The Lover (It's Just Us Here Book 4) Read online

  The Lover

  Book Four of the

  Romantic Self-Portrait

  It's Just Us Here

  Christopher X Sullivan

  Published by Jester Publishing, 2019.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  It's Just Us Here: THE LOVER

  First edition. April 9, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 Christopher X Sullivan.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Written by Christopher X Sullivan.

  Contact: ChristopherXSullivan

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  BOOK FOUR: The Lover

  Dedication

  Apartment Hunting

  Lunch with Lynn

  Mini Mark

  Suhail and Nick

  Charlotte's Party

  Meeting the Rhinos

  My Kind of Camping

  Survivor

  Claude and Marty

  Hurricane Melanie

  My Psycho Side

  The Lakehouse

  Mr. Wolff

  Orchids

  Babysitting

  Men's Fashion Week

  The Lover

  Book Four of the

  Romantic Self-Portrait

  It's Just Us Here

  Christopher X Sullivan

  Published by Jester Publishing, 2019.

  Dedication

  (Me, pausing after reading the last line of the Book Three.)

  ...

  ...

  ...

  ...

  ...

  (I’m still laughing, sorry.)

  I shouldn't have ended the last installment of this self-portrait with such a shocking prophecy. My goodness gracious (you must have shouted), that doesn't make any sense!

  Fear not. While I can imagine scenarios where Mark might tie me up, we do not do the BDSM stuff. Mark is my security, strength, and he’s a pillar of my life. We alternate between dominant roles. (Mark claims that I’m always in control, but I make the opposite claim about him. The truth probably lies somewhere in the middle. He is mostly in control of our sexual hanky panky, but when I take control, I do tend to exert myself more forcefully.)

  So if you don’t like BDSM, sorry if I ruined the end of my very lengthy ‘friends to lovers’ story with that last line. I thought it was funny at the time!

  WE ARE NOW HALFWAY through the friends-to-lovers-to-domestication arc in my romance with Mark Wolff, the super vain sub-supermodel (also known as a department store catalog model). If you read the first installments of It’s Just Us Here, you will know that I have a few particular quirks... and that I only ever wanted a quasi-platonic partnership—not a lover in the traditional sense of the word.

  Mark and I ended the first installment, The Friend, as platonic friends and I was in heaven. Mark was so good to me—the best. I loved him as I had never loved another person, man or woman. I showed him my respect and affection and he returned it without hesitation. I didn't know how he could match my openness (and I wasn't about to ask him if he was asexual, because I had heard stories about how much of a slut he was). So I just went with it—and it felt like magic.

  The second installment of the self-portrait, The Companion, covered the transformation from that quasi-platonic friendship to a deeper, emotional relationship.

  The third installment, The Partner, showed our journey from an emotional friendship to a quasi-platonic partnership (with kissing!). I would have been happy to stop at the partnership stage, but Mark—as always—wanted more.

  And in this upcoming installment, he gets it.

  I knew he loved me—he knew I loved him. But I still resisted his sexual advances whenever I noticed them. If he was subtle about his approaches, they didn’t even show up on my radar and were completely ignored. If he was overt, I chafed and got prickly.

  He was so patient. He is not infinitely patient, and he is not a saint, but he kept after me and after me and after me. He knew (way before I did) that we would be perfect for each other. I, however, never thought I would be perfect for anyone. I never dreamed that I could be mildly okay for anyone.

  To those of you who are in a similar situation, who have never seen a story remotely resembling yours in all the millions of books that have been written, a romance can happen to you, too (if you even want that, but to not want it is perfectly fine as well). You will encounter a lot of jerks along the way—you will find people who cannot understand you or who do not want to understand you. Oh well. That's the way the real world works, I guess.

  This story encompasses a time in my life when I didn't identify with the LGBT+ community. I identified with the ace community, but was never an activist. The word 'asexual' helped me see myself in a better light (even if I preferred 'non-sexual', but the community uses 'asexual' so I go with it). Then I started feeling physical attraction towards Mark (minimal attraction and more aesthetic than anything), but I still refused to identify with the LGBT community. I would never, ever have gone to a meet up. Even after I adopted my son—I did not want to take on the LGBT identity.

  (I’m pretty big on not being forced into an identity.)

  Up to that point in my life, I had lived a quiet life without being discriminated against for my (lack of) sexual attraction. I had my own inner demons to deal with as a result of the entire world being organized to blare sex-related things at my poor, bemused (but sometimes existential) mind.

  I am publishing this memoir as a belated attempt to do my part as a member of the LGBT+ community and help non-ace people understand a bit of the distress that aces go through (especially related to love and partnerships). I also hope to be engaging in my narration... if you made it this far then I guess you can probably stomach my writing style. Unless you skipped to this book since this is also a valid entry point into the narrative. If that’s the case then welcome aboard! You missed a lot, but if you need sex in your books then it was probably for the best.

  This installment should be more humorous, for those of you who might be looking for that.

  So bear with me as I meander towards the truly funny stuff (or horrible, depending on your perspective). PS: There is a lot of mushiness in this section. I also act submissive to Mark. Even though he was used to acting like a tough alpha, he always hesitated with me.

  I honestly have no idea how we worked out. This memoir is as much for me to understand 'us' as it is to give you something to read about.

  Enjoy!

  Christopher Cheese Sullivan, the Straight Unicorn

  Apartment Hunting

  I led Mark up the stairs to the third floor apartment. The halls were narrow; the paint was peeling; the lights were dim.

  “Why are you taking me here?” Mark complained with a baby voice.

  “You know why. I need an apartment. This one fits the bill.”

  “You have an apartment,” he whispered. “And a man who loves you very much. I don’t want you living here. This building is falling down.”

  “Don’t be dramatic,” I dismissed his concerns and led him to unit 304, which would become my official place of residence for the next two and a half years. Even from the outside, 304 did not make a good impression... and Mark certainly was not going to like the interior.

  Mark the model. Mark the rich and famous. Everything came easy for Mark. Everything worked out right for Mark.

  We couldn’t all be Mark.

  I knocked on the door, not wanting to use the key they had given me yesterday. Suhail opened the door. “Hey man,” he said w
ith a wide smile. Suhail was Muslim, but not practicing. He was a chill guy. I had already asked if it mattered that his new roommate had a boyfriend. Suhail had dismissed my concern and Nick, the stoner roommate, basically went along with anything Suhail said.

  “Hey Suhail. This is Mark.” I wasn’t used to introducing my partner. This small act of coupledom sent tremors of pleasure through my psyche. I loved having Mark with me. I loved being able to introduce him to people (though I had yet to actually introduce him as my ‘significant other’). I loved that Mark was protective of me... well, I usually loved his protectiveness.

  Mark didn’t shake Suhail’s waiting hand. Mark, who was normally so open and fun, who was never cold to anyone (and I do mean anyone)... it was shocking to see him so blatantly recoil from a handshake.

  Mark—who was normally so handsome—looked ugly. His face was clouded. Those perfectly proportioned cheeks were set in stone. His slender, cat-like eyes scanned the apartment with disdain. He said nothing and gave my new living quarters an elitist sneer.

  I hadn’t told my lover that the lease had already been signed—I would be living with these guys for at least six months.

  “Mark,” I urged.

  Mark didn’t so much as look at me. He glared at the kitchen with its mess of dishes. He spared a glance at the tiny shared living space with barely any room for a desk, much less a couch and a TV. Mark was a human rock—a surly, ugly rock.

  “Uh... okay,” Suhail said nervously.

  “He’s not like this,” I said quickly. “Mark, the fuck are you doing?”

  Mark didn’t answer me except to glare and raise his eyebrows. We were rarely angry at each other. We often bickered, but not about substantial things. His lips (those usually thick, kissable lips) were set in a hard, thin line.

  “Fine,” I said angrily. “Be like that.” I turned to Suhail. “Where’s Nick?”

  “He’s out. He’ll be back soon.”

  “Okay. Shall I check out my room?”

  “What do you mean your room?” Mark asked darkly—it was the first thing he had said since entering the apartment.

  “I mean we’re going to check out my room.” I kept my voice even. “You can wait out in the hall if you want.”

  Mark followed me to the bedrooms and stuck his head in the first one.

  “That’s mine,” Suhail offered. Suhail's room was large, about the size of Mark’s guest room and was the largest bedroom in the apartment.

  Mark said nothing. I could feel his seething mood... like he was drilling holes into the back of my head with his angry eyes.

  We walked to the back of the apartment and found my room, which was across the living room from the bathroom. I really didn’t like the arrangement—that I’d have to walk across the living room to get to the shower. But I will be spending most of my time at Mark’s. So this doesn’t matter.

  I marched into my room and dragged Mark in after me. Suhail wisely left us alone and I shut the door.

  Mark took in the disaster area of a room. His mind had to be overwhelmed by everything wrong with the place. The floor had old, disintegrating carpet (which I would cover with a newer carpet). The walls were wooden formica panels from the seventies, which hadn’t been installed correctly and had gaps between the sheets (but could be covered with posters or fabric or pictures or just about anything). If the kitchen had been dated and dungeon-like... this room was—

  “Unacceptable,” Mark muttered.

  The overhead ceiling was a drop down, much like in the living area, except my ceiling was lower. Mark looked in the closet (if you could even call something so tiny a closet) and glanced upwards. The drop down was not installed in the closet and he could clearly see the degrading, plaster ceiling hidden by the drop down panelling.

  The original ceiling had been painted pale blue with a mural of clouds. I hadn’t noticed the original ceiling when I agreed to lease the room, but I would refurbish the plaster (by covering it with drywall) a year later when I officially moved into Mark’s apartment, but kept this bedroom as an office away from home.

  I nodded my head pleasantly and called the blue clouds ‘charming’.

  Mark was not happy with anything he had seen.

  “The ceiling is falling down,” he stated.

  “The ceiling is fine.”

  “This room is smaller than my bathroom.”

  “That’s an exaggeration.” He wasn’t that far off in his estimation.

  “That dude’s room—”

  “Suhail.”

  “—Suhail’s room is twice as big as this.” Mark expanded his arms and took up as much space as he could. “This is fucking tiny. You’ve already got a room at my place.”

  He whined and he pleaded, but I could not be swayed. In the end, I overpowered him.

  “We’re not going through this again. I need to do this on my own. I’m within walking distance of your—”

  “If you walk to my building from here, you're going to be shot!”

  “Don’t be so dramatic!” For the first time in a long time, I yelled at him—partially because he was right about the safety of this area. “I’m not going to walk around at night. We’re not going to go down the street for dinner like we do near you.”

  “I don’t want you here.” Mark crossed his arms. Thankfully he hadn’t met Nick or he would have had a lot more to complain about (like a white guy with dreadlocks).

  “Where would you want me, other than your spare room?”

  “Why won’t you just listen to me?” he pleaded. “You never listen to me. I don’t want you living here. What’s so special about this dump?”

  “This dump,” I said pointedly, “is affordable. Do you think I could afford to live without roommates?”

  “I can be your roommate! Fuck, dude! You can pay me rent if you want. Whatever these guys are offering. Pay me, and I’ll set it aside for your editing expenses. Isn’t that better? You’ll have more money to put back in your books...”

  Of course he would hit me where I was the weakest. “I have to do this on my own.” I was a stubborn man. “You’re putting on a great show, by the way. Not shaking his hand. I said we wouldn’t bring any drama. Apparently, the last guy in this room was a lot of drama.” I crossed my arms, mirroring Mark, digging in for a fight.

  “Don’t turn this around on me!” He took two steps and crossed the length of the room. “Honestly, what is so special about this place? Can’t you keep looking?”

  “It’s cheap—” Mark interrupted me with a snort, which prompted me to glare at him. Mark had grown up with a trust fund—he didn’t know what it was like to be forced to live on a budget (a real budget), much less a tight budget. “I lived in a place worse than this when I was in college.”

  “You aren’t in college anymore. You’re a grown-ass man with a partner that wants you in his bed... every night.”

  He used the word ‘partner’ again. He knew that word made me feel giddy. This guy knew how to influence me and butter me up... how to get his way.

  “That isn’t going to work on me today,” I claimed.

  “What?” Mark was suddenly playful and coy.

  “You know what.” My tartness elicited a smirk from him. “And this window is a southern exposure—”

  “What the fuck does that matter!”

  I wanted to slap him because he wouldn’t let me finish a thought. “For your information, I’m going to move as many of my plants in with me as I can.”

  “This window is fucking tiny! You’ve seen the windows in my place! You can have the whole fucking living room!”

  “Don’t be dramatic.”

  “Ugh!” He grabbed me and banged his chin into my shoulder, then groaned while leaning into my body. “You are the most stubborn man I have ever met.”

  “I’d tell you to look in the mirror, but then you’d be distracted for a couple hours.”

  “Clever.”

  I hugged him and we cooled down. Then I kissed him sweetly
on the cheek. “I love you.”

  Mark sighed. “I love you, too. But that doesn't mean I want you living here.”

  “I already signed the lease.”

  “I figured that’s what you meant when you said we were going to ‘your’ room.” He kissed me sadly. “Why did you tell me we were going to look at apartments if you already made your decision? Why didn’t you take me with you the first time you came here?”

  “Would you have been any help? It would have been just like the first time I took you apartment hunting. Which was also the last time.”

  “I said I wouldn’t be like that again.”

  “You were exactly like that for the past fifteen minutes. You sulked on the car ride over here. I was very disappointed in how you met Suhail.”

  “I don’t want you here,” Mark said again, softly.

  “I have to do this.” Did he want me to beg? “It’s important to me.”

  “It’s important to me that you're with me,” Mark said.

  “I will be with you.” Couldn’t he hear the passion in my voice? “Every night that you're in Chicago, I'll be right there with you.”

  He kissed me again and stalled for time. “I want you to be safe. And I want you to be happy.” He kissed me again on the forehead and scanned the room. “And I want you to have a bigger fuckin’ bedroom.”

  “It’s big enough for a queen bed,” I said defensively.

  “Where will your clothes go?”

  “I have plastic containers that roll under the bed.”

  “No,” he moaned. “What have I done to deserve this?”

  I playfully slapped him and we laughed at each other.

  “You know I worry about you,” he said.

  “You look out for me. I love you so much. But look, I’ll get a new carpet... I’ll cover these ugly walls with pictures or something. My bed will go in that corner.” We kissed gently and he was officially defeated.