I pull my glass away from my lips, laughing as Billy rakes a hand down his face, noticeably uncomfortable.
He’s so different from Joey. The complete opposite, actually, but they complement each other perfectly.
Especially in the bedroom. I hear a lot.
“I told you both I would only stay here until I had enough money saved up to move out. I love you guys, but I need to get my own place again. Our combined hair-care products are overtaking the condo.” I cock my head with a pout, shifting my gaze between them. “But I will miss the sleepovers. You’re such a sweet little spoon, Billy. All soft and cuddly.”
He frowns. “There’s nothing about me that’s little, Brooke. Or soft,” he pauses, grinning. “Haven’t you heard?”
Warmth floods my cheeks.
Sweet Lord. Did Billy just insinuate . . .
“No, there is definitely not,” Joey proudly affirms, cutting into my thoughts of R-rated antonyms. He squeezes Billy’s thigh. “Was that a hard ‘no’ on the dick jewelry? Any wiggle room on that?”
The movie begins playing. Apparently, Billy’s answer was final.
Joey’s lips brush against my hair as I swallow another mouthful of my daiquiri. “How was it with the piercing? Honestly,” he whispers.
Typical Joey. Needing to know all the tricks of the trade. I am shocked he hasn’t been down this road himself, though.
“The one spot that’s hard for some guys to hit,” I begin softly, bending my finger in a rhythmic motion. Our eyes lock. “He didn’t have any problem.”
Joey slowly leans back. “Damn it. Am I seriously missing out?”
“Shh.”
We both glance at Billy, then resume whispering closely.
“I know for a fact he hits all your spots just fine. As do the neighbors across the street.”
“True. But I love trying new things with him. Maybe I could get it done.” Joey looks down at his lap, the corner of his mouth pulling tight. “That shit could go south, though. Really fuck up my perfect form. Not to mention it probably hurts like a motherfucker.”
I press my lips to the edge of my glass, murmuring my next words when Billy tilts his head down and glares in my direction. “Want me to call Paul and ask? He’s probably staring at his phone expectantly.”
Joey smiles. “He loved you, Brooke. How could you walk out on what you two shared?”
Oh, my God.
“Please.”
“I’m sure he was seconds away from proposing. Or at least suggesting you move in with him.”
I shake my head. “He was oddly fascinated with his own semen. That living arrangement would never work.”
Seriously. Did he even flush that condom? Is there a chance he set it aside to frame it instead?
Gross, Paul. You’ll never get a girl to stay that way.
Joey bumps his shoulder against mine, pressing his weight into me. “That’s kind of hot, actually. But . . . okay, I have to know. Was it a barbell? Or one of those stud things? Oo! Did he have it going down the shaft?”
The noise from the TV abruptly cuts off. Silence fills the condo.
Billy leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, the look he reserves for moments when Joey and I go off on dick tangents at the dinner table ghosting across his face.
I clear my throat, lowering my glass. “Hi, hey there, little spoon. Sorry, we’ll be quiet.”
His eyes, steady with doubt, shift to Joey and soften marginally.
There it is. Sweet Billy. No one else looks at Joey like that.
Mindful to the fact that the only way to keep his husband on the couch with us and not locked in his office, going over documents that can surely wait until tomorrow is to shut up and watch the movie, Joey slides over and plucks the remote out of Billy’s hand.
The movie resumes playing.
I tuck my knees against my chest as the two men at the other end of the couch dissolve into each other, recommencing the intimate embrace they always share. The closeness that stills the two of them, even Joey, who is nearly impossible to silence.
I sip leisurely on my daiquiri, my thoughts on piercings and poor, poor Paul, struggling to find the perfect spot to display that condom.