Page 37 of Steady Stroke
His rusty chuckle was an unfamiliar sound. “I prefer to think of myself as sexually open, but if you want a pretty little label, I’m pansexual.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m attracted to people of all sexualities and genders. I’ve slept with men and women. I’ve had a few threesomes in various combinations. I dated a trans man for a while, until he got bored with me.” The affronted way Van admitted to being dumped made Emmett smile. “Makes it hard to maintain a long-term relationship, though, because a lot of people still can’t accept bisexuality, much less pansexuality.”
“It sounds confusing,” Emmett said.
Van shrugged and tipped back his second shot. “What can I say? I like sex and I hate labels. So what about you? What do you like?”
“Boys.” The word slipped out without permission, and Emmett nearly smacked his forehead off the bar top.
“There you go. They say the first step toward sobriety is admitting you have a problem.”
“What?”
The third shot went down way too easily.
“You admitted you’re attracted to guys,” Van said. His face was getting kind of soft. Blurry. “We know that Lincoln is, too. What we’ve yet to establish is why you haven’t already tapped that, because you know what? If he batted his eyes in my direction, we’d be in bed naked in a heartbeat.”
Van was attracted to Lincoln in a sexual way. That deep-down thing he didn’t understand reared up, annoyed at theblatant way Van said he’d have sex with Lincoln. Someone that Emmett had no real claim over, and yet Lincoln felt like he was Emmett’s. His to fuss over when he got migraines, and his to tease about how terribly he played mini golf.
“That.” Van pointed at him. “That look on your face? That’s how I know you like him.”
Emmett looked behind him for no real reason, because it wasn’t as if he could see himself back there. “What look?” Had he slurred that?
“Like you wanted to piss a circle around him and stake your claim.”
“I don’t want to piss on him.”
Van laughed again, then pushed the Maker’s Mark bottle away. “Okay, I think you’ve reached your limit for tonight.”
“Van Holt, are you getting my nephew drunk!” Aunt Beatrice’s voice boomed across the empty club. Her fuzzy shape strode toward them.
“He’s giving me advice,” Emmett said. Yes, he had definitely slurred that time.
“Over shots?”
“I figured if I loosened him up, he’d talk more,” Van said. “He’s terrified to come out of the closet, by the way.”
“Van!” Emmett flailed with his hand and knocked over both empty shot glasses. “Crap.”
“I’m well aware, thank you,” Aunt Beatrice said, her voice now calm and soothing, instead of angry.
Emmett blinked at her, positive he shouldn’t be seeing two copies. “You are?”
“I am.” She sat on the stool on his other side, then draped an arm across his shoulders. “Sweetheart, you remember when you first moved here after the fire, and you had those screamingnightmares?”
His stomach soured at the memories. “Yes. I never really remembered them.”
“I know, but sometimes you screamed things I could understand. A few times you apologized for being with someone. Eric?”
He leaned into his aunt’s comforting embrace, old grief and the liquor he’d consumed allowing him to accept her comfort. And to let his silence be his response, instead of denying it. What was the point now? Aunt Beatrice knew. Van knew.
“I know you grew up in a very religious home,” Aunt Beatrice said. “That sort of upbringing can make it difficult to accept something about yourself that you’ve been taught is wrong.”
“It’s more than that.” Far more than knowing he would completely dishonor his devoutly Muslim parents by accepting that he was gay. It didn’t matter that they were dead. The thought of them knowing, of them being so disappointed with his choice to remain out of heaven, speared him in the heart every time he imagined it.
Except it wasn’t really a choice, was it? Allah created all, and He loved His children. Surely Allah wouldn’t punish Emmett for being who he was born to be.
