Wild and Precious: An M/M Friends to Lovers Romance

by CJane Elliott

  Bette snorted. “Well, that’s bound to upset your three different girlfriends, seeing as how they all think they’re your one true love.”

  Unconcerned, Cody kept chewing. “They all know we aren’t committed or exclusive, or at least they should.”

  “Um hmm,” Bette said in her Southern drawl. “Tell them that when they show up here weepin’ and carryin’ on.”

  “Such a heartbreaker,” Aurora agreed.

  “Come on, guys. Help me out here. I don’t really know where to start, since I never got into the gay scene when I moved here. I mean, I was with Eliza, and that was gonna be it for me, so that wouldn’t have been cool.”

  “What’re you looking at us for?” Aurora asked. “We’re lesbians, we’ve been together for five years. We’re the most boring people you know.”

  Bette laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far, babe. Come on, we can think of someone for Cody. Hmm… whatever happened to Terry? Wasn’t he single last time we saw him?”

  “Moved to Cleveland. I told you, we’re hopeless. How about a gay bar?”

  Cody rolled his eyes. “Do I have to?”

  “Grindr?” Bette suggested.

  “God, no,” Cody said, affecting a shudder.

  Aurora frowned. “Okay, what about a dating website? Match.com has a section for same-sex dating.”

  “Okay. I mean, why not? Can you guys help me write an ad?” Cody stretched with a lazy smile, watching Bette and Aurora run around, arguing with each other about what his ad should say. As with all new endeavors, once he’d decided, Cody was ready to throw himself in with enthusiasm. But if others wanted to do the work for him, all the better.

  Bette, being the practical one, got out pad and pen and started filling out the basics, while Aurora paced, then said, “Aha! We’ve got to make this classy.” She went over to a small bookshelf crammed with books left by the previous owner.

  “Classy? You’re not gonna find anything classy in that old pile of crap,” started Bette, but Aurora shushed her, pulling out a slim volume with a triumphant look.

  “Here we go! Poetry! Mary Oliver, love her.” She started turning the pages. “Oh, yeah, now, this is good.”

  “Poetry?” said Cody doubtfully. “I don’t know….”

  “No, no, this is good. You put some poetry in there, and you get someone who can read, and all. Okay, let me find something.” Aurora resumed pacing while she peered at the book.

  “Watch you don’t run into the wall, sugah.” Bette tapped her pen on the desk as she reviewed her writing. “All right, so you say you’re looking for ‘friends and lovers.’ SWM, of course, or should it be GWM, or BiWM? We’ll have to check the site.”

  “Friends?” Cody asked.

  “Well, some of these dudes may be shy, especially these literary types.”

  “Or bi-curious,” Aurora said.

  “Jeez. Okay, if you say so.” Abandoning his chair, Cody picked up his hammer and returned to the wall. “Keep up the good work and let me know—”

  “Found it!” yelled Aurora. “Come look at this! It’s called ‘The Summer Day.’”

  Joining her, Bette and Cody leaned over the book as Aurora read the poem aloud. “Oh, and this last line is killer. All about your wild and precious life. That’s deep.”

  Bette clapped her hands. “Perfect! The whole poem is too long, so we’ll just stick that last line in.” She pointed at Cody. “Sounds like something you’d say. Grab your laptop, honey, we’re gonna get on that website and get you going.”

  “Excellent.” Cody reached for his messenger bag. “Hey, and are you guys coming to my concert at Jammin Java? It’s tomorrow night.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it, sugah.”

  Chapter Four

  Brent sat in the Monday staff meeting, glad for the air conditioning. It was another perfect summer day in mid-July, which, for Washington, DC, meant ninety-five degrees and muggy as hell. Graham led the lively discussion, appearing cool and crisp despite his long-sleeved shirt with the french cuffs and shiny dark blue cuff links. Cuff links. Brent couldn’t imagine ever wearing them, but Graham made them seem perfect, which was the story for pretty much anything Graham did. He was a frigging perfect human being in Brent’s eyes. Since their random lunch a few weeks ago, Brent had felt much more at ease around him. He’d started speaking up during staff meetings and had even challenged Graham on some points, which had made Graham nod at him approvingly.

  At the end of the meeting, as the staff picked up their laptops, Graham leaned over to Brent. “Can I see you for a minute?”

  “Sure.” Brent glanced at Ari, who feigned horror.

  “Uh-oh, the principal’s office,” Ari whispered, then mouthed, “Lunch?”

  “Yeah, meet ya by the elevators,” Brent said, and followed Graham to his office.

  Graham closed the door, turned to him, and smiled. “Don’t look so serious. This isn’t even about work. I just didn’t want staff overhearing us making a secret liaison.”

  “A—what?”

  Graham laughed. “Remember we talked about that new exhibit at the Hirshhorn? Well, Hunter is traveling and I’m bored out of my mind, so I wondered if you’d like to hang out with me this Sunday and see it. You’d be doing me a great service by keeping me from climbing the walls.”

  Brent brightened. “Sure, man. That sounds great.”

  He left Graham’s office with a spring in his step and met Ari by the elevators.

  “Everything okay?” Ari asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Good! I’m starving. Also, I wanna show you some new prospects on the website.”

  Brent frowned at him. “Didn’t I say I wasn’t interested?”

  “Yeah, but I think you’ll like some of these.”

  “Oy vey,” Brent muttered, which made Ari laugh.

  “Your Yiddish is terrible, you putz.”

  In the sandwich shop, Ari clicked and commented while Brent toyed with his food. He’d lost faith that this website was going to match him up with anyone compatible, but didn’t have the heart to tell Ari.

  Ari chortled. “Hoo boy, some of these are so bogus. Listen to this shit: Favorite quote: some poetry shit about a wild and precious life. What the fuck ever—”

  “Mary Oliver.”

  “What?”

  “It’s from a poem by Mary Oliver.” Brent bent over to see Ari’s computer. “What’s the rest of it say?”

  Ari peered at the screen and his face fell. “Oh, crap. Sorry, man, don’t know how I got here; this is in dudes seeking dudes.”

  Seized by a memory of Graham and Hunter, holding hands and smiling at each other, Brent grabbed Ari’s wrist to stop him from clicking away from the page.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Oh, nothing,” Brent said. “I like that poem, so I wanted to see it.”

  “Oh. Suit yourself. I gotta pee.”

  After Ari left for the restroom, Brent moved his laptop closer and read through the entry. Huh. Along with liking Mary Oliver, the guy was a local musician. He didn’t look like an axe murderer, and the ad said he was interested in “friends” as well as lovers.

  At least those were the reasons Brent gave himself for noting the user ID number and writing it on a napkin before returning the computer to Ari’s side of the table.

  Chapter Five

  That Friday night, at the end of a long work week, Brent wanted nothing more than to kick back at home with a beer and Netflix. Instead, he was driving his battered Toyota down a winding road deep in the horse country of Fauquier County. He came to the wagon wheel that marked the property, according to the directions given by his brother, Darrell, and turned up the long driveway of what appeared to be quite a large estate. A valet waiting in front of the house took his car keys.

  “Um, if it stalls out, pump the gas pedal a few times,” Brent told him.

  He paused on the sidewalk, taking in the wide green lawns and Tara-like plantation house. Darrell had gotten engaged to his lon
gtime college girlfriend, Melinda Sorenson, and her well-to-do parents were giving them an engagement party. Darrell had pleaded with Brent to come, saying, “You gotta be there with me, bro. They’re making it into some fancy-ass thing with all their rich friends.”

  After straightening his tie, Brent opened the beveled glass front door. Everything sparkled, from the candles, to the brilliantly lit chandelier, to the champagne in the flutes being passed around on trays, to the diamond earrings dripping from Mrs. Sorenson’s ears.

  “Toto, we’re not in Kentucky anymore,” Brent murmured to himself.

  Before he had time to feel too out of place, someone clapped his shoulder, and there stood Darrell and Melinda, hand in hand, grinning at him. Darrell’s new suit appeared to be chafing him, but Melinda glowed with happiness in a stunning strapless dress, adding to the general sparkle with the diamond ring glinting on her finger.

  “Brent!” they cried as one and put their arms around him.

  He laughed. “You guys are too funny. Do you have to do everything together, even hug people?”

  “Of course!” Melinda exclaimed. “We’re joined at the hip, pretty soon for good. You look great tonight. If I’d known how fantastic you boys looked in suits, I’d have made you dress up a lot sooner.”

  “Wonderful,” Darrell said with a groan.

  Not knowing a soul at this fancy soiree, Brent hung out with Darrell and Melinda, content to drink a beer and watch them laugh and tease each other. Eventually Melinda broke away to wave at someone and came back with a petite, redheaded woman. She introduced her as Heather, one of her work colleagues, casting a meaningful glance at Brent as she did so.

  Oh great, a set up. Heart sinking, Brent donned an interested expression and listened to Heather talk. At least he didn’t have to think of anything to say; she chattered enough for the two of them. She also giggled a lot and put her hand on Brent’s arm with every comment she made, in between snagging glasses of champagne from the trays of passing servers and downing them like lemonade.

  As Brent tried to make sense of what Heather was saying, he felt someone’s eyes on him and glanced around. Graham stood across the room, elegant in a dark, formal suit. He raised an eyebrow and his drink at Brent, then turned back to a small group of people who seemed to be vying for his attention.

  Ignoring Heather’s cackling, which was growing louder by the minute, Brent leaned over to Melinda. “Why is he here?”

  She tore herself away from smooching Darrell. “Who?”

  “Graham Stoneford. My boss.” Brent jerked his head in Graham’s direction, trying not to be too obvious.

  “Oh, right, he is your boss, isn’t he? I forgot to tell Darrell he was coming. He’s friends with Mom and Dad because of the arts thing. You know, they like to think of themselves as patrons of the arts or something.” Melinda wrinkled her nose. “They met Graham at some benefit. They’re always talking about how witty and intelligent he is.”

  “And how gay?” asked Darrell.

  “Be quiet. So what about being gay? I think he’s gorgeous. And how many other men in Washington, DC have the balls to wear diamond ear studs and look amazing doing it?” Melinda cast a star-struck gaze in Graham’s direction.

  Diamond ear studs? Brent checked out Graham’s ears, but his attention was diverted by Heather, who leaned heavily on him, telling a drunken joke. As he tried to extricate himself from her limpet-like clinging, he caught Graham smiling at him, like he was sympathizing with his plight, and he couldn’t help smiling back.

  After a few more interminable minutes, Brent finally got away when Heather paled, lurching, put a hand over her mouth, and Melinda grabbed her to rush her to the bathroom. Sighing in relief, Brent looked around for Graham but didn’t see him. He pulled on his tie, wishing he could leave, and walked into the large kitchen to deposit his beer bottle and find something to drink that wasn’t champagne. As he straightened from the refrigerator, club soda in hand, he heard a familiar voice.

  “Having a good time?” Graham was leaning against the island, long legs crossed. He had a drink in his hand and an amused glint in his eyes.

  “Not really.” Brent made a rueful face and opened his soda.

  “How do you know the Sorensons?”

  “The groom-to-be is my brother.”

  “Darrell’s your brother? Huh. You two don’t look a thing alike. Nice suit, by the way.”

  “Glad it meets with your approval,” Brent quipped. “Don’t wanna embarrass myself in front of all these ritzy people.”

  Graham tilted his head. “I wouldn’t worry about ‘ritzy.’ People are people. Pretty much the same, no matter the trappings.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, oh master and guide to all things fabulous.”

  Graham’s laugh was so exuberant that Brent laughed too.

  “So, who’s the girl?” Graham asked, once he’d composed himself. Still lounging against the island, he took a sip of his drink, like he had all the time in the world to hang out with Brent.

  “I don’t—a friend of Melinda’s that I just met tonight.”

  “Ah. She doesn’t seem like your type, though.”

  “Uh, no. She isn’t, really.”

  “No.” Graham studied him, gray eyes intent. “Your type would need to be someone intelligent, artistic, and with a twisted sense of humor.”

  Brent lifted his eyebrows. “Twisted sense of humor? How could you tell? I thought I hid that so well.”

  Graham grinned, and had opened his mouth to respond when Darrell stuck his head in the kitchen.

  “There you are, bro. Come on, they’re starting the toasts, and I need my best man.”

  “Oh, okay.” Darrell left, and Brent said without thinking, “Fuck. Toasts?”

  “You hadn’t planned for that, huh?”

  “God, no.” Brent’s hands grew clammy. He hated public speaking.

  “You’ll do fine. Just make a joke about Darrell, you know, something funny from when you guys were kids, then say how lucky he is to have found Melinda, wish them all the happiness in the world, and, voila—a perfect best man toast.”

  “Thanks, you saved my butt. See you Sunday?”

  “See you Sunday,” Graham replied, eyes twinkling. “The Hirshhorn awaits our fabulous presence.”

  Sunday was another hot and muggy day, but Brent and Graham stayed cool hanging out in the Hirshhorn. Brent didn’t know much about modern art, and Graham proved a fascinating guide, making Brent see things in the paintings that he never would have on his own.

  After they were done with the exhibits, they went outside to stroll through the sculpture garden. As they gazed at an Alexander Calder sculpture, Brent asked, “Are you an artist too?”

  “Sort of. Not anywhere in the league of these guys. My mother is the true artist in our family. I paint and sketch some, and I love interior decorating. Shut up—I know it’s a stereotype.” Graham waved his hands around. “My God, dear, those curtains will never do!”

  “No, you shut up. I wasn’t thinking that at all. You have an eye for stuff. I mean, the way you dress, even how your office looks, so I’m not surprised about the interior decorating.”

  “You like my office?” Graham looked pleased.

  Brent raised a playful eyebrow. “Well, yeah. It’s much classier than those cubicles you stuck the staff in.”

  “Ouch. Sorry.”

  “Naw, I could have made my cubicle more colorful by now. But I don’t have your eye. Like those paintings. I saw a crap ton more in them with you showing me than I would’ve by myself.”

  “A crap ton?” Graham laughed. “That’s eloquent.” He bumped Brent lightly on the shoulder. “But thanks. I liked showing you.”

  Before they left the gallery, Graham stopped in the store and bought a striking Miró print, then presented it to Brent with a flourish. “For you. To decorate your cubicle.”

  That evening, Brent let himself back into his apartment, setting the Miró print and his keys on the table.
His laptop beckoned, but he had no desire to work on his writing. Instead, he flung himself on the couch and closed his eyes as pictures of the day floated in front of him: Graham, laughing, handsome in his casual jacket and tight jeans; Graham, pointing out something in a picture on the wall; Graham, smiling at him, gray eyes alight; Graham…. Crap.

  Brent jumped up and started pacing. After two laps around the living room, he came to a halt, nodded decisively, and grabbed his wallet, pulling out a folded paper napkin. Opening up his laptop, he navigated to Match.com, and started typing.

  Chapter Six

  Cody sipped his tea and scanned Kramerbooks from his vantage point in the Afterwords Café, looking for anyone fitting the description Brent Granger had given him. Short, he’d said. Brown hair. Hazel eyes. Pretty nondescript, except for the part about wearing a plaid shirt. You didn’t see that many plaid shirt wearers in this part of DC. And then there was that thing in Brent’s e-mail about “making new friends.” That didn’t seem very gay to Cody. Damn Bette for making him put “friends” in his ad.

  Bette and Aurora had laughed, Aurora telling him, “Just look for the bi-curious boy in plaid.”

  Bette had added, “But if he’s wearing a baseball cap backwards or chewing tobacco, run.”

  Cody fidgeted, hoping this wasn’t going to be a fiasco. They’d talked on the phone and Brent had sounded okay, his low voice laid-back, even sexy, with a hint of a Southern accent. He’d seemed interesting, too: an aspiring writer, a book lover, a music reporter for Washington/Arts.

  Cody was pulled out of his daydreaming by the sight of a short, brown-haired, stunning guy walking toward the café, gazing around uncertainly. All right! If this was Brent, he was hotter than Cody had ever dreamed he’d be, hot in an innocent, doesn’t-know-he’s-hot way. Plaid shirt!

  This is gonna be fun, Cody thought, mentally rubbing his hands together.

  The man who had to be Brent had made it through the bookstore to the entrance of the café. Cody flashed his most winning smile, lifting the Mary Oliver book from the table so the cover was visible. The guy lit up, and Cody sucked in his breath.