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Straight Shooter (Rear Entrance Video, #3)

Riptide Publishing

"Time to come out, Austin."

Austin shot a look at his locked bedroom door, curled his lip in disgust, and returned to his biceps curls. He had nothing to say to any of his roommates right now, not even last-straight-man-standing Noah. And if Noah didn't like it, he could put on his landlord panties and hand Austin his eviction notice, because otherwise Austin wasn't doing shit.

"Seriously, Austin. Open the door." This time, Noah's knock was distinctly landlord-like.

Okay, so Austin wasn't expecting things to get this serious this fast. He gulped, dropped his hand weight with a dangerously heavy-sounding thud, took a second to check that the thing hadn't busted right through the floorboards, and finally clambered to his feet.

He still made sure he had his arms crossed and a suitably surly expression before the door opened. "What?" he barked when he and Noah finally came face-to-face for what felt like the first time since the big gay art show.

"You know what." Noah gave him a dad face. "Can I come in?"

Austin didn't make any move to get out of the way, ignoring the way Noah kept doing these abortive little trying-to-slip-around-you dekes. "Do you have to?"

"Well, I don't want to have this conversation in front of Bobby—"

"Rob," Austin corrected.

"—and I'm not sending him out for something that's your fault, so it's either in here, or on the lawn. Your pick."

Austin rolled his eyes. "Fine." He stepped aside, and Noah made his way into Austin's room, shutting the door carefully behind him. "Does the door have to be closed?"

"Yes," Noah said. "Now sit."

Austin found himself plopping down onto his bed before he even had a chance to consider refusing. Damn those deeply ingrained be-a-team-player habits of his and the way they made him respond to certain tones of voice as obediently as a golden retriever.

Noah sat down too. "So it's been two weeks."

"Since?"

"You know damn well what since, Austin. Since Bobby came out."

"Rob," Austin insisted, but even he had to admit he sounded pretty halfhearted this time.

"Bobby. His name is Bobby now, and this is exactly the kind of shit I need to talk to you about."

"So talk." Austin reached for the foot-long novelty Canucks hockey stick propped on his bedside table and gave it a couple of fidgety swings.

"I'm trying. You keep interrupting me. You think you could maybe cut that out?"

"Sure," Austin said. Whoosh, whoosh went the little hockey stick as it sliced the air.

"And could you put that fucking thing down before you accidentally hit me with it?"

Austin tossed it onto the floor. "Fine."

"So it's been two weeks," Noah said again, "since Bobby came out."

Austin didn't say anything, even though he was pretty sure his eye twitched.

He stared resolutely at the floor, refusing to look at Noah as he got on with his lecture: "And look, I'm not blaming you for being a little taken aback by the whole thing. I mean, I'm not sure I really get it myself. The guy wears more makeup than Adam Lambert, and I'm pretty sure I've seen him in high heels, but he says he's not a girl and he's not a drag queen and his boyfriend is gay. So I get that you're confused. I'm confused too. But would it be too much to ask that you take him at face value?"

Yes, actually, it would. Because it's fucking crazy, and why should I have to change when he's the one who sprung all this shit on me? But he didn't say anything.

"He's too shy to talk to you about it, but you really hurt his feelings when you stormed out of his show. And now it's been two weeks and you've pretty much stopped speaking to any of us. So I'm going to ask you straight up, Austin. Do you have a problem with gay people?"

"No!" Austin yelped, then squirmed under the pure daddishness of Noah's gaze. "I mean, no. No, I don't. Of course I don't. I was cool with Christian, wasn't I? Even played along with your whole pretend-him-and-Max-aren't-screwing act, when he first moved in, didn't I? And I'm cool with Max, too. And hell, even that Dylan guy is okay when he's not looking like he's gonna punch me in the face."

"You kind of deserve that. But fine, okay. You're cool with Christian and Max and Dylan. I'll accept that. So why not Bobby?"

"You're going to get mad at me if I say."

"I'm already mad. So spit it out."

Austin balled his hands into fists. Twisted his lips. Squeezed his eyes shut. The bottled-up feeling didn't take long to explode. "Because he's such a fucking fag."

Noah recoiled, blinking in shock, then took a deep breath. "Oookay." He cast a quick look over his shoulder, as if the pride police were about to bust down the door and arrest them both. "So, what was that about being fine with gay people, again?"

Great, now Austin felt like an asshole. "Ugh. You know what I mean. There's gay people, and then there's fags. I mean, Christian kind of walks the line a little with the sweater vests, but he's generally pretty cool. He keeps it toned down, you know? Not R—Bobby. He's right in your face with it." Austin flapped his hand on his wrist in demonstration. "Like, shit, I don't want to be seen in public with a guy in fucking lip gloss, okay? Does that really make me a bigot?"

He realized after he said it that he didn't really mean it as a rhetorical question, even though he'd phrased it as one.

Did it make him a bigot?

Noah sighed. "I don't know. I'm not an expert on this shit, I just ..." He scrubbed his face. "Bobby's my friend, and he's our roommate, and I'm sick of seeing him sneak by your room like a kicked puppy. So, look. I didn't want to do this, but here it is. Whatever your issue with him is, you need to fucking sort it out, or you need to find a new place to live."

Even though Austin had been planning for this exact eventuality, it still hurt like an elbow to the gut. "You're kicking me out?" he asked, unable to smother the pathetic insecurity creeping into his voice.

"Looks like it." Noah didn't make eye contact. His voice was cold.

"But I've lived here longest out of anybody here other than you!"

"I know that. You're also the only one here being a complete fucking prick."

Really? Okay, so he'd been rude to Ro—Bobby, sure, but was the way he felt really that beyond the pale? Okay, maybe among his roommates. But that didn't mean it didn't make logical sense in, y'know, the real world. Anywhere else, most people would agree that the way Bobby was acting and dressing was weird, even if some of them didn't necessarily approve of Austin's behaviour. Hell, the guys on his team at SFU would probably have acted worse than him. If anything, Austin had been pretty considerate to make himself scarce over the last couple weeks. "So that's it, then," he said, dejected.

Noah didn't even turn from staring at the door. "Yep. Consider this your one month's notice. You've got until the first of June to either fix your attitude and make things right with Bobby, or find a new place."

Austin didn't much feel like looking Noah in the eyes just then, either. "Fine."

"Fine," Noah echoed, and stood. "Good talk."

"Yeah. Sure."

* * *

One month.

One month, one month, one month. Austin recited it to himself as he peeled a banana and dropped it into the blender. He wasn't even sure what it meant. One month until he was out of this gay hellhole? One month until he was homeless and friendless? One month to clean up his act and get his head on—ha!—straight?

A scoop of protein powder. A big blob of peanut butter. Flax seeds.

Buzz. Pour.

He didn't know. Well, at least he had a month to figure it out.

His first instinct was to cut and run, hit Craigslist and find a new place to live pronto. A month wasn't long to look, and his budget was, uh, about a third of the price of even the worst housing Vancouver had to offer, but he might be able to manage it if he got creative. And relaxed his already low standards.

Except that if he cut and run now, he had a feeling Noah wouldn't be giving him any glowing recommendations.

Stays to himself, doesn't party, pays rent mostly on time—and he's a homophobe, because that's what we're calling it now.

Well, maybe Noah's bad review would be good, in the eyes of some.

If Austin felt like rooming with a bunch of Bible-thumper types. He groaned as he grabbed his gym bag and headed out the front door, protein shake in hand. Wasn't there a middle ground between accepting everything and everyone and being one of those assholes with the GOD HATES FAGS signs? The question gave him something to distract him while he waited for his bus.

The guys on his team, he'd concluded by the time he took his seat. Insulting gay guys was pretty much expected on the ice, after all. Maybe one of them had a room going. If SFU had fraternities like a normal university, this wouldn't even be a problem. Austin would have been well settled in a frat house by now with a couple peon pledges to do his bidding. Instead, he was about to get kicked out of the gayest house in Vancouver if he didn't learn how to magically be cool with a dude in lip gloss and a bra.

Speaking of gay, if he got kicked out of the house would he lose his job at Vancouver's gayest porn store, too?

Not that it paid all that well, and the novelty of working there had definitely worn off since they'd gotten rid of the normal straight-dude porn in favour of lesbian autobiographies and dirty gay comics about motorcycle gangs. But that didn't mean he wanted to get fired because of Rob. Bobby. Whatever.

For a while there it had been kind of cool working at a porn store. Free porn. Talking about sex with female customers, some of whom had this habit of getting real candid when they told him about their taste in vibrators and crotchless panties. And as far as the guys on his team went, it was probably the only minimum wage job they'd ever be remotely proud of him for having. Sure, they ribbed him as much as a guy flipping burgers or selling electronics, but there was an air of grudging respect there, too, if only for the pure fucking balls it took to work such an out-there and embarrassing job.

He wondered if the same respect would come into play if they knew it was now a gay porn store. Not like he was planning on telling them, but it did kinda make him think. Could he really move in with people he couldn't trust to be cool about such a dumb and basic part of his life? He'd seen what that kind of bullshit paranoia had done to Christian, after all. Turned the guy completely fucking squirrelly, that's what.

But if he got fired at the same time he got kicked out, would it even be an issue?

Could they fire him? Maybe they'd expect him to quit.

No, because if Bobby was working at the store and uncomfortable with Austin's "homophobia" in that setting too, then Christian's aunt would be well within her rights to fire Austin just for that. His eviction from the house wouldn't even come into play.

But damn, that was cold. Put a guy out on his ass and cut off his income? He'd have to really kill it with the grades this semester so he didn't lose any scholarship money.

Speaking of which, his bus was pulling into the campus loop now. He had an hour and a half in the gym with a few of the other guys, time for a shower, and then it was off to his summer classes, filling all those credit hours he couldn't take during the regular season when he practically lived on the ice. Summers sucked. Hours and hours of drills, no games, and academics? And now roommate drama on top of it all. Shit.

When Austin hopped off the bus from downtown, their left wing forward Drew was just getting off his bus from Coquitlam, his SFU Athletics duffel bag over one shoulder. He gave Austin a bleary wave. Hungover, probably. The guy couldn't resist thinking summer equalled drinking time, even though in a way summer was more hard work than normal. And did he really think Coach wasn't watching them all, taking note of their off-season behaviour? Not to mention the fact that slacking on summer training meant Drew would let the whole team down when fall rolled around. Austin wasn't spending this much time in the gym and jogging and choking down fucking protein shakes and five-egg breakfasts for fucking fun.

"Hey," Austin said, unable to keep his frustration out of his voice. "Late night?"

"That obvious?" Drew asked. The guy had huge dark circles under his eyes, still fucking smelled like booze, not to mention had the vague stain of permanent marker he hadn't quite scrubbed off one temple. Distinctly dick shaped, Austin might add. Not that he was about to mention it. Nope, he'd let Drew walk around with dick face all day, as punishment for his sins against the team.

"Uh, yeah." Austin snorted. "You gonna be able to keep up with me today, or am I gonna have to ask one of the girls on the ellipticals to step in for you?"

"Ha-ha. Looking for a convenient excuse to partner up with someone more your speed, ya fuckin' pussy?"

The familiar insult gave Austin the same sick, involuntarily twinge as it had given him since puberty, but at least now he was pretty well practiced at smothering it. Which didn't help how fucked up it was to have to be practiced with something so twisted, but anything was better than the alternative. "More like looking for a convenient excuse to look at some tits on my spotter instead of smelling your balls all day," he replied without missing a beat.

See? Smothered.

Austin was fine, totally fine. He could definitely live with some of his teammates if push came to shove. His suddenly gay lifestyle—Rob's makeup and the leather daddy comic books at Rear Entrance Video and Christian and Max making out on the same couch he sat on to play video games—hadn't quite tainted him yet. He was still in control. He was.

"Don't lie. You fuckin' love the smell of my balls, pussy boy."

Shit. Maybe Austin wasn't quite as well practiced at smothering his reactions as he thought. Shit, shit, shit.

You fuckin' love the smell of my balls, pussy boy.

He paused mid-crunch to shudder in reaction to that familiar, heady mix of nausea and horniness that had dogged him for years. Pictured himself on his knees, leaning in—

No, fuck no, he was not doing this here and now.

He grimaced and clenched his abs, forcing his back off the floor. It fucking hurt. His abs spasmed like they'd been electrocuted. At least his uncooperative dick softened a bit.

The workout schedule for that day was gruelling: crunches and side planks and squats and one-legged Russian dead lifts, and it still wasn't tough enough for Austin. Maybe it would have been, if he hadn't had that exchange with Drew, or if he'd at least reacted to it better, but now that the not-so-proverbial hammer had dropped, there could be no mercy.

He'd doubled up on his reps, which ate into his allotted time for rests, but fuck it. He'd upped the weight on the dumbbells. He'd huffed and puffed, muscles screaming with strain, body running with sweat, but he hadn't let himself stop. He wanted to hurt. Wanted to wake up tomorrow morning still hurting; the kind of hurt you didn't forget.

Beside him, Drew half assed his way through the same sets, occasionally pausing between wussy shallow squats to give Austin a bug-eyed look.

It's called putting out an effort, he wanted to say, You should try it.

Except he really had no right to talk. Oh, sure, busting ass like this looked good to the rest of his team—especially Warren Phillips, newly promoted to team captain—but it was all a lie. As hard as he was pushing himself, hockey was the last thing on his mind right now. After all, if he was really thinking about his game, he'd be working out smart instead of working out hard. But he wasn't chasing power or endurance or flexibility, all important qualities on the ice.

He was chasing pain.

Punishment.

Sometimes it felt like he'd spent his whole life punishing himself. Cold showers to start with, as stereotypical as it was to take one when you were turned on but didn't want to be. Banging his head against hard surfaces, although that was more an impulse thing than a planned punishment. Which led to a short-lived affair with cutting himself, always on the inner thighs so he wouldn't have anybody asking questions. The fact that his chosen spot was so close to the source of all his troubles, well, that was just a bonus.

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Excerpted from Straight Shooter (Rear Entrance Video, #3) by Heidi Belleau, Sarah Frantz. Copyright © 2014 Heidi Belleau. Excerpted by permission of Riptide Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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