Wood: A True Lover's Story

“You like Jimmy Hendrix?” Wood chuckled, pointing toward the psychedelic, rainbow-colored poster.

“Who doesn’t,” Trent scoffed. He pointed to his stacks of crates climbing one of the walls. “I like a lot of stuff, but mostly R&B. You’ll find everything in there from R&B to rock.”

“How’d you get so into music?” Wood asked.

“This guy my mom was seeing for a long time,” Trent said softly. “He used music to remedy everything.”

“Was he your stepdad?” Wood asked, trying to understand the sudden sadness.

“No… but. But I kinda hoped he wanted the job.” Trent ate some more food before he continued. “He was a musician. Played in a local band here that opened up for big acts when they came for festivals or whatever.”

“Was he good?” Wood tried to lighten the mood.

“The best. At least I thought he was.” Trent shook his head. “Man, my mom dated some fuckin’ assholes. A lot of them. But Miles… well, Miles was Miles. He never got mad about my attitude or when I got in trouble at school. Never hit me or tried to test me like the other ones did.”

“He sounds cool. Where’s he now?”

A hard scowl embedded itself deep in Trent’s brow, and his eyes gleamed with anger before he slammed a defensive shield over his emotions. “I don’t know. I don’t care. I came out of juvie at seventeen and he was gone. So was she. Instead of going into the system, I ran away and stayed with Bishop and Mike until I turned eighteen. When I got locked up for those five years with Bishop, I didn’t even care really. I was barely surviving on the streets anyway.”

Wood didn’t try to get Trent to keep talking the same way he hadn’t pressed Wood earlier about his parents or his record. But he was telling Trent soon before they took things to another level. He needed to be honest. Wood didn’t do misunderstandings—he was too old for that. If Trent didn’t like him for him, the same way he’d be willing to accept Trent’s faults, then he’d move on. The earlier they got this out of the way, the better.

“I’m aching. I’m gonna lie down some more,” Trent said and set his empty plate on his nightstand.

“All right. I’ll turn everything off and lock up,” Wood said and got up. He watched Trent twist and grimace as he tried to get into a comfortable position, and Wood hated that there wasn’t more he could do.

After he cleaned up the dishes and put the few leftovers away, Wood thought of making a hot compress for Trent. That always helped him when his knee was bothering him. Trent’s bedroom lamp was off, but Wood could see well enough with the light filtering in from the hallway. Trent was lying flat on his stomach with both arms at his side. “Trent, you still awake?”

“Sorta,” Trent mumbled with half his face in the pillow.

“I got a hot towel for your back, okay,” Wood said, sitting gingerly on the side of the bed. He pulled the sheet down until it was at the top of Trent’s boxers and ran his hand over the smooth skin. Trent moaned and his legs moved under the thin sheet, making Wood’s mouth water. Instead of being despicable, Wood set his own needs to the side and placed the folded rag in the center of Trent’s lower back.

“Sssss,” Trent hissed at the first contact of heat to his skin.

“Easy,” Wood soothed, gently pressing the cloth against the muscles. “This’ll help.”

After he’d massaged a while, he noticed Trent’s frown slowly began to ease and his fingertips were no longer trying to puncture through the mattress. Wood didn’t remove his hands until Trent’s mouth went slack and his breathing evened out. He could’ve sat there all night. He wanted to. But he continued to tell himself to be patient. He didn’t want a quick lay; he didn’t want a willing hole for a few days. He wanted longer. He wanted something to call his own again. If he chose to be weak and give in to his flesh and not come home one night, he knew he’d lose any chance with Trent.

Sunday, they watched football and ate the nachos that Edison brought over until late into the evening. Trent’s back was feeling better, but he thought it’d be a good idea to take it easy since he had work the next day. Wood had told him to reconsider and maybe stay home, but obviously that idea was preposterous because Trent sputtered as if he’d told him to quit.

“I’ll be fine.” Trent adjusted his heating pad behind him. “I told you you didn’t need to fuss. I’m used to this. Surgery costs way too much, so I usually know what to do not to wrench it… I must’ve slept really hard the other night.” Trent threw a cheeky smirk his way. “After… y’know…”