Page 59 of Spencer's Satisfaction
“A writer?” I echo, smiling softly at him. “I didn’t know that you write.”
My boy looks down and picks off a string of cheese from the slice in front of him, but doesn’t eat it. He shrugs. “I used to.”
Treading ever so carefully, I ask, “What kind of stuff did you like to write?”
“Romance,” he admits, barely above a whisper. He bites his lip. “And fantasy.”
“Yeah?”
He nods.
“Tony, that’s wonderful.”
The snort my words earn me is self-deprecating. “You haven’t read anything I’ve written. It might be ridiculous crap.”
I laugh, half tempted to tell him that plenty of people build successful careers writing what others might consider ‘ridiculous crap’, but I know that’s not going to help here. “I doubt anything you write would be either of those things,” I insist. “And if you’re writing something you’d enjoy reading, chances are there is an audience for it out there.”
“I…um,” Tony finally looks up at me, “I’m thinking of maybe writing some Daddy/Little romances.” He flushes adorably, then goes back to picking at his slice of pizza. “Maybe. I don’t know. It’s stupid. Forget I said anything.”
Nope. Not happening.
“Who better to write about Age Play than someone who has experience with it?” I keep my tone light and gentle. “You can only try.”
“But…what if people hate it?”
Now this is something I can answer with certainty. I reach over the pizza and place my hand over his, waiting until he looks up at me again before I speak.
“There will always be people who hate your writing.” His face falls and I continue, “But that’s the same as any other book. People have different tastes and expectations and you’ll never meet them all. Look up the reviews for the classics. Plenty of one stars and DNFs there…and a bunch of five stars, too. I bet there are books you’ve read and loved that other people have hated, and vice versa.”
“What if…” he swallows, those beautiful eyes of his brimming with tears that he does his best to blink away, “what ifyouhate it?”
I can answer this with certainty, too. Even if I’ve never read his writing before. “Angel,” I squeeze his hand, “that’s impossible. I love you, and I will love anything you create. And, yes, I am biased: that’s the point. I know you. I know your brain.”
“My stupid squirrel brain,” he mutters.
“Anthony,” I frown, employing Daddy voice firmly, “you know I hate you talking about yourself like that. Your brain is just like the rest of you: sexy as fuck. And I can’t wait to get a glimpse inside it when you’re comfortable sharing your writing with me. If you’re comfortable. I won’t push you.”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. Then he sets down his pizza and gets up from his seat, rounding the table to come and drop into my lap and bury his face in the crook of my neck. I rub his back, understanding that he’s overwhelmed.
It’s a while before he speaks again, and the pizza has gone cold. Frank’s still angling for scraps, but he’s going to have to wait.
“I can’t go back to the diner yet.” Tony eventually says, resting his ear over my heart. “I…I think about going back and I feel sick.”
“You don’t have to go back.”
In fact, I’d be much happier if he didn’t. I had the distinct displeasure of meeting his boss as we collected his belongings when we left tonight, and I have a new understanding of why Tony’s always so distressed after a normal shift.
Between the stresses of having a customer facing job and that awful man as his employer, I’m impressed by Tony’s strength and resilience even more than I was to start with: something I didn’t think was possible. Still, it’s not my place to make that decision for him, no matter how badly I want to.
“But…how will I pay rent?”
“Well…” We’ve been dating for almost five months now, and he spends most of his time here at my house anyway. “You could move in here. With me.”
I’m expecting Tony’s reaction to that. He rears back and it’s only my hold on him that prevents him from toppling from my lap. “ButTanya. She can’t afford the apartment on her own. I can’t do that to her.”
Unbeknownst to him, Tanya’s seen this coming. Even before tonight, she’s made comments that she has a backup plan lined up for when I ‘officially steal Tony away’ from her. (Her words, not mine.) Tonight is likely going to escalate them, and she’s already texted to let me know that she understands and is glad that her brother has someone who ‘cares so fucking much’. (Also her words.)
“Why don’t you call her and work out a plan together?” I suggest, and he laughs, the tension leaving his body almost as quickly as it set in.
