“You okay?” Tool leans over me and grazes my mouth and chin with three fingertips.

  Tool’s touch feels amazing. Like cherry pie sweetness on one’s tongue. Like knee-reaching daisies against your bare legs in a summertime field. The golden sunshine after the first day of a long and cold winter. I nod, try to smile, honestly can’t, but find the strength to whisper, “I’m good.”

  Splayed on the floor, Starr yells by the front door, “Fuck you both!”

  “Perfect. I’m glad you’re good,” Tool says. He rubs my lips with a stray fingertip, two fingertips. The smile he shares with me warms my soul and aligns the planets. It’s a smile that can calm the seas and balance the Earth’s ecosystem. “Don’t move. I’ll be back in a second.”

  Tool crosses the living room and grabs my ex by his arms, lifts him off the floor, and drags him outside into the early evening. I’m sure he threatens Starr, tells him to stay away from me, never to “get inside me again,” and informs him to drive away from Brecker Street as quickly as he arrived before the cops are called. Or something similar. Case closed.

  And off Starr goes, returning to whatever sewer he crawled out of. Gone. For. Good.

  * * * *

  Eventually Tool comes back into the house, steps up to me, stares down at me, unintentionally flexes his muscles for me, proves that he’s all man, and asks, “Are you sure you’re okay, Lance?”

  “Better now. Thanks for saving me. The guy is dangerous. Always was.”

  “An ex of yours?”

  “Yes. Ricky Starr. He uses too many drugs. He’s high, and horrible. This is how he was when we were a couple for five months.”

  He huffs above me, which is about as sexy as my mind can process, and he confesses, “I was working on the Nova and heard you yelling. I realized you were in trouble. Then I came running. You’re safe now. No need to worry.” He rubs my cheek with fingertips and grazes its blond, post-five-o’clock scruff. “I thought he was going to kill you when I burst inside.”

  “He’s violent when he’s high. Starr definitely has a few problems. He needs to get help. Unfortunately, he hasn’t found it yet. I can’t tell you how many times he’s been to rehab and special groups to get him on the right track. He’s an addict though, and he doesn’t want to help himself.”

  “No man needs to be treated the way he was treating you. Your living room window is open. I heard what was happening. Plain as day. The guy was abusive. I wasn’t about to allow him to do that to you a second longer.”

  “Thanks again,” I tell him. “I’m glad you were looking out for me.”

  “What are friends for? I’m sorry you had to go through that.” He slightly bends over and brushes blond hair out of my eyes; always so touchy-feely, not that I mind. I feel safe with him, protected, and a warmness floods through me. I’ve never felt this way with any other man. Not once. There’s something about Tool that I find noble and charming, like he’s from Camelot, or someone with special powers.

  I tell him, “Starr’s overdosed three times. Truth said, he’s failing himself. The system’s tried to help him out the best way it can. Unfortunately, I’ve been caught in his radar a few times like this evening. I was glad you were around to help me. God only knows what he would have done if you weren’t next door and my living room window wasn’t open. He can throw a nasty punch and get what he wants. I’ve been on the other side of his anger numerous times.”

  He gently pulls me up and off the sofa as if I’m a bag of feathers or powdered sugar. Our chests cling and glide together. Our mouths almost meet, aligning. Our hidden cocks touch, but only by accident. None of these actions stop the flighty warmth of bumblebees that zoom and twirl within my chest. He admits, “I promise to help when I can. We’re friends now.”

  I think he’s going to kiss me and my lips semi-part, but he doesn’t. Instead, he breathes on my face (warm, smooth, soft, sweet), stares at me and takes in every wrinkle, curve, pimple, and dent on my face. How disappointing that the kiss doesn’t happen. The kiss should happen. Damn. What a loss. A total upset. But I still enjoy being next to him, touching him.

  I smell pizza on his breath: cheese, pepperoni, sausage, onion, peppers. He smells delicious, completely edible. One of his hands is snug against the back of my head. His other hand is placed along the curve of my spine. I find it comfortable here. It’s like we’re dancing, but we’re not. Yet something keeps us entwined, meshed together. I wonder…I wonder if this is how he makes love to a man.

  He smiles and adds, “I’m just glad you’re okay. I really wasn’t sure what was going on over here. I just sensed danger.”

  “And you went into hero mode, which I appreciate. I’m better now…Much better. So thanks.”

  “It makes me happy if you want to know the truth. I don’t want bad things to happen to you, Lance. I don’t mind keeping tabs on you.” These comments might come across as creepy to some, but they don’t to me. I’m cool with what he says, calm, and rather relish his attention.

  Before I can add something to the conversation, possibly making a fool of myself, time stops. We simply become lost in each other’s eyes and hypnotized by the moment in my living room. Connected by some rudimentary force that maybe neither of us understands. If he’s going to kiss me, it should probably happen now, by free will, an understanding devised by our hearts, before it’s too late, and before time begins again. There’s no reason to wait a second longer. Stillness can sometimes never be found again, remain forever misplaced.

  He comes to, blinks a few times, and stammers, “I…I have pizza and beer at the garage. Do you want to come over and kill some with me? Take a load off with me. We can talk about Starr and other things. What do you say? Be a bro with me and relax. Chill.”

  I feel his palm and fingers on my back as is it travels to the base of my spine. It lingers there, stops above my rump, and it causes the shivers of warm heat to rise to the perspiration-covered rear of my neck. I don’t realize at this time—later it comes to me, when I think over this confused and bubbly moment, rehashing this connection—but our bare pecs touch, as well as our stomachs and somewhat hard cocks. There is very little, if any, space between our torsos. Our bodies are temporarily sealed together, amalgamated. I literally shudder against him, share a full-fledged smile, feel heat melt my skin away, boil between my legs, feel as if my pecs will pop, and reply, “I’d like that. Lead me astray.”

  * * * *

  “It was a long five months with Ricky,” I tell Tool, sitting in the chair across from him at the rear of his uncle’s dingy garage. Most of the pizza and six-pack of an IPA are gone. “I shouldn’t have gotten involved with him, but he seduced me. The guy knows how to talk his men into bed, a shower, or against a wall. He’s very smooth when he’s not high. A total charmer, and I fell for his sexual gig.”

  “When did you learn he was doing drugs?”

  “Right from the start. I found them in his kitchen. He had a flat in South Side, near the Ohio River. I think he purposely left them out for me to find, thinking I would use them. I’ve never been one to use drugs, except for pot.”

  “Pills?”

  “Pills. Powder. Liquids. Whatever he could find. That’s what he used, and still does.”

  “Shit. He has it bad.”

  “Always does. Always will. Starr will probably die using drugs. It’s an unfortunate truth.”

  “How many times did he rough you up?”

  “Twice. Seven times. A dozen or more. I can’t even give you a number. Usually he was high all the time and passed out somewhere. Most of the time he wasn’t even home, hooked on something with his friends, lost in the city somewhere. I didn’t know where he was.”

  “Sounds damaging for the both of you.”

  “It was terrifying some days. He had the tools to get clean and chose not to use them. The addict in him was, and is today, too strong. So I got out. I couldn’t have his problem become my problem, because I realized I couldn’t help him. Starr didn’t want to help himself, so how could I help him?”

  “Makes sense. A lot of friends and lovers to addicts go through the same thing. Relationships fall apart all the time.”

  “I’m just glad it’s over with. This evening was a rare event. I’m sure it will happen again, but not for a long time. I’m not worried about it, to tell you the truth. Honestly, Starr will probably overdose and kill himself one of these days. You and I can’t stop him from doing that. He’s a train on a mission to derail. Some addicts are like this and…”

  We talk for the next few hours, close to midnight. Maybe even longer. We drink all the beer and eat all the pizza. And he plays with my leg and lightly flirts with me. We don’t kiss. We don’t hug. But we do talk a lot, and laugh. And our friendship grows, matching my attraction to him.

  * * * *

  I get this crazy idea, half out of my mind. As May progresses I get online and study tools. I make a list and start to borrow a variety of tools from the stud next door just to see and spend more time with him. Of course, I don’t need the tools. Why would I? I’m not Jesus and intend to build things. I’m not part of the public works for the city.

  Not the flat-headed screwdriver.

  Not the sixteen-ounce Fiberglass professional rip hammer.

  Not the curved, jaw locking set of pliers.

  Not the channel locks.

  Not the roll of silver duct tape.

  Not the mini-pick and hook set.

  Not the C-clamp.

  Not the three-way tacker staple gun.

  Not the eight-inch magnetic torpedo level angle finder.

  Not the seven-inch long wood chisel set with its PVC handle.

  Not the mini-folding lock-back utility knife.

  Not the twelve-inch hacksaw.

  And the list goes on and on of the tools I borrow from Tool.

  It’s so nice to see him. Always. Always.

  As for the tools…They’re in a mismanaged pile on the living room floor next to the sofa. Told you I don’t need them.

  * * * *

  Marcus plays his dragon and knight video game again and goes on a rant. He says over his right shoulder at me, “You’re falling for Tool, Lance. I’m telling you as your closest friend…Do. Not. Fall. For. Him. He’ll hurt you. Every guy has hurt you. You’re not meant to fall for a man. Never. At least not in this lifetime. And certainly not for Tool. Don’t follow your heart, and mind, and cock. Run. Run as fast as you can. Stop the bullshit now. Just stop it regarding Tool. Give all the tools back. Summer is going to end. His uncle is going to have the operation and he will be able to see again. And before you know it, Tool will be back in Phoenix and his flat again. That’s going to leave you with a hard dick and a broken heart. So listen to me. Drop him.”

  “I can’t help what’s happening. My heart wants what it wants.”

  I study more tools on my phone to borrow: a stainless-steel putty knife, an oil-free pancake air compressor, a three-inch magnetic bit holder, a six-inch stainless-steel taping knife, a five-in-one painter’s tool, a 1500-watt temperature heat gun, a one-inch hex chisel set for a demolition hammer.

  Marcus controls a character who attempts to slay a dragon my flat-screen. He says to me, “You’re making the biggest mistake of your life. A fatal judgment on your part. Death by your dick-craving. Listen to me and get out while you can.”

  I snip at him, “Says the man who hasn’t had a long-term relationship since 1999.”

  “I don’t want a long-term relationship anytime soon. I’m a man-hopper. I like to go from one dick to the next. There’s no reason to settle down yet. I’ve got a lot of singlehood left in me. I travel too much to settle down. I work too hard. Plus, I play too many video games to keep up a conversation with a man. Call me selfish, but at least I know who I am and what I want.”

  “You’re a whore, Marcus. You’re a dick-whore. You sleep with three men when you leave town. I know this because you tell me.”

  I hear a fire-breathing dragon roar, and his character, Gridiron, scream on my flat-screen. “Fuck!” Marcus yells as he dies. He tosses the remote to the floor. “This dragon’s a fucking dick.”

  I laugh.

  He pouts. “I like being a whore. What can I say? I like dick.” He shrugs.

  “And I like the tool next door.”

  It’s a typical bestie time with Marcus. No surprise.

  * * * *

  It’s the end of May, after five in the evening. It feels like the sun accosts Earth, gobbling it up, specifically Pittsburgh. I’m talking dripping-wet hot. It’s maybe why Tool shows up in a pair of skimpy running shorts that look like he dug them out of a chest from 1988: red-and-white striped with curved bottoms. The gym shorts leave nothing to my imagination, outlining his package. Sweat decorates his shoulders, pecs, and tight navel. The droplets hang on his pert nipples. A smile lingers on his handsome face. He says, “I have cold beer and pizza in the garage. Do you want to join me?”

  I think he sees the vast pile of tools over my left shoulder on the floor, but he doesn’t. Maybe he’s checking out my blond-furry chest, its hard nipples, and drops his stare to my chiseled thighs. I’m not sure, but hope so. “That’s nice of you. Anything I can bring?”

  “A lighter or matches for a smoke.” He reaches forward and drags two fingertips around my navel, chuckles. “But only if you want to smoke.”

  I tell myself that he adds: Or other things, Lance. I’m up for whatever you’re up for, guy.

  He winks at me. I’m honestly not sure what the wink means, but I’m not a fool and know it’s personal and maybe he wants to kiss me or touch my thigh again.

  “Sure…Yeah. I’ll bring a lighter,” I tell him. I giggle like a high school kid who has one thing on his mind: getting easy with the star quarterback. Wrestling tongues with him. Just as he probably wants to wrestle tongues with me. Or something more.

  Shame on me.

  And shame on him.

  We’re such bad influences on each other.

  I stand dumbfounded in my living room and think: Why does he make me act like I’m eighteen instead of thirty-four? What kind of game are we playing? Why are we behaving immaturely? Tactics like these are for kids. We’re adults. We honestly don’t have time for this bullshit. We’re men. Men.

  “See you in a few,” he says, and off he goes.

  I can’t help myself and watch his tight back and shoulders. I study his ass twitch left and right in the clinging shorts. Damn, I’m such a perv. And damn, I want him. For maybe all the wrong reasons: selfishly and sexually.

  I’m a dick-whore like Marcus. Yes, I am. We’re twins.

  No. Maybe not. I might have more feelings for the garage guy next door than just an evening fuck. I feel connected to him, and I’m interested in everything he has to say. I can listen to him for hours. I feel as if I’m more than friends with him, whether he knows this or not. I’m hooked on him, obsessed, challenged by him, desiring him, infatuated with the man. We decide on who we want to be with. Tool is my pick. All that I want. My simple pleasure. Mine.

  I just might like him a little too much.

  A reachable liking.

  Good for me.

  * * * *

  In the rear of his garage we drink beer, eat pizza, and smoke sticks of Mary with the best of them. I become twenty again, or younger. Hot, horny, and buzzed, we giggle like young men. Does Tool see the semi-boner between my legs as I sit across from him as we talk for the next two hours about his life in Phoenix: the dry desert, cacti, its Native American culture, the Salt River Valley, and pioneer villages. Does he realize how turned on I am by him? Does he know I can listen to him for hours, immersed in his every word, hypnotized by him, whatever he tells me, lost in his voice and tone?

  We talk about other things: my boring job; his obsession with football; how I’ve been to Europe three times and loved it; how he used to be an amateur wrestler; my lack of creativity; his ambition to lift weights more and beef up his arms; my new liking with Lizzo’s music; his liking for Tom Hardy’s body, minus the tattoos. And our conversation continues and continues and continues until…

  “Hello?…Hello?” a female calls outside the garage. The woman sounds familiar, but I can’t put a face to her, or recognize the glimpse of her curvy frame. I’ve heard her voice before but I just can’t place her. “Mike, are you in there?” She taps on part of the Nova’s body: knuckles meet metal three times. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  “Mike? Sweetie, are you hiding from me? Are you in there, sweetie?”

  “I’m back here, Honey!” Tool calls out.

  Honey Hertzer. Of course this is who visits. Our neighbor who lives across the street from the pedophile, Pastor Bob. She finds her way into the garage. There’s very limited light inside the garage and Honey becomes a tall, big-boobed shadow in a pair of stilettos as she closes in on us. She has her blonde hair pulled up into pigtails and she sports Daisy Dukes and a snug, light-colored half-tank, which shows off her flat tummy. A diamond shines in her navel. She giggles, “There are probably a million little spiders that will bite me in here. I’m a damsel in distress. How ghastly. How dreadful. A big, muscle-man like you, Mike, needs to protect me.”

  “You’ll be fine, Honey. Come on back.”

  Once she reaches our twosome, she leans over, nuzzles her hefty breasts in Tool’s face, and kisses the top of his head. “Sweetie, how are you? I haven’t seen you in the last few days. Tell me everything is fine.” When she pulls her girlie parts away from his face, she applies a kiss to his left cheek, then his right cheek. She’s very handsy, just like Tool. She finds one of his massive pecs with a hand and gives it a firm squeeze. “So well-built. So meaty. I could just eat and eat and eat you up. Yum and yummy. The things I want to do to you, sweetie.”