The Queen & the Homo Jock King (At First Sight 2)

Which was good.

He wiped the tears from my eyes and then hugged me close.

“You okay?” I asked, laughter still in my voice.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked, holding me tight.

“Your dad.”

“He wasn’t my dad,” Darren said. “Hadn’t been for a very long time. If ever. It’s fine. Trust me. If anything, it’s a burden I no longer have to worry about carrying.”

I pulled back, but only just, his hands on my arms, my own up around his shoulders. He had a smile on his face, his eyes bright. He was looking at me like I was something special, and I was starting to see that I was. At least to him. And I think that was all that mattered. “And everything else?” I asked.

“You mean how we were essentially tricked into being together because we couldn’t figure it out ourselves?”

“Yes. That.”

He leaned forward and kissed me, lingering and sweet. “You know we’re going to have to thank him eventually.”

“Fuck him,” I said with a scowl. “Maybe thirty years from now when he’s cold in the ground and we’re spitting on his grave, I’ll entertain the thought. And then I’ll banish it from my head and we’ll go get tacos or something.”

“That’s pretty much what I expected from you.” He shook his head. “I have no problem with—” He stopped himself, looking back up at me like he’d been shocked.

“What?” I asked.

“You want us to be spitting on his grave together in thirty years?” he asked, voice tentative, almost shy. “And then getting tacos?”

I frowned. “Well, yeah. I don’t—oh. Um. I see what you mean. I mean, we don’t have to be together in thirty years. To spit on anything. If you don’t want to. I didn’t mean to imply that we’d—”

He kissed me again, more desperately this time, his tongue against mine. I squeaked into his mouth as his hands started roaming to more southerly destinations. “Yes,” he said against my lips, breath hot, hands on my ass. “We’re going to spit on his grave in thirty years. And eat tacos. Together.” And then he kissed me again, pressing me up against the trailer.

It was the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to me.

Epilogue: A Raging Case of Sequelitis

“MERRY CHRISTMAS,” Johnny Depp screamed. “Paul Auster is a bloody poofter!”

“What the hell,” Paul groaned from his spot on the couch next to Vince. Christmas music played low in the background. Wrapping paper lay strewn about the floor, presents piled up at our feet. We’d get it cleaned up, eventually. For now, though, we were content sitting in Matty and Larry’s living room watching Wheels tear through the paper like it had offended him personally. Well, content until Johnny Depp opened his beak and started dropping homophobic rants as he was wont to do.

“Don’t you glare at me, Paul Auster,” Nana said. “He gets that from Downton Abbey. He likes watching BBC.”

“Put his blanket over his cage,” Paul said. “At least he’ll be quiet, then.”

“It’s Christmas,” Nana said. “Family should be together. God bless us, everyone.”

“Johnny Depp’s not my family,” Paul muttered as Vince patted his hand.

“Maybe I’ll put a blanket on you,” Nana said.

“Come at me, bro,” Paul said.

“Fuck your face!” the parrot called.

“Language,” Larry said with a frown. He and Matty were sitting in chairs pulled from the dining room table. They sat hand in hand next to the Christmas tree. He wore the ugliest Christmas sweater I’d ever seen, something he’d stitched himself that was supposed to show the crucifixion of Jesus, but instead looked like Jesus was eating a meatloaf with a rather large goat.

“Be nice, Johnny Depp,” Vince said.

“Pretty. Pretty, pretty!”