Like one day, almost a year ago, when I was supposed to be doing research on Rembault Framing and, instead, spent the afternoon and early evening ploughing the tight ass of some visiting dignitary from Belgium or Sweden or some-fucking-place. He was hot, built, about 8 inches cut, and the only English words he could speak were dirty ones.

Then I went to Woody’s, insulted Ted, teased Emmett, and indulged myself with a dozen tequila shooters. At some point, there might have been E. And weed. I ended up at Babylon and paid a visit to the backroom, where someone with a very talented tongue flawlessly capped off my evening.

Basically, it was my idea of a perfect day.

Except I was too wasted to drive myself home, and the streetlights were shining in triplicate outside the club, and the brick wall, rough against my shoulder blades, was the only thing keeping me upright. Mikey was doing his once-yearly family thing in the Poconos so he was no fucking help, and apparently I lost my mind because calling Lindsay to pick me up seemed like a very logical alternative.

She showed up with her very sensible brown coat buttoned up over pyjama bottoms with cartoon cows on them. I asked about bulls and she didn’t hit me with her very reliable car. She dragged me home, called Mel to reassure the bitch that we hadn’t died in a fiery crash, then dropped me into bed. She perched on the edge of the platform, all golden hair and breathy smile, and told me the same bullshit she’d been spewing for months -- that we were both young, and hot, and sexy, and we’d make a fucking gorgeous baby, and it was a shame to let my premium genetics go to waste.

She told me that a child would give me immortality.

I found myself agreeing.

I blame the tequila. And Mikey. If he hadn’t gone to the Poconos, he would have been there to drive me home and my sperm would never have seen the inside of a glorified turkey baster and none of this would be happening.

Now... I have a child.

It’s a litany that keeps repeating on a loop in my brain, as I watch the kid -- Justin? Yeah, Justin -- lacing up his Nikes and flinging his plaid shirt back on. Jesus, hasn’t plaid been outlawed by now? And I have a child. Car keys are in my pocket, and I have a child. Mikey’s waiting, and I have a child.

Justin doesn’t say a word as we peel down the street. He just sits with his hands in his lap, folded neatly, and watches the scenery fly by. I look again, and yeah, his hands are placed just a little too precisely. He’s still hard, his cock noticeably pressing against his fly. Fuck, to be seventeen again.

I smirk and turn my attention back to the road. I have a child. Not that I want anything to do with the kid; not that I’ll even see it unless it’s with Lindsay sometime. It. Fuck, I have a child, but what do I have?

Mikey’s gonna ask -- it’ll be the first thing out of his mouth -- and I don’t know. Just didn’t think to ask. What the fuck do I care, anyway? It’s just a baby. I’ll pat it on the head, give Lindsay a kiss, tell Mel to fuck off, and be out of the hospital in fifteen minutes. Don’t know what I’ll do about Justin. Being surrounded by dykes and squalling infants would put a damper on anyone’s sex drive, even mine, not to mention that the kid already ruined my duvet.

I shift into second and feel the pressure on my leg at the same moment. I glance down to see Justin’s hand on my thigh.

I skim my eyes over to him, but he’s got his face turned partially away, staring out the side window. But his fingers squeeze, grip and relax, and my eyes dart between him and the road, waiting for him to look at me. He’s sitting ramrod straight, body tense, and then he shifts and turns toward me just as we hit the red light.

Rub. Grip and relax. Rub. His hand slides just a little to the left, fingertips barely brushing my denim-covered cock.

I press my lips together and let my eyes drift back to the road. The red light stares, unblinking. Justin’s gaze is fixed on his hand, his brow furrowed, as though the hand is moving of its own volition and he’s an innocent bystander. Rub. Grip and relax.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I say conversationally, rolling my head towards him.

He jerks his head up guiltily, looking like a kid caught ogling forbidden candy in the confectionery window. And he blushes. Fuck, he blushes. He catches his lower lip between his teeth, chewing on it for a moment as he glances down at his lap, but he doesn’t move his hand. Rub. Grip and relax. Then he raises his head and meets my eyes.

“I’m... seducing you?”

I bark out a laugh and Justin ducks his head. But he still doesn’t move his hand, and he watches me from under lowered lashes, and fuck, he’s beautiful. Beautiful in the way of a museum piece behind protective glass, always safe from unclean hands.

And I know I’m going to take him home again. Take him and teach him what it’s like to have a cock up his ass. Fuck him until he screams my name.

He’ll never forget me. Maybe that’s my fucking immortality.

But now I wrap my hand around his neck and pull him to me, tease his lips open, and suck on his tongue until he moans into my mouth and squirms in the seat. He’s glassy eyed and panting when I pull away, smirking.

“You know,” he says, a little breathlessly, pressing his damp palms against my chest, “your shirt is buttoned wrong.”

The light has turned green and Mikey is waiting and I have a child, but I just raise my eyebrow and wait. Justin’s hands are shaking slightly as he leans over me to fix the buttons, and I amuse myself by nipping at the shell of his ear and feeling the shivers race along his spine.