Wrangled

“Fuckin’ thread, I swear,” he’s still going on.

As if he doesn’t notice my staring.

Is he doing this on purpose? Is this a game to him? Did he take off his shirt deliberately, just to show off his goods?

He’s enough of an egomaniac. It isn’t so farfetched.

“Got it,” he finally announces as he pinches a thread between his fingers, then gives it a stern jerk.

At once—and of all things on God’s green Earth—that action of his yanks me out of my trance. “Hey! Don’t pull the thread like that! You could cause a snag and ruin the shirt!”

Chad glances up at me.

Even he doesn’t believe that that’s the thing in this room I’d be reacting so strongly about.

I bristle. “Seriously, Chad. I mean …” I huff and gesture at his shirt. “Are you trying to cause some big, ugly snag across it? You have no idea what pulling that thread might do.”

“Right, yeah, of course, fashion boy.” He smirks, has a thought, then extends the shirt to me. “Why don’t you fix it, then?”

My eyes hover somewhere around his chest. “I, uh …” A very forced swallow squirms its way down a very tight throat. “I’ll need a pair of shears.”

“Shears.” He chuckles. “I got a pair of scissors,” he grunts, then heads to the kitchen. He returns with a pair, which he hands me along with his sleeveless plaid shirt.

I take them both, then experience a strange feeling squirming its way through my body as I get to work. I’m holding the shirt he’s been wearing all night, the shirt he’s sweated in, the shirt that’s hugged his muscles for hours.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I pop my invisible tailor hat on, adjust the shirt to reveal the rogue thread, then clip it. Instantly, I notice several other threads, which I also begin to trim.

And I’m apparently unable to stop myself.

Seamster Lance has taken over.

I flip over the shirt and clean up some of the other loose and unsightly threads that dangle from the torn-off sleeves. I can tell just from the hem that he (or someone) cut the sleeves off; the shirt wasn’t made this way.

Then I lift my eyes to meet Chad’s, which takes more effort than one might think, considering I have to forcefully not stare at his beautiful, shirtless body.

His blue eyes linger on mine, as if curious about something.

I stare back, feeling a burden in my chest lighten with every breath. Am I seeing his invisible scars yet? Was I wrong? How long do I have to look, exactly? Is there a rule about it or something?

Then Chad nods at me. “My shirt …?”

I blink. “What?”

“You plan to hand that shirt back to me sometime tonight? Or you holdin’ it for ransom?”

Blush starts creeping up my cheeks as I, with an unamused smirk, throw the shirt at his face.

He catches it, then starts to inspect my work, curious.

I watch, impatient, the pair of scissors still in my hand.

I notice he still hasn’t put his shirt back on.

Is there a reason for that?

Is it hot in here? It’s definitely hot in here, right?

Actually, it could be frigid in this house and I wouldn’t notice.

“So how about that second beer?” he asks, lowering the shirt and gazing at me.

I stare at his shirt, now crumpled back up and hanging from his fist, like he has no intention of putting it back on at all. Maybe he likes the attention, knowing I can’t possibly find his figure distasteful, knowing I’m probably attracted to him.

Maybe this is all fun for him, enticing the loser gay guy from his childhood.

And in the back of my mind, I can still hear all the distant, mocking laughter of his buds. I hear the way it echoed in the big locker room. I remember the gym teacher ignoring the taunts or turning his cheek. I remember the looks on my fellow classmates’ faces, who all very determinedly kept out of it, no one coming to my defense.

And I see Chad’s cold, remorseless eyes in that sea of bullies and mocking faces, leading them.

Suddenly, I’m not turned on at all.

Everything changes.

The way I perceive his mood. The way I perceive his so-called “hospitality”. The way he stands there, deliberately keeping his shirt off, dominating me even now, ten years later, with his looks and his taken-for-granted social privilege.

I’m not the same Lance I was.

And he’s about to learn that firsthand.

I pay his body no mind whatsoever, signing a mental contract with myself, and meet his eyes with my own hardened ones. “Why is there a photo of you and your wrestling buddies on the wall by your bathroom mirror?”

Chad is startled by the unexpected question, but he gives it a shrug and answers me as best as he can. “Well, maybe the more I stare at that pic, the more motivated I am to keep in shape. Shit, there are so many dang guys who’ve let themselves go since high school. I don’t wanna be one of them. Don’t ya know it takes work to maintain this body?”