Real Talk Read online

“Dylan? Are you still awake?” His Dad’s voice was soft and Dylan felt a pang in his chest. Of course, his mother would send his Dad to talk to him about bringing home some stranger.

  “Yeah, I’m up. Come in.” Dylan crawled on top of the covers instead of getting under them as Peter Montgomery, New York Senator, entered his room.

  His Dad had a slightly disheveled look about him. His bowtie was undone, hanging loosely around his neck. The first few buttons of his now wrinkled shirt were open, revealing what Dylan supposed might be considered an attractive expanse of skin–but hey, that was his Dad! His tux jacket had been abandoned somewhere, but his cummerbund was still in place. He was now barefoot as he padded through the private areas of his own house.

  “Party over?” Dylan picked at a loose thread on his comforter.

  “Yeah,” Peter nodded, “it got weird after some kid crashed it.”

  Dylan blushed. “I’m sorry. I thought the party was in the other ball room.”

  “I know.” Peter leaned back against the edge of the desk and crossed his arms over his chest. “Dylan, this shit...this shit has to stop.”

  “I know.”

  “You say that all the fucking time and it never does!”

  Dylan cringed. Dad was the level-headed one. Hearing him raise his voice meant business. Mom was the screamer. Having her toss spittle in his direction barely received an eyebrow raise, but from Peter? The senator had learned to keep a cool head under pressure, so even just a few octaves above normal...

  “Dylan, I love you. Your Mom loves you. But we can’t,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes, “shit, this is hard. Dylan, we can’t do this anymore.”

  “Do what?”

  “We can’t watch you ruin your life.”

  Dylan flinched. “You think I’m ruining my life?”

  “Don’t you? You’re out there blowing your allowance on booze and drugs. Having sex with guys that you never see twice. What were you thinking bringing that guy here tonight? Do you have any concept of the danger in that?”

  “We have seven security guards on the grounds. I doubt I would have been in any danger,” Dylan started.

  “You’re lucky David does his goddamn job, Dylan. And, I know Ian is a nice guy, but what if you hadn’t brought Ian home? What if it was some serial killer? Some psycho that lures nice boys before cutting them up?”

  “I’m not stupid.”

  “Dylan,” Peter shook his head, “that’s not that point. I know you’re smart. I know you’re better than all of this crap you pull.”

  “So, what are you going to do to me? Send me to boarding school?”

  “Worse,” Peter mused.

  “Worse than boarding school?”

  “You’re going to New Jersey.”

  “Gross,” Dylan wrinkled his nose, “what the hell is in Jersey? Besides a lot of guidos.”

  “Your Aunt Zoe and Uncle Milton for starters.”

  “No!” Dylan sat up on his knees. “You cannot send me to those people.”

  “We don’t have a choice. Grams and Papa can’t handle this; you are way out of their league. Aunt Sophie is busy with her doctorate, and Uncle Paul is god knows where right now. Zoe and Milton are stable, reliable, and besides, what trouble can you get into in Tynan?”

  “They’re homophobic bigots.”

  “It’s just until you clean up your act. Prove to me, to your Mom, that you are making an effort. Stop the drinking, stop the drugs, and you can come home.”

  “I will go anywhere but to Tynan, fucking, New Jersey,” Dylan begged. “Send me to a military academy, send me to some crazy ass gay rehab, I don’t care, but do not send me to those people.”

  “Dylan,” Peter crossed the room, placing his palms on his son’s shoulders, “this is not because you’re gay. I couldn’t give less of a shit about that. This is about your attitude toward your life. Starting giving a fuck and you’ll spend hardly any time there at all.”

  “Please,” Dylan closed his eyes, pleading, “please, do not send me there.”

  “It is already done,” Peter said. Dylan reached up and squeezed his wrists. “I’m sorry. You leave Tuesday.”

  “I swear to god, I will never leave this house ever again. Just don’t send me there.” Dylan’s nails began to bite into his skin. Peter gently pulled away from him.

  “Suzy will help you pack.” He stepped away from the bed. “You’ll continue to receive your allowance as well as an extra hundred dollars from your trust. Don’t go crazy with it. It won’t last you the rest of your life if you spend it willy-nilly now.”

  Dylan collapsed, pressing his face into his palms. He wanted so badly not to cry in front of his Dad, but it was proving difficult. The idea of being shipped off the ho-dunk town of Tynan was stifling. His uber-religious relatives were always looking down on him, especially after he’d come out. Zoe regularly reminded his mother during their weekly phone call to “catch up” that Dylan would be burning in hell for all eternity. He couldn’t think of anything worse than going to live with her, of all people.

  “Dylan?” Peter’s voice was soft. He didn’t approach the bed again, standing his ground a few feet away.

  He wiped his hands across his eyes, willing the tears to hold back as he stared up at his Dad. His face was devoid of emotion. Peter shoved his hands into his pockets, looking sheepish all of a sudden.

  “This is our only option right now,” he explained. “With the new campaign swinging in soon, your Mom and are going to be traveling even more than usual this summer. We just can’t take care of you right now. I know it feels like we’re copping out and shipping you off, but we’re just tired, Dylan. Tired of all the shit. I know you understand what I’m talking about.”

  “I will never understand why you’re doing this to me,” Dylan spat.

  “You will,” Peter promised. “Someday, you will. And, hey, maybe you’ll be surprised about Tynan. It’s not a bad place. I know we’re sending you to a household that is very different from ours. Zoe has different ideas of morals. But it’s not forever.”

  “To come home, all I have to do is stop using, right?”

  “You need to get to a place where you don’t need that shit,” Peter corrected. “You can get clean, but I don’t want you to come home just to start it up again. I don’t... I don’t know what’s wrong Dylan. I’m not going to pretend that I understand where all this angst is coming from because I don’t. You have it all. I would have killed to have this life when I was your age. Have you seen our house compared to the one I grew up in?”

  “It was a three-story Tudor style manor. It’s not like you had it tough.”

  “You live in a fucking castle,” Peter swore. “You have everything you’ve ever dreamed of. We have a theater with every movie ever made. We have an arcade and rec room with thirty different gaming consoles. We have an Olympic sized swimming pool. We have a huge staff of people. Our house is in movies and television shows.”

  “A nice house doesn’t have anything to do with my attitude,” Dylan scoffed.

  “You’re right,” Peter nodded. “The point is, I don’t know how to fix whatever the hell has you doing this to yourself and maybe you don’t know what it takes either. That’s fine. But, I can’t leave you here alone while I’m on campaign. I don’t want to be half-way across the state and get a call that you OD’d in some back room. I don’t want to come home to find you gutted in the living room. I want you somewhere I know you’re safe and being taken care of.”

  “I get it,” Dylan monotoned. “I’m tired. Can I go to bed now?”

  Peter paused for a moment before nodding. “Fine.”

  “Thanks.” He shifted back on the bed, yanking out the covers as Peter strode for the door. “Catch the light for me?”

  “Sure.” Peter reached out and flicked the light switch. He stopped, his frame filling the doorway as he exited. “Dylan?”

  “What?”

  “I love you.”

  Dylan bit his tongue and he w
atched his Dad waver slightly in the door before stepping out into the bright hallway. Just as the door began to close, he gave a quiet sigh. “I know. I love you too.”

  The door stopped for a moment. Peter gave a slight nod. “Good night.”

  “G’ night.” Dylan shifted under the covers. His room was cast into complete darkness as Peter pulled the door closed with a soft click.

  ***

  Tynan was even worse than he remembered. He’d been there several times as a child. He was used to being a sort of celebrity-by-association due to his father’s political career, but that shit didn’t fly in Zoe and Milton’s territory. Every meal started with an uncomfortable prayer. Jesus overlooked their table from three different angles. He felt instantly uncomfortable upon stepping inside of the house. His driver, David, had unceremoniously unloaded his luggage inside the door before driving back to the city.

  Zoe greeted him. Although “greeted” probably wasn’t the correct word for it. She took a stance in the doorway of the living room, her arms crossed over her chest as she surveyed him quietly. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his black jeans, and stared back at her, haughty without any real threat.

  “So,” she broke the silence, “your parents finally had enough and kicked you out, huh?”

  “They didn’t kick me out,” Dylan retorted. “I’m welcome back when I’m sober.”

  Zoe hummed, uncrossing her arms and taking a step forward. “Just so you know, the stuff you’ve been pulling in the city won’t happen here. There are no clubs, there are no gays, and there are no drugs. This is a good town with good people with morals.”

  Dylan smirked. “You’re brainwashed if you think that my crowd doesn’t exist here. Every town has an underbelly. You just need to know where to look.” Then the look disappeared. “I’m not here for that. And I won’t get comfortable. I’m out of here as soon as my parents see that I’m not using any of that shit again.”

  “Since you’ve been here all of five minutes, I’ll let that slide. But, swear again in my house, and it’s a quarter in the swear jar.”

  “Swear jar?” Dylan raised an eyebrow. “What the hell is that?”

  “Twenty-five cents.” She pointed to the ceramic jar that sat on a side table. It was placed under an ornate picture frame with a depiction of the crucifixion inside. On the side of the chubby purple-gray jar, in thick black paint, it said: Swear Jar.

  “Hell isn’t a euphemism. It’s a place.”

  “Not the way you were using it.” Zoe cocked her head. “Now it’s fifty cents.”

  Dylan bit his tongue. He reached into his pocket to pull out his wallet. He paused before he removed a dollar and stuffed it into the slot. “Fuck this shit.”

  “Are you done now?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Your room will be down here.” She began to walk away from him. “Grab your own bags. I’m not a bellhop.”

  Dylan hefted the duffle bag over his shoulder, then picked up the two large suitcases to follow her. She paused in front of a plain white door that nearly blended into the wall. She gave the knob a twist before pushing it open and ushered him inside. He didn’t look around; just dropped his bags on the floor near the neatly made bed. He turned back to look at her.

  “Anything else I should know?”

  “Breakfast is at seven A.M., lunch is usually fend-for-yourself. Especially with Milton working and the kids have their summer activities. Dinner is served at five-thirty. It is mandatory on Tuesday nights.”

  “Required dinner? Are you kidding me?”

  “You live in this household now. You’re attending,” Zoe stared at him pointedly, “end of story. I do laundry Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, so if you need things washed, put your hamper in the laundry room. Down the hall by the kitchen. I won’t come looking for it. If you don’t like that, wash it yourself.”

  “Fine.”

  “Curfew is ten o’clock, no exceptions.”

  He stared at her, “Ten P.M.? Nothing even happens before eleven.”

  “As I said before, there’s nothing to happen in Tynan.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut and sighed, trying to control his annoyance. Finally, he nodded, “Fine. Anything else?”

  “You’ll be attending the Addict Support Group at the church before Youth Group on Wednesday night, starting tomorrow. You will attend both. The kids still have a week of school left, so you’ll be mostly alone during the day until Friday. If I think of anything else, I’ll let you know.”

  “Fine. Can I get out of this house now?”

  “Sure,” she nodded. “Oh–wait,” she reached into her pocket and pulled out a set of keys on a ring, “keys to the house. The silver one goes in the knob; the gold is for the deadbolt.”

  He held out a hand to look at it. “Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a house key before. People seriously think that a deadbolt keeps them safe?”

  “Not all of us can live in mansions with security teams, Dylan,” she quipped. “Don’t lose them.”

  “I won’t,” he shoved the keys into his pocket and waited for her to move again. He was itching to get out of the house. Although, if what she said was true; there wasn’t anywhere for him to go. But hey, anywhere was better than under the eyes of Christ.

  “Be back for dinner. The kids are...” she paused to find the right word, “excited that you’ll be staying with us. I’m sure they want to see you.”

  “Sure.”

  “You have your phone?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you have the house number in it?” She confirmed.

  “Yep.”

  “All right,” she said, relinquishing the doorway. “Don’t wander too far.”

  He didn’t reply, walking as fast as he could without breaking into a run for the door. Once outside, he wasn’t sure which direction to go. To the left was a full-service gas station. Very bored looking attendants hung out in the shade under an awning. Down the block was a drive-in restaurant with picnic tables. He went in that direction. He found a few blocks down, the public library, a grocery store, a couple of bars, and a small park. As he continued his quest, he also discovered a small second-hand clothing shop, an antique dealer, and a hardware store. Aunt Zoe obviously hadn’t been lying when she’d said there was absolutely nothing to do in Tynan.

  Ultimately, he decided it would be best to find a place to hide out. Preferably in some air conditioning. Even as they were only entering June, the heat was sweltering. Doubly worse with his black clothes and make-up. He wandered back toward the library; at least he could read or something. He mentally slapped himself upside the head for not grabbing one of his drawing pads. He could have doodled for entertainment.

  As he entered the library, cool air smacked him in the face, chilling him. It was small, everything readily visible from the front desk where a librarian sat, hiding behind a computer. Another staff member was shelving books from a metal cart. The one from the computer looked up as a soft buzzer went off, gave him a brief, slightly forced smile.

  “Hi, can I help you with anything?”

  “Just looking,” he told her.

  She gave a friendly nod. “Let me know if you need anything then.” And she promptly turned back to her computer.

  He went to the stacks, drawn into the non-fiction area. Running his finger along the spine labels, he found the art books tucked away on a bottom shelf in the middle. He pulled off one on the Body and took it to sit in a chair at the end of the stacks, slightly hidden from the rest of the library.

  He lost himself in the images and the text; mentally filing away from of the information for later. His artwork, already, was fairly realistic. It was one talent he’d honed since childhood. His parents had even shown his drawings to artist friends who were fairly certain he was a protégé genius. Since being forced into one-to-many art lectures, he hadn’t shown his parents another piece of artwork. To the point where they probably believed he wasn’t drawing at all anymore. But he ha
d several sketch pads, and he enjoyed drawing his numerous partners when they’d consent to a short posing session.

  He bit his lip, taking a look at his watch. He’d been so absorbed into the book that time had flown by and the librarian at the desk had just called fifteen minutes to closing time. Not quite five o’clock. He swore softly and got up to put the book back on the shelf.

  “Oh, I can take that.” The second librarian was back with another small armload of books to put away.

  He handed it over.

  “You enjoy art?” She asked, making polite conversation.

  “Um, I guess.”

  “You should talk to our director. She’s looking for some new work to put up around the library.”

  He flushed red but didn’t answer.

  “I think I’ve seen you before.” She knelt down to put the book back in place on the bottom shelf. “Passing through? Summer stay?”

  “Uh, visiting relatives.”

  “Oh! You must be Dylan then. Zoe said that her nephew was coming to stay with them for a while.” She pushed herself back up from the floor. “I’m Cameron; Zoe and I are on the church council together.”

  “How nice for you.” Dylan’s eyebrows furrowed a bit. “I better be getting back. She’s going to be wondering where I am.”

  “Sure thing.” Cameron gave him a cheery smile. “Tell her I said hello.”

  He nodded, with no intention of doing so.

  He hurried away from her and out of the library. Great, another place he’d have to tip-toe around, lest the librarians start talking about him to Zoe. He sighed. What he wouldn’t give to be eighteen. He looked at his watch again. Hardly any closer to five, and he didn’t want to go back, but he figured he probably should. Get it over with.

  Chapter Three

  The walk back to the house was quicker than he wanted. Even after dawdling to stare at the shop windows and stopping for a soda at the grocery store. Back at the house, he slipped his key into the door and stepped into the entry way. Almost instantly, he was attacked by a slightly shorter-than-him brunette. He smacked into the wall, causing one of the pictures of Jesus to shudder on its hook.