Bad Idea

by Damon Suede

“So when you do love him, what’s it feel like?”

  “Hmmph.” Trip squinted. “Tough.”

  “Tough?”

  “No, it’s good. Crazy. I feel like I’m the Incredible Hulk, only instead of angry making me grow, it makes me happy, and every time I see him, I get bigger and bigger till I can’t even scare myself anymore.”

  “Yeah. Maybe. I think he’s pretty cool.”

  Silas built monsters, which made him an instant demigod to a fourth grader. “Me too.” Trip had a flash of what Max would be like as a grown-up: no-nonsense but funny as hell. Married to a bossy girl who laughed at his jokes. A loving dad, a loyal friend. Jillian and Ben knew their shit. He wanted them to have another kid. The world needed saving.

  Trip raised Venom’s bulging arms so the little slobbery villain seemed to be asking for a hug.

  Max favored them with a side-eye. “He doesn’t sit on his butt.”

  Did he mean Venom or Silas? Or both.

  The doorbell rang and Max sprang to his feet. “Got it!” His sneakers thumped into the hall.

  A young female voice. “Hey, Max.” Selene called out as she entered the hall, running late as usual: “Mrs. Stone, I’m here. Fog screwed up the trains.” The babysitter clocked Max’s movie selection with no small amount of skepticism.

  Creaks from the staircase. Trip emerged into the hall as Silas came down, a little dazed but none the worse for wear. He rolled his shoulders, smiling.

  Rina poked his back, descending behind him. “Wait till you see those goblin costumes.” Max’s class was doing a play for the end of the school year. “Your boyfriend is a genius, pa.”

  “Which means I’m gonna seem like Supermom.” Jillian’s eye makeup had also changed, though Trip couldn’t say exactly how. Her eyes looked luminous and predatory.

  “You don’t need a cape to be a hero.” Silas clomped down the stairs. He reached Trip and slid a strong arm around his waist.

  Trip stayed put and tried to enjoy the warm muscle beside him. Who cared whether some high school putz thought gay people were gross?

  The grown-ups gathered in the hall under Max’s baleful glare.

  Jillian hugged him. “Night, kiddo. Don’t drink all the scotch.”

  “You wish.” The nine-year-old snorted and shuffled into exile. A DVD menu roared and slobbered.

  “Car service is here.” Silas headed out the front door, but the ladies hung back a moment.

  “Bellaco,” Rina mock-whispered. “That is some sweet meathead you snagged.”

  “I like him. Ben likes him. What’s not to like?” Jillian shrugged, a community theater yenta to her marrow.

  “He’s not a meathead. He’s meat-y.” The words came out defensive. “He goes to the gym, is all. He’s just as dorky as I am.”

  They laughed at him. Laughed! “Bitches,” Trip grumbled and crossed his arms. “Will you please tell Mr. Stone we’re gonna be late?”

  Jillian brayed up the stairs. “Benjy!”

  “Yes, woman!” Her husband clomped down wearing a fresh shirt and an apologetic aura. He tugged his lower lip down. Blue-black letters showed stark on the wet pink flesh, “JILLIAN.” For their tenth wedding anniversary, Ben and Jillian had gone to a tattoo parlor to write each other’s names inside their lower lips in block capitals that pressed against their teeth. Every time they kissed deeply their names slid together, which seemed simultaneously gross, crazy, and sexy as hell. Trip thought about the “BENJAMIN” inside her mouth where no one could see it. No one needs to. Showing her the tattoo was one of his Neanderthal straight-boy signals for saying “love” to Jillian.

  Selene shrugged in the doorway of the living room, obviously unimpressed by signs of love you couldn’t wash off. “Eleven?”

  “Or earlier. Call if there’s anything.” Ben pecked his wife and picked up his keys from the hall table.

  Rina peered out the door after Silas. “Whaddayathink?”

  “Silas? High score. Tick-sational.” Ben tucked his wallet into his jeans. A proud papa smile. His caterpillar eyebrows levitated as he deployed his Tick voice again. “He has a three-pound brain, and it’s all smarts. Where’d he go?”

  “Outside with the car.”

  “I’m telling you.” Jillian fluttered her lashes. “Hot mensch. All the way from whistlin’ Dixie.” Knowing side-eye to Trip. “Jeepers Creepers.”

  “Gate of Horn, man. He’s a keeper.” Ben thumped Trip on the shoulder.

  Silas stuck his head back in the front door. “Ready?” He smiled sweetly at Trip.

  Rina looped her arm through his, and Jillian took the other one. “Losers weepers.”

  17

  FUCK the red carpet. No way was Silas willing to share Trip looking like this.

  Tonight was the affiliate party for Undercover Lovers. About six, Silas buzzed his boyfriend in so Trip wouldn’t have to dig out the key he’d never used. They always slept at Trip’s, either because it was nicer or because certain people had a not-so-secret phobia about unfamiliar spaces. Down the hall, the elevator cranked to life, and even that made Silas smile. A week since Evil Dead; they hadn’t seen each other in three days, and for the first time in his life that felt like a major fucking deal.

  He waited for the elevator’s cheerful ping. Seeing the suit was gravy.

  Now, Silas was used to seeing Mr. Spector in cargo pants and stretched T-shirts. When he opened the door, the suave figure in charcoal wool seemed like a stranger. Trip faced away from the door, his hair freshly cropped. The jacket draped easily on his lean frame. He looked like a dapper rogue from the pulps: a playboy detective with a sword cane and a secret identity.

  “Oh!” Trip turned and ended the call on his phone. “Sorry. That was rude. I was calling you. Hi.”

  “Don’t apologize to me. Dressed like that?” Silas bugged his eyes and pulled Trip close. “Unph. You needta suit up way more often.”

  Trip tried to back away and grimaced. “Yeah. No.”

  “Just saying.”

  “I feel like such a tool.”

  Silas brushed his shoulders and lapels. “Rrrsh. Sheesh.” He squeezed his junk. “I’m wooding up, Mr. Spector. Have a feel.” He nudged forward, and his stiffening cockwad brushed Trip’s knuckles.

  “Hey!” Trip laughed nervously and twisted away to head back toward the elevator. “We’re gonna be late.”

  Who cares?

  To follow Trip in the suit proved almost as good as the full frontal. Silas kept his hands to himself, but as soon as the elevator came, he pushed Trip against one wall for a kiss.

  “You look handsome.” Trip pushed him away gently but definitely. “Thanks. For inviting me. I promise to not be a freak.”

  “Hey. I don’t give a goddamn about any of that.”

  “Quit.” Trip ran a finger under his collar. “You’re making me self-conscious. I’m already nervous about all these showbiz types.”

  “Tonight? Don’t sweat any of it. These parties are purely for promo. A lot of people in T-shirts.”

  “Wait.” Trip’s wary eyes widened again. “Am I overdressed like this?”

  “Not for me.”

  Scowl. “Goolsby. Should I have worn a T-shirt?”

  “The PAs, I meant. I’m doing a bad job of telling you that you look gorgeous.” He smiled and kissed Trip’s frown. “We’re fine. The talent and the suits glam out for the cameras.”

  “Cameras?” Trip blanched.

  Shit. Wrong turn.

  “Red carpet BS. We can skip all that noise. Besides, the paparazzi only want the actors for E! and the tabloids. The party is really for the affiliates.” He sensed that nothing he was saying was helping. “I only want tonight to be fun. We leave whenever.”

  “I’m gonna stick close, if that’s okay.”

  “You better. I just wanna show you off. Jee-sus.”

  Trip wagged his head. “Sorry. I’m being a mutant. I don’t do great in crowds. As long as you don’t drag me in front of any cameras, I’m good.” />
  “Scout’s honor. I want you all to myself.” When they got downstairs, they were alone in the lobby, and Silas took Trip’s hand and squeezed it, careful to let go before they got outside onto Seventeenth. “We’re gonna have a blast. Showtime picked them up for season four, so it’ll be super-relaxed.”

  Overhead a storm was brewing, and the air crackled with electricity.

  They took a cab to the Fifth Avenue party space, only to get stuck in the event traffic. They opted to hop out on Twenty-Fourth Street and walk east, past a line of dark sedans that disgorged folks in expensive party clothes. A searchlight humming out front stabbed the curdled clouds.

  Trip checked him out and nodded. “This feels very grown-up.”

  “Well, I promise to be very immature to make up for it.”

  A clump of star-watching civilians stood outside the lobby. How do they know? Only zealous PR firms could explain the public’s psychic ability to track down these events anytime, anywhere, faster than the speed of tweet.

  They passed security and then took an elevator to the top floor.

  Silas jogged his keys in his pocket. “You good?”

  Trip flashed a petrified smile. “So not my world.”

  “Not mine, either. I just slap makeup on these yahoos.” He winked. He suspected the situation scared Trip more than the crowd. Once Trip got his bearings they’d have a kick-ass time.

  As Silas had predicted, the “velvet rope” was a staged area off to one side with cameras aimed at the overlit strip of symbolic red carpet.

  “Jeez.” Trip walked so close their arms bumped.

  Silas scanned the entrance. “We don’t even have to run the gauntlet. That’s for the actors.” Fuck. He’d forgotten about Lance and Barney and all the others. He didn’t need shit from any of his past conquests, real or imaginary. Well, he’d stay close to Trip. “Thank you for doing this. It means a lot.”

  The door whores claimed their invite, then waved them through. Trip relaxed the moment they stepped into the dim hallway. With a cautious arm at his back, Silas steered him… not quite embracing him, but making it clear they were a couple.

  Silas didn’t want to exacerbate Trip’s unease, so he didn’t take his hand again. Trip still got hinky about public affection when there were too many witnesses; private meant private.

  “A lotta people,” Trip whispered. “Just don’t take off.”

  “Cross my hard-on, Mr. Spector.” Silas navigated a path through the buzz of conversation and the soundtrack for Undercover Lovers seasons one and two throbbing through the speakers.

  Silas waved at Paul and Tiffany, eating at a table on the mezzanine with a couple of the set dressers. He avoided the food at these things anyways, but with Trip, he’d much rather take him somewhere they could actually eat real food. Hard enough to get him to ingest actual nutrients.

  “Shit.” Trip bent his head and sniffed at his pit with thinly veiled panic. “I think I stink.”

  “You’re fine.”

  “I shoulda showered again, but I lost track of time.”

  Silas leaned in and inhaled. “You smell fucking delicious, Mr. Spector.”

  Trip blushed. “C’mon.”

  The party clocked in on the inexpensive side, a large wedding space scattered with gold bamboo chairs and cocktail rounds lit by spots. Neither Showtime nor the producers wanted to waste money to impress a bunch of suits from the burbs. Still, the music was solid, and the affiliates seemed younger and hipper than usual.

  On one side, they’d set up a sound booth, next to a small dance floor filled with a lot of straight people who danced like they were afraid their asses might fall off. On the other end stood a small stage with a podium and ten-tops, where older people ate and yakked.

  Silas had a hunch they wouldn’t stay long. “See anybody you recognize?”

  Trip gritted his teeth and peered around before he shook his head. “No. Should I?”

  Silas laughed. “Hardly. Hell, I work on the show, and I don’t know some of these people. I’m always in the trailer. All I see is actors, and at this kinda deal, they’re busy trying to score points with the buyers for these local channels. Next season, next show.”

  “I guess I don’t watch much TV.” Trip waved a hand at the room. “I mean, I’ve watched some of the superhero shows outta loyalty, but I get bored too quick.”

  Silas signaled to a waiter. “Mostly, television is like bubblegum. I mean, there’s flavor and you’re chewing, but there’s no nutritional value.”

  Trip didn’t disagree.

  “And it blows. Perfect for when you wanna turn your brain off.”

  “What about The Tick?”

  “That is art, my man.” Silas gasped in fake offense. “Timeless genius. That show was so great, television couldn’t contain it!” He snickered.

  Trip laughed with him. There’s my guy. “I can never keep track of when things are on, so I always miss episodes. Reruns, sure, but it’s kinda noise. I’d rather watch movies.”

  “I’m telling you, The Tick can fix anything.” Then Silas spoke under his breath. “You doing better?”

  “Much. Thanks.” Trip eyed the lethargic dance floor warily. “I’m not really a big party person. Shocking, I know.”

  “’S’okay.” Silas rubbed his back in a small circle, secretly pleased to be able to touch him in public. Tonight felt important on a lot of levels. Sharing his work, braiding their lives. Once Trip had met some of his friends, everything would feel less unnerving to him. Baby steps.

  “Any parties, really. My family made such a production out of everything. Dinner—always—special. Vacations—a production. Every shirt I owned, every gift I got, gave my mom a reason to cry and perform her generosity and sacrifice for an audience. So I learned to keep my yap shut.” Trip shuddered.

  “Well, shy I ain’t.” Silas tugged his arm. “Stick with me, Mr. Spector.” Silas spotted Leigh Ann, Francesca, and Benita getting frisky on the dance floor. Saved. His ladies had loved Trip on his brief Silvercup tour; they’d carve out a safe space. “There we go.”

  Following his line of sight, Trip tightened up again, gnawing on his lip. “Friends?”

  “The best, I promise. You’ll love ’em.” Silas put a hand on the sweet curve of Trip’s lower back to help pilot him through the crush. So far, so ghoulish. They’d only stay an hour, long enough for Trip to meet and mingle.

  “At a party, I thought there would be more… I dunno, partying.” Trip grinned.

  “Just my crafty plan to get you into a beautiful suit so I can blow you in the john.”

  Trip blanched and gauged their surroundings, but no one had heard.

  “’S’okay.” Silas needed to walk on lightbulbs for the rest of the night. No joking.

  “Gools-bee!” A high voice echoed in the lobby, and Silas turned to spot an expensive-looking waif wending his way.

  Oh shit.

  Gabriel was a lighting designer who’d ended up in television after he graduated: cute as a button but very possessive. Nowadays he worked as Best Boy on smaller shoots because he was tactful and sharp as mustard.

  Silas had picked him up at a charity bash, a dance for some disease. Their similar coloring—golden skin, dirty blond hair—made people mistake them for brothers, which Gabriel had encouraged shamelessly. That kinky roleplay had been hot for about two weeks—behind closed doors—and then had gotten weird fast when Gabriel introduced Silas as his actual biological brother and then invented fake parents for them. Silas lost his number after that.

  Trip vibrated with barely concealed agitation.

  “I thought that was you. Hi, guy.” Gabriel slowed to a saunter as he got closer. His eyes flicked over Trip’s hands on Silas. Instantly his hard charm snapped on. “Great to see you, bro. You must be….”

  “My boyfriend.” Silas exhaled. Why the hell had they come to this thing? Oh yeah. ’Cause he wanted to show off to— “Trip Spector, this is Gabriel Irwin, who lets there be light.” Silas put
a possessive arm over Trip’s shoulders.

  Gabriel stared at Trip as if dissecting his shoes, his suit, his deodorant, and his buzz cut. No doubt he could price the entire outfit, head to toe.

  “Nice to meet you.” Trip shook the offered hand but didn’t seem to notice Gabriel’s scrutiny. Maybe he ignored it.

  “Gabriel?” A skinny marketing wonk snapped her fingers in their direction. She wore a gold dress with Dolman sleeves that made her look like a Wiccan at a cotillion. “One of the packs is dead.”

  Silas pushed his chin in her direction and jogged Gabriel’s elbow. “You’re being summoned.”

  “Fuck a duck.” Gabriel semismiled at them before he answered the summons.

  “Gabriel’s the production’s Best Boy. Lighting admin, sort of.”

  Two spots of color bloomed high on Trip’s cheeks, but maybe that was the heat of the room. “Best Boy?”

  “He wishes.”

  Silas skirted table six, occupied by most of the show’s writing staff—already drunk and ornery. All of them wanted to be executive producers, and all of them had projects of their own waiting in the wings.

  Art is a hard dollar.

  Silas prayed the guilt and panic had faded from his face. He searched for the ladies again. There: Francesca and Benita in deep conversation by one of the speakers and Leigh Ann playing the meat in a sandwich with two flexible gentlemen. Silas gently herded Trip in their direction.

  They would be fun compatriots, and they’d put Trip at ease. Plus they’d help fend off all the assholes. Come to think of it, the idea of these bozos hitting on Trip gave him a shaky, hollow feeling. Silas didn’t want any more awkward ex sightings. Fat chance.

  Oh shit, Barney. He didn’t need a drunk Barney making a sloppy play in his direction, or Trip’s. Benita would scare him off. In less than a month, she’d gotten a reputation for calling stooges on their crap.

  Was it dumb to drag Trip so far out of his comfort zone just to show him off? Stupid. They needed to be a part of each other’s lives, right? To calm himself, Silas admired the lines of Trip’s suit and imagined taking it off him when they got home. Outside the windows, a spectacular view of the Flatiron District. The sullen sky refused to spill its cargo.