Page 142 of The Locker Room

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122 Amy Lane

Jack-in-the-Box

XANDER took his cell phone and called Chris as he started his run.

Chris answered, groggy, but happy to hear his voice, and said he had to

sign papers in an hour and a half, and then asked about his folks, and his

family and….

The conversation was just so normal. Xander could almost believe

that they could make it work. It would suck, but it was only six months,

right? He"d endured worse. How long had he lived with his mother

before he"d broken away? He"d been scrounging for his own clothes at

thrift stores when he was nine. He"d been getting himself off to school at

the age of seven. He had a vivid memory of trying to forge his mother"s

signature on a field-trip form at the age of six. (He had no idea how he

ended up on the field trip, but he knew his teacher hadn"t been fooled for

one damned minute). He had memories of an Operation Santa van

pulling up to his house when he was eight years old, because he"d asked

for pants that came down past his calves. They"d been appalled at the

drug mess, and had even called Social Services, but his mother had

managed to clean up her act for a visit, and they were never heard from

again.

Xander had toughed it out as a kid, right? He could endure

phenomenal amounts of pain and punishment, rattling his outsized body

down the floor as a giant-sized adult. He could do this. He could live

apart from his lover for six goddamned months, right?

Then Christian said, “Xan, mom called me about the nightmares.

She wants to take you to someone so they"ll stop.”

Xander tripped on a rock and went sprawling, sending the phone

out into the stratosphere and giving what felt like a nasty sprain to his

wrist. He finally found the phone (thank God, not in the poison oak) and

redialed Christian, feeling scratched and sweaty and irritated.

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