“Not listening to Three Ugly Guys right now,” I mumble into the sheets.
He laughs and shakes his head, flipping through the pages. “No. We’re watching a movie.”
“Better not be porn.”
“Darn it.” He snaps his fingers. “Second choice, then.” He slides a silver disk from the sleeve and feeds it into the flat screen affixed to the wall. I scoot further back against the headboard, my head cradled by pillows and my body wrapped in cotton warmth while I anxiously wait to see what he selected. My bet is some raunchy comedy, or even a classic 80s flick—those would suit him—but what I don’t expect is the signature castle that appears on the screen.
“Never pegged you as a Disney fan,” I observe.
The bed is king size, and there’s plenty of room when he climbs onto the pillow top. With his back against the wall, his legs and torso are so long they stretch the length of my entire body. He stretches one arm across the back of the bed frame and I lift my head so we don’t touch.
“Lion King?” I say and he turns to smile down at me. A shiver works its way through my body and my teeth chatter in its wake.
“Still cold? Come here.” He scoots down the bed and wraps his arm around the blankets covering my body. His bicep makes a heater for my neck and he curves his elbow so his fingers find their way into my hair. It’s all surprisingly comfortable. His fingertips continue to move along my scalp. Brushing. Massaging. It feels really good.
“Hakuna matata.” He grins and his eyes find the screen again. I can’t help but notice the way his lips move with every single line. We watch in companionable silence. But once the poor lion cub’s father is killed I have to interject.
“You really like this movie?”
“Yeah. It’s what I watch when I’m sick. Always made me feel better when I was a kid.”
“Trent?”
“Yeah, Lex?”
“How did this make you feel better? This is a horrible story! The evil uncle plots and murders Simba’s dad. This entire thing is depressing.”
“Yeah, but ...”
The film continues and I assume he’s distracted with what’s on screen. I’m caught up watching it again when Trent’s voice, low and masculine, fills my ears.
“When I was a kid we didn’t have a lot. You know? But my mom picked up this movie from the dollar bin and my aunt gave us her old VHS player. Every time I was sick I had to stay home alone because my mom couldn’t afford to take the time off work.”
In my mind’s eye I can picture a younger Trent, a child, all alone and sick. It breaks my heart. “That’s horrible.”
“Nah. It was fine and I understood. She had to take care of us. She didn’t get paid if she missed work. Anyway, she set me up on the couch and I watched this movie over and over.”
“Why this movie?”
“Well, it was this orWinnie the Pooh, and come on, that shit’s for babies.” His teasing tone is back and I tilt my head to meet his eyes.
“Obviously.” I grin.
His fingers brush through my hair again and I have to close my eyes. I’m unable to hold his stare when his touch feels that good.
“My dad wasn’t ever around, so I liked that the father was always in the stars, always looking down on his son. Watching out for him, you know? It’s silly, but I always felt someone was watching out for me when it was on.”
I open my eyes to find his gaze trained on the television. “Your dad is dead?” I don’t know why I’m pushing, prying into Trent’s past when I hate when anyone does that to me, but here, in this bubble of fever induced boldness I can’t help but wonder about his story. About what makes Trent Donavan tick. When he answers, I wonder if Trent is feeling extra bold himself in the safety of this space.
“Yeah, he is now but not when I was a kid. He wasn’t around because he was a bastard of a father. My parents split before I remember. I actually used to lie and tell everyone at school he was dead instead of a deadbeat. I guess I sometimes believed my own lie.”
“I get that. It was always easier to tell my friends my dad was gone. Whatever they assumed I meant was fine by me. They asked fewer questions that way.”
“Plus, when I was a little older it helped me score pussy.”
“Trent!”
“Can you blame me? Teenage boy. Poor. Stupid. Horny. But hey, I played guitar and could kinda sing, so you bet your pretty little ass I played up the dead dad card. I worked with what I had.”
“Sounds like you were smarter than you give yourself credit for.”
His soft chuckle washes over me and we drop back into the comfort of watching the cartoon. I try to keep my lids open, to watch the entire thing, but his warmth, the comfort, and probably the drugs all help me float into the safety of restful sleep. Trent surprisingly makes a good body pillow and I don’t feel one ounce of shame for snuggling closer into his chest. His heart beats at my ear, and it’s rock steady. I’m sure I’ll regret all of this tomorrow when he won’t let me live it down, but for now ... For now, he’s just what I need.
