Page 87 of Sweet T
“You and Evan seem to be growing pretty close,” he said with an approving smile.
“Yeah? What gave us away?”
“Well,” Titus interrupted, stretching the syllable for what it was worth. “I would say it’s one of three things. You bring each other food and drinks. Sometimes, you finish each other’s sentences. And when you're near, you can’t keep your hands off of each other.”
As if to prove the last, Evan leaped from the pool, scurried to the table, and planted himself, sopping wet, in Tucker’s lap.
“Hey,” Tucker said, squeezing him. “I was almost dry.”
“Shhh!” Evan said.
“FISH OUT OF WATER!” Shelly shouted from the pool.
“Aw, man.” Evan stood. “Now, I’m it.”
“I’ll say.” Tucker snatched Evan’s hand and pulled him down for a departing kiss.
“And there’s that,” Titus said, grinning. “I’m happy for you, son. I like him. He’s sweet, smart, and easy on the eyes.”
Pedro pushed Titus. “Shush, padrecito. That’s borderline creepy.”
“What?! So, our son has good taste. I mean, look at that.”
But Tucker was already watching Evan stroll back to the pool, hips swaying in snug, wet spandex—wings, bears, and butterfly tattoos animated with the flexing of his wet back and leg muscles. Tucker never tired of seeing that bare body.
“All the world’s a stage,” said Pedro, reading the tattoo spanning Evan’s shoulders and upper back. “And all the men and women are merely players. As You Like It. It’s the ‘seven ages of man’ speech.”
Tucker turned back to Pedro, brow furrowed. His gaze then went to Titus, who shrugged and said, “They may be smarter than us, son, but we were smart enough to find them.”
“Shakespeare’s not the only thing Evan and I have in common,” Pedro said. “We’re also under the spell of a handsome Shepherd man. Irresistible, you know? And they make the best boyfriends I hear, even with all the Southern baggage.”
“Baggage?” Titus cried with feigned outrage, then his expression shifted with recollection. “Oh, we need to get new luggage before the honeymoon. I saw where–”
But Tucker had already tuned them out. He was watching Evan back in the pool, eyes closed, arms outstretched, shouting to elicit the customary response.
“Mar-co!”
“Po-lo!” the others responded.
Only Tucker was hearing Ev-an, Tuck-er. Ev-an, Tuck-er...
* * *
The following week, Evan was off book for the play. With much persuasion alongside some perhaps gratuitous sexual bribery, he coaxed Tucker into running lines with him.
“I promise I won’t judge you and you don’t have to act.” Evan said. “Just read the words plainly to prompt me and make sure that I am reading the correct lines back.”
“OK. But I get a blow job AND you make dinner. Deal?”
“Blow, rim, and lube job, plus position of your choice.” Evan’s eyes drifted with thought. “But we call out for Chinese. I mean, it gives us more time, right?”
Tucker gave his best Dirty Harry eye squint, before saying. “Deal.”
They weren’t far into the read through before Evan noticed Tucker was struggling with the dialogue. It wasn’t just the Elizabethan vernacular, though. No. Tucker was having trouble with simple words, too. During one tricky passage, Tucker stopped. He stared briefly into space, then shook his head.
“Sorry, Ev. This probably wasn’t a good idea.”
“No worries.” Evan sat next to him on the sofa, placing a hand on his knee. “But do me a favor. Read this. The paragraph under the restaurant's name.”