More by Sloan Parker (best ebook reader for chromebook .txt) 📕

look right. Fuck it. Whatever the hell I wore would be the least of her concerns.

I stared at myself in the mirror.

Hello, Mrs. Stewart.

Hi, ma'am. My name is Luke.

It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am.

I'm one of the two men who likes to stick his dick up your son's ass.

What the hell was she going to think of us?

She had to accept us. I wasn't going to be the reason he lost his family.

“Nervous?” Richard asked from the doorway, his voice low.

“Nah.”

“Sure you're not.”

My head snapped in his direction. “Aren't you?”

He leaned on the doorjamb and folded his arms. “I have no intention of letting her continue to hurt him.”

“It's that simple?”

He stepped into the bathroom and turned me toward him. He worked apart the tie's knot and retied it. “We'll make her see.”

“Is everything always so easy for you?”

“This isn't easy. She isn't the first or the last person who's going to give us shit over this. Our bed is too crowded for most people. But she loves Matthew. And he needs her. We'll keep trying until she gets it. I won't give up on this one. Not his mom.”

“He's been different, not like him at all. Fidgety and edgy, snippy even.”

“He's entitled. But it's not going to continue. Not if we can help it.”

I checked my tie in the mirror. Better. “You know, if it was just you and him, she'd have no issues. She'd be thrilled.”

“So what?” He wrapped his arms around my waist, and his chin came to rest on my shoulder. “She'll have to get used to it. It isn't ever going to be just me and him.”

Ever? Could three men really last?

I reached around and grabbed his ass, bringing him in close.

I sure as hell hoped so.

Matthew's mom greeted us with a warm smile at the door of her apartment. She gestured for us to come in and laughed as she moved out of the way for Richard's large frame.

Same laugh. Same smile. Same wavy, dark hair. If I'd seen her on the street, I would have known her as Matthew's mother. All smiles and light and laughter.

Not the greeting of a woman who had issues with us.

“Come here and give your mother a hug.” Her voice lilted as she spoke to her son. She wound her arms around Matthew.

“Mom, I'd like you to meet Richard Marshall and Luke Moore.”

The small woman dipped her head in an all too familiar gesture. She reached out and shook our hands.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Stewart,” Richard said.

“Please, call me Lydia.” She turned to Matthew. “They are very nice looking, Matty.”

I mouthed the nickname, and Matthew rolled his eyes.

Lydia shook her head and giggled. “Come on into the kitchen. Dinner's almost ready. I made iced tea.”

The apartment was small and full of knickknacks, mismatched furniture, and half-finished sewing projects, but there was no dust or disorder about the place. The smell of fresh baked sugar cookies and cinnamon candles gave the impression of Christmas morning. Walking through her home made me feel like I'd been wrapped in a warm blanket on a snowy day.

We stepped into the kitchen, a small room with compact appliances, a rollaway dishwasher, and a distressed wood table that filled the open area off to one side. A battered wooden rocker with worn edges and scratches sat against the wall. I took a closer look. Several spindles were broken. If she sat in it, she'd get hurt.

A quilt hung over the back. Probably handmade. My mother had stitched a similar piece throughout my third grade year at St. Mary's Elementary. The memory was one of the few I let myself keep. She sewed the quilt in our living room while I did my homework on the coffee table. She'd give me cookies and a glass of milk while we worked. When I drank the last of the milk, she'd pour another before I could ask for more and slip me three extra cookies.

“I need to get it repaired.” Lydia reached down and brushed her fingertips over the arm of the rocker. “I can't use it like it is now.”

“Did you make the quilt?” I asked.

Her smile grew. “I did. For Matty when he was a newborn. He wouldn't go to sleep unless I wrapped him in that quilt and rocked him. We did that every night until he was seven years old.”

“Mom,” Matthew screeched. He set four plastic glasses on the table with a loud clank. Tea spilled over the tops.

“Shush, Matty. Don't interrupt your mother.”

“Yeah, kid,” I said. “Don't interrupt your mother.”

Matthew stuck his tongue out at me, and that had me laughing. He grabbed a dish towel and set to wiping the mess.

“He was such a good boy. Always told me everything. What he did at school. What his friends were doing. Which kids he liked. It's how I knew he was gay. I couldn't deny it when he never once mentioned a girl.” She paused and looked right at me. “Some men don't talk much to their mothers. Not my Matty. When he keeps something from me, it's because it isn't good for him.”

Matthew reached for her hand. “Mom, this is good— ”

She jerked away and peered into the oven. “Dinner's ready. Have a seat.”

Richard patted Matthew on the shoulder and whispered, “We're not giving up.”

Lydia puttered around the kitchen and had a huge feast on the table in minutes. A roast, boiled potatoes, asparagus with hollandaise sauce, and homemade applesauce.

“Tell me about yourselves,” she said as she dished out the food.

Richard spoke first. He told her about his business, his house, and his family. She asked us our ages and didn't seem bothered by the difference with Matthew's. Richard talked more easily than I, but I did my best to add more than my usual one comment every hour.

Halfway through the meal, the talk dried up, and we finished our food in silence. No one seemed concerned by the quiet but me. I didn't have the social skills to