Nothing Special (Nothing Special 1)

Ronowski fumed. “Day, you’re going to stop calling me gay! I have never been gay! I will never be gay, and I don’t like anyone that is gay! So stop saying that before people start believing your bullshit!”

Day clapped his hands together once. “Okay everyone those are the notes from last week’s meeting, now on to new business.” Day leveled Ronowski with a stern glare. “Ronowski, you are gay, man. You’re tightly closeted. But you are indeed gay, ultra-gay. You’re fuckin’ Marvin Gay. You crash landed on Earth when your gay planet exploded.” Day moved away from God and stood in front of an openmouthed Ronowski. “Come out of the closet already. It’s so bright and wonderful out here. Dude, I’ve seen Brokeback Mountain too, don’t believe that bullshit. No one cares who you fuck… ya know… like you tell me every. Single. Day. Of. My. Life,” Day said exaggeratedly.

He stepped in so close to Ronowski that he could smell the body wash he used.

“Let a man bang your back out one time.” Day leaned in to the man’s ear and felt Ronowski’s body give a fierce shudder. “I mean pound your ass so hard that you can’t walk straight for a week, and I guarantee you, you’ll want to march in the next gay pride parade, wearing nothing but a glitter jockstrap and a fuckin’ hot-pink feather boa.” Day stepped back and saw the beads of sweat that had popped up on Ronowski’s forehead. Satisfied he’d proven his point; he refilled his coffee and left the break room.

God raked the leaves in Day’s front yard while Day cooked their dinner. Both of them were quiet, no doubt the seriousness of tomorrow’s raid weighing heavily on their minds.

What if he gets hurt… or killed?

God could barely breathe when he thought about that. He figured the only way to ensure that didn’t happen was to keep Day by him at all times. God bagged up the leaves and set them at the curb.

He kicked off his boots before walking through the living room. Day’s house was very nice. It had been his grandmother’s and she’d left it for him in her will. Day did a lot of renovations on the three-bedroom, two-story home, and God found himself wishing he had a family to share that type of home with. He could see himself sitting on the large leather sofa in the den with Day snuggled up next to him, his mom baking them raisin bread, and Genesis upstairs blasting his music too loud. God shook his head at the nonsense and went in the kitchen to find the one thing he had in his life that was real. Day loved him, and as far as he was concerned, that would be enough for him.

He washed his hands at the deep sink inside Day’s kitchen. The appliances were plentiful and spread around on the vast counter space, all of them either chrome or black. Name-brand pots hung on a mahogany pot rack over the large island in the middle of the black-and-white checkered, high-gloss floor. God pulled a bottle of water from the stainless steel refrigerator and inched a few feet over to press his body against Day’s while he stirred a red sauce on the six-burner gas stove.

God buried his face in Day’s neck and whispered behind his ear. “That smells really good, sweetheart. What is it?”

God saw the corners of Day’s mouth turn up into a satisfied smile.

“It’s chicken cacciatore,” Day answered while scooping a small amount of sauce on the spoon. He turned around in God’s arms and put the steaming spoon to his mouth.

God sampled the rich sauce and moaned at the succulent flavors. It was absolutely delicious. “Mmm. That tastes really good.”

God looked around. “Is there something you want me to do?”

“Yeah. Stop moaning like that before I throw myself on that island and let you lick this sauce off my ass.” Day gave God a quick kiss and turned back around to his sauce.

“You’re a slut.” God laughed and jumped out of the way before Day could swat him with the messy spoon. God perched on one of the three breakfast stools looking over the kitchen and picked up a Guns & Ammo magazine that was lying there amidst the day’s mail. He flipped through the magazine, not really paying attention to the articles before asking Day, “So did you learn to cook that from your chef friend… what’s his name again?” God said nonchalantly. A potholder hit him in his forehead, making him look up from the magazine in mock horror.

“You know damn well what his name is, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to talk about Prescott Vaughan every time I cook us dinner.” Day glared at him around a sexy smile.

God winked and let his man get back to cooking.