their stupid hardwood floors.

“Tyler!” Mitch yells after me, his stool scrambling too. “Wait!”

“Go piss yourself!” I yell. “Just go piss your—” and then something strange happens all at once. Mitch looks… scared or worried. I can’t really tell which, while Cal calls out, “Bree! No!” And then I’m hit full force and slammed to the floor by something that is, in fact, fat but also fluffy, so I guess they were both right.