4-Mocha on a Rainy Day
He put away his sketchpad in favor of his paints.
Watercolors, acrylics and oils. He experimented with everything he had until he found himself with a pencil in his hand again.
And then there was the weather. Any given day, Callan would truly appreciate the rain and dreary sky. But combined with his mood and lack of inspiration, it made him sick. It upset him and left him feeling awful. He didn't want to do anything with his art.
He was alone in the apartment and he was starting to hate the silence. Because when it was that silent he had only his thoughts and his art.
And he currently didn't have his art.
Callan left and drove to the closest bookstore. It was something to do. Somewhere to go. And the bookstore was always calming. He wasn't much of a reader but he could still appreciate the books on photography and landscapes.
He parked his car and walked the few remaining blocks (parking was always hell) and ran into the bookstore. He pulled back the hood of his jacket and walked straight to the little café. He ordered a mocha, to warm up his hands, and made his way to the photography section.
He picked out a large book, filled with candid photos from Turkey, and sat down on the floor, flipping through it. He sipped his hot mocha, occasionally blowing through the lid and creating a little whistling noise.
He sighed softly, looking over the tall buildings and architecture the book had. It was all fond memories and nostalgia. For his senior graduation gift, his mother took him on a trip overseas to the country and he yearned to go back. It was her home country and he knew she wanted to return as much as he did.
"Hey, Robinson, what are you up to?"
Callan looked up and saw Jean's grinning face at the end of the aisle. Callan shrugged and the smug expression Jean wore faded. He walked over and sat down as Callan looked back at the book.
Callan shrugged again.
"Bad art week?"
"Yeah," Callan sighed. "I don't know what's wrong. Just haven't been feeling it lately."
"Have you tried painting instead? What about the stuff…uh…charcoal?"
"I can try charcoal for a while. Maybe I should paint vases?"
"Get a camera," Jean said, leaning in close to look at the book. "Maybe you could take pictures for a while."
As if buying a camera was even in Callan's budget at the moment.
"Wouldn't hurt," Callan lied. "Is Kevin with you?"
Callan swallowed hard and turned to look at Jean, brushing his nose against his friend's lips. Jean pulled away.
"We don't kiss."
Callan half smiled and laughed bitterly. "I know that. I'm not fucking stupid."
"We probably shouldn't. You're all depressed."
"It takes my mind off being depressed," Callan said, slamming the book closed and putting it back on the shelf. "It's not like you should complain. You just sit and get your dick sucked. There's literally no work in it for you."
"You make a decent argument."
"I parked almost two blocks away."
"It's fine. My car is parked in the back."
Callan sat back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Jean panted, his head against the window and his pants around his ankles. He was a sweaty mess so Callan had no problem wiping away the sticky white on his exposed thigh. Jean laughed.
Callan felt better. Relieved. Excited. It was wrong, he knew it, but he was getting away with it. No one would ever know. His heart raced.
"You have fun cleaning up," Callan teased as Jean opened his eyes.
"You didn't get it anywhere, did you?"
"Good. You can go then. And stay safe on the roads."
"I will. I'll see you later," Callan said, slipping out the door.
He didn't bother with his hoodie. The cool rain served as a quick shower to wash away the sweat and cum on his face. He let his face be drenched as he walked, flipping his bangs from his face.
He was pleased, he admitted to himself. It was a new record for getting Jean into the backseat of a car. He was pleased he could get his friend to cum down his throat in a matter of minutes. It was a game. It was always a game and it would only ever be a game.
It was what he had to tell himself, otherwise their stupid fucking would be too serious.
Because when it came down to it, Jean wouldn't kiss him. Kissing was reserved for lovers and Callan was no lover. He was a quick (albeit good) fuck. And that was all he would ever be to Jean. He wasn't boyfriend material or lover material.
Just someone to fuck around with.
He wrapped his arms around himself as he walked, the sudden feeling of being empty creeping over him. Empty and cold and dirty. He fucked Jean because it was a brief distraction from his own problems but once it sank it, it left Callan feeling disgusted with himself. He fucked a guy in a relationship with an amazing, good person. Callan didn't want to hurt Kevin. And over a silly game? Because he simply "could". He wasn't a homewrecker. He would never be a homewrecker.
He couldn't carry that title with him.
He started crying. Callan genuinely sobbed, his tears mixing with the rain and sweat and cum on his face. His vision blurred. His body hurt. His mind was clouded. Nothing felt right.
Why was everything so fucked up? Why did he keep fucking up? Why did he keep hurting himself?
A car screeched to a sudden halt, slipping in the rain. Callan realized the light overhead was green, not red. He was in the middle of a busy street, rain splashing around his feet. The black car slid to a stop and Callan flinched, frozen from fear.
He lowered his hands as the angry driver honked his horn. Other drivers honked, some even sticking their heads out to curse at him. It all registered slowly. Once he had gained control over his legs again, Callan started to walk. He needed to get to safety.
"OI! CALLAN! GET YOUR SORRY ASS IN THIS CAR!"
Over the sounds of angry honks, Callan could hear the familiar voice. Through the rain, the man running up to him was familiar. He grabbed Callan's arm and dragged him around to his black car; the same car that almost made Callan roadkill. He opened and closed the car door, throwing Callan inside like a ragdoll.
Suddenly there was no more rain. The honking sounded distant. The air was warm. And Zachary was getting into the driver's seat and stepping on the gas. Callan kept his eyes down, averting Zachary's cold gaze.
"Oi, Callan, look at me. What the fuck do you think you're fucking doing, huh? Trying to get yourself killed? I almost fucking hit you. Hey, Callan! Are you even listening—"
"YES I'M FUCKING LISTENING TO YOU!" Callan shouted. "Don't yell at me! I'm not fucking deaf!"
His bottom lip quivered unintentionally. He didn't mean to yell at Zachary; it wasn't the man's fault. But every painful emotion buried in Callan's being wanted to surface and beat him down. He wiped his eyes with the back of his wet sleeve, smearing dirt onto his cheeks.
"Jesus, Callan," Zachary sighed, reaching over and opening the glove compartment. He pulled out a small package of tissues and tossed them into Callan's lap. "Clean up your fucking face."
Callan nodded, sniffling and tugging a tissue from the small plastic packaging. He wiped his eyes, just to run his sleeve under his nose again. Zachary groaned, disgusted, and pulled into a parking lot. He sloppily parked his car and snatched up the tissues from Callan's lap, jerking a fresh one from the pack. He patted Callan gently on the chin.
"Oi, look at me."
Callan silently obeyed the simple command and let Zachary clean his face. Zachary dabbed at Callan's red, puffy eyes and then wiped away the dirty smudge on his cheek. Finally he shoved the tissue up Callan's nose, gave it a little jerk and pulled it out, wiping away the remaining snot.
"Fucking disgusting. You really are a brat, aren't you?" Zachary sighed, tossing the snot rag in Callan's lap. "Can't take care of yourself at all."
Callan's lip shook again and he curled into his seat. "I can take care of myself. I'm not some rich, pompous asshole and I know I never will be but I can take care of myself just fine."
Zachary chuckled lightly. "You're still a brat. What has you so upset that you're out walking the street in the rain and ignoring the fucking street lights though?"
"Don't tell me. You like someone. Probably an old friend or something. And he treats you like fucking shit and you know you shouldn't be interested. You're a smart kid but you still have some hope in the back of your mind that it'll fucking work out somehow, right?"
Callan's breathing hitched. He pulled out another tissue and nodded.
"And on top of that you have a heavy workload at school. You hate your job and you're having some family issues."
Callan let out a hiccupping cry, bringing the tissue to his face.
"Why the fuck do you know that?"
"I'm a fucking lawyer. I can read people. I also minored in psychology."
"Why the fuck are you so…so fucking well-rounded?! What the hell?"
It really wasn't fair. Callan was at a disadvantage. Zachary was smart. He understood how people worked. He always knew what to say. He had money. He was successful. And he was even charming in his own shitty way.
Zachary reached out and threaded his hand through Callan's hair and oh how it felt. Callan closed his eyes and leaned into it, letting the man pet his hair. Callan laughed.
"You could get anyone you wanted," Callan said. "And without even trying. Why are you bothering with someone like me? I'm a mess."
"I hate messes," Zachary said. Alright, maybe he didn't always know what to say. "But you're a mess with the prettiest fucking eyes I've ever seen and I can't stop thinking about them."
Callan shivered at his low voice and the intense look in his eyes. It left him paralyzed so he broke eye contact to stare at Zachary's lips. Zachary leaned in and used his grip in Callan's hair to pull him closer. Callan turned away and Zachary stopped.
"I never thanked you for that pastry the other day," Callan forcefully purred, slipping his hand along Zachary's thigh. "Or for saving me."
"Save it," Zachary snapped. "We're not fucking in my car without a condom and I don't have one on me. I'm not dealing with your fucking cum-mess."
Callan slumped back in his seat. "Clean freak."
"Perverted little shit."
Zachary drove Callan to his car. It wasn't far but at least Callan didn't have to fight against the rain to get there or take a chance on almost dying again. He smiled, feeling grateful for Zachary's time. They exchanged their goodbyes and Callan reached for the car door handle when Zachary stopped him.
"Take this," Zachary said, pulling a business card from a silver holder. He scribbled something down on the back and offered it to Callan.
"You think I'm in need of a lawyer?" Callan snarked, looking the card over.
"It's my fucking business hours and my personal number on the back." Callan's eyes widened. "In case you ever get bored or have some free time and you want to fuck around for a while, give me a call or a text."
"Why not? You're cute, I'm interested and you seem willing if you were throwing yourself at me for buying you a fucking dessert. I'm not looking for a fucking commitment. Just someone to have fun with."
Callan grinned. "So you think I'm cute and fun?"
"From what I saw after the bar, yes."
"I'll maybe think about it," Callan teased through lying teeth. Zachary smirked and Callan knew the man was aware he was lying about it being a "maybe". "Don't have a heart attack thinking about me, old man."
Callan left it at that, opening the car door and sauntering over to his own car. He got inside and through the rain he wondered if Zachary had watched. Of course Zachary had watched; how could he not?
He pulled out his phone and looked the business card over. He punched in Zachary's number and saved it under "For A Good Time".