Wood: A True Lover's Story

What kind of question was that? Wood closed his eyes and stepped in closer at the way Trent said his name, his body gravitating toward what it desperately needed. And there was no way that Trent didn’t feel his arousal. “Go get showered. I’m starving.”

Trent didn’t move as he stood there staring at the stove and resting harder against Wood’s chest. He indulged him for a long moment, letting Trent silently lean on him as if he had a lot on his mind and was trying to sort it out. Wood finally nudged Trent behind his ear. “Go on.”

Trent turned without facing him and went to his bedroom. Wood busied himself with reheating the food and fixing their plates. By the time Trent returned in a pair of comfortable jogging pants and a red Virginia Cavaliers T-shirt, everything was ready, even their drinks. Wood gestured for Trent to sit down across from him.

“You can have a beer if you want. I’m only stingy with Mike,” Trent said when he noticed Wood had water. “I got a bottle of red in the pantry that Edison gave me a while back.”

“Naw. I’m good,” Wood said. He picked up the parmesan cheese and sprinkled some on top of his pasta in hopes Trent would avoid asking him anything more about alcohol. “Dig in.”

Trent looked back and forth at their plates, frowning as if something wasn’t right.

Wood set his fork down with a loud clang when he noticed that ever-present glint in his roommate’s eyes. Here we go. “What, Trent?”

“You have more balls than I do,” Trent muttered.

Wood almost choked on the bite he’d just swallowed. He barely got himself under control especially since Trent looked like he was dead serious. “That is true,” Wood agreed, covering his smile with his fist. “If you want more balls… get some.”

Trent jerked his eyes away from Wood’s plate and glared at him as if he just realized what he’d said, then kicked Wood under the table. “Asshole.”

Wood winked, and to his surprise, Trent winked back. A faint blush sat on Trent’s cheeks as he ate his food like a man who’d worked hard all day. He was flattered when Trent cleaned his plate, using his garlic bread to wipe up the remaining sauce, then went to the stove and got a second helping.

“I guess you like it,” Wood said when Trent came up for air.

He took a long swig of his Samuel Adams, then covered his belch in the crook of his elbow before he answered. “It’s all right.”

Wood shook his head. “So how was work today?”

“Long. Cold. And you?”

“Long… but not so cold though. I work inside.”

“You work at the Dominion Pathology Lab, right?” Trent asked.

“Mmhmm,” Wood acknowledged.

Trent cut a thick meatball in half and shoved it in his mouth. “What do you do there?”

“I’m sure as hell not a scientist.” Wood scoffed.

Trent stared. “Be serious. I’m trying to get to know you, here.”

Wood’s smile waned. “Is that what you’re doing?”

Trent took a deep breath, then sat up taller as if steeling himself. “Yes. We’re gonna be living together, so… no need to be strangers.”

Wood nodded. He thought about how much he’d love to really get to know the man across from him. To break down all those protective barriers he had and see what awaited him deep inside.

But at his age, he felt so inadequate. What did he have to offer a strong, virile man like Trent? Young, fresh, innocent Trent. What could he bring to the table? “I’m a janitor there. It’s through a temp service that helps convicts find jobs. It was all I could get to pay the bills for now.”

“You worked as a tattoo artist before you went in, yeah?” Trent asked.

Wood felt his heart rate spike. He didn’t want to discuss his past, not right now, and he damn sure didn’t want to tell Trent why he’d served a seventeen-year sentence. Not if he wanted to have a fighting chance to be something more to him than just a roommate. He’d tell him when the time was right. “I was. I had a shop on the beach for four years in early 2000.”

“That must’ve been nice.”

“It was.”

Trent watched him as he ate, and Wood cleared his throat as the silence grew thick and uncomfortable.

“I have a feeling you’re just as good an artist as Bishop says you are,” Trent said and got up to put his plate in the sink. “You’ll be back in a shop soon.”

Wood sat there a couple of minutes, realizing Trent hadn’t spoken about his talent in the past tense like everyone else did as if it were over.

“Dinner was good, man. Thanks.” Trent smiled. “We need to make this a new rule. Wood has to cook at least six times a week.”

“If it makes you this nice and agreeable, then I’ll cook seven days a week.” Wood confessed.