American Hunks
Page 6
“Colton…what a surprise,” Matt said, swallowing the heartfelt knob of emotion he felt.
“Did you think I would miss such an occasion?
Both Matt and Anton went up to him and embraced him, thanked him for being there.
“Hold off on your thanks just a moment,” he said, “Simone did mention a surprise.”
Matt looked over at his friend, his eyes begging her for what she had done. She just grinned.
“When I heard about your engagement, I couldn’t have been more thrilled,” he said, “and I would like to mark the occasion by giving you both the special day you deserve. All you have to do is name the date—leave the rest of it up to me.”
“Colton, what are you saying?”
“It means you’re going to have the most beautiful wedding imaginable, on the grounds of my villa in Cap Ferrat,” he said.
As the sound of applause swarmed around them, Matt felt light-headed, his ears unable to absorb the news they’d just heard. He hugged Colton again, so tight he could smell his fancy cologne all the way down to his pores, and whether it was the masculine, musky scent or the champagne, he felt intoxicated, so much so his knees buckled to the point that Anton had to catch him. They brought Matt to a chair, all while he protested that he was fine, just surprised…grateful. He had once spent a week at the gorgeous villa, and it offered up lush views of the majestic, blue Mediterranean as it stretched across the Cote d’Azur. There was a huge pool and a beach beyond the rocks as well, many bedrooms, a wine cellar, all the accoutrements required for a man who enjoyed the finer things in life. And now Matt realized he would be married amidst such a lush setting.
Finally, the party resumed, Colton the new star of the party. Matt wasn’t one to enjoy being the center of attention anyway, so he slipped away from his own party, leaving the cool outdoors in an effort to find a bathroom. Maybe a splash of cold water was what he needed. So down the stairs he went, alone, emerging back into the office space, thankful to find it unoccupied. He made his way toward the bathroom, relieved himself and refreshed himself, before returning back into the dimly lit space. He thought he heard a whisper, but realized it was more than that…there was emotion behind it. A whimper, is what he decided. Then a cry, and a hearty grunt.
He paused on the carpet, trying to decipher where the sounds were coming from.
That’s when he saw moving shadows dancing on the floor, mirroring the actions of people inside one of the offices. Matt knew exactly what was going on, and if he had to guess who it was in the throes of hungry sex, it could only be Gavin Simon. But who was he with…then it hit him, and he realized that during Colton’s speech he’d not seen his new artist. Stone was elsewhere. No, he hoped, it couldn’t be…was he that easily taken in by a man like Gavin? Then Matt remembered his own instant attraction to the man.
“Oh, shit…shit…that’s it Gavin. Wow, oh wow.”
It was definitely Stone, and he was crying out to be fucked. Matt didn’t know what to do. To get back upstairs, he’d have to move past the office; he didn’t want to be noticed, but he didn’t want to stay behind and listen until the inevitable conclusion. He could hide in the bathroom and wait it out. Forget it, just be quiet and slip back upstairs. No doubt they were locked in their own world. So Matt started across the floor, realizing then that each office was exposed, as the walls were all made of glass. As he walked by, he tried to avert his eyes but a sudden cry had him turning his head. What he saw shocked him.
Stone was splayed open on the desk, his legs wide and pointed upwards. His shirt was open, and Matt could see his glistening, smooth chest heaving upwards. But what surprised him was what Stone held in his hands—his own cock, and it was massive, thick and very long. No wonder they called him Stone. His fist seemed small in comparison. He was stroking it, all while Gavin hovered above him, thrusting his hips hungrily at Stone’s ass. His shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a thickly furred chest. Matt knew it well, and also recalled that Gavin was furry all over. He was panting and grunting. Matt heard the slap of his body against Stone’s ass.
“That’s it, tighten up, take my full cock…let me watch your big one come.”
Even with Stone being so well-endowed, it was still Gavin in control.
Matt had seen enough, and he closed his eyes as he made his way back toward the stairs. He started up them, and that’s when he heard a loud bellow. Stone was climaxing, and the sound of it only increased the rapid motions of the hairy beast above him. Matt didn’t know what to think. Was Stone the kind of man he wanted to work with, to host as his gallery’s next discovery? Why not, his rational side told him, who was he to judge the man’s sex life. And then his mind flashed an image of the man’s hot cock, the size of it ingrained in his mind.
Was that the problem?
Was he attracted to Stone? Did he want that massive tool inside him?
Here he was at his own engagement party, and he’d just learned of the ideal setting for his wedding. The man of his dreams was upstairs, waiting for him, no doubt ready to take him home and make love. But was the man of his desires down in that office, getting his brains fucked out by the ever-horny, fully furry Gavin Simon?
Matt finally returned upstairs and the first thing he saw was the Eiffel Tower, exploding with color. He felt weary, perhaps dehydrated. Or exhausted. No matter the reason, that’s when he fainted.
CHAPTER FIVE
Freddie
One of the things about living in Los Angeles that Freddie would never get used to was the driving. As a native New Yorker, he’d never had the need for a car, preferring the subway or buses to get around, or hailing a cab late at night. In other words, he preferred someone else to get him from point A to point B. On this Wednesday afternoon, Freddie was reminded of the vehicular benefits of the Big Apple when he was nearly rear-ended along Hollywood Boulevard. As he stopped at a red light at the corner of Vine, he heard a screech behind him and saw the car behind him jerk to an abrupt stop in the rear-view mirror. The woman in the driver’s seat had a phone attached to her ear.
“Fuck,” Freddie said, realizing how close his rental had come to being a wreck.
He raised his middle finger to the woman, who offered up nothing less than a mouthed “fuck you.” That was another part of life in Los Angeles, no one took responsibility for their stupid actions. How else did these movie stars keep working, even when their last film tanked? The little people adopted the same attitude of “I can do whatever I want”. Like her damn phone call was more important than Freddie suffering from a possible case of whiplash. Now the bitch was honking at him, and Freddie realized the light had changed to green. See, now the traffic delay was all his fault.
He hated Hollywood.
He pushed forward, turning right onto Vine and heading east toward his destination, only to get stopped at another light. He stole a look back but noticed the bitch was gone. She’d gone straight, something Freddie would never be accused of. He laughed at his own lame joke, and then he immediately thought of Santo. Santo who was busy on the set of his latest film today; it was two weeks since he’d come home that night and told Freddie of the demands of his preening co-star. Since then he and Santo had spent very little time together—he was up early, home late, the bed calling only to him, not them. He heard a honk behind him and realized again that the light had changed.
Why couldn’t his lunch date have met him at the house in the hills?
Freddie had received a surprise phone this morning just as he was hopping out of the shower, and he nearly missed it. It had been Patsy Abbott, the friend he’d met in Rome who had introduced him to Santo. She was now part of Santo’s management team, but why she was calling Freddie had him wondering what was up, and after the call he was even more confused. Lunch, she asked, a Malaysian restaurant on Melrose, one o’clock, “Don’t be late.” Late was a relative term out here, so the fact that he kept hitting red lights as he worked his way through midday traffic didn’t worry him so much.
He bypassed Santa Monica Boulevard, continuing further down, until finally reaching the hip, bohemian stretch of Melrose, and that’s when he began to search for not just the restaurant but parking as well. Another thing he hated about L.A. But then he saw a car pulling out from the curb and he nabbed it with all the gusto of an ambitious Angelino, not caring who else he pissed off by stopping mid-street, then parallel parking. It was one talent he’d learned when he’d taken his driver’s test, and it hadn’t left him. He did it in one try, minimizing the honking behind him.
He locked the car, then crossed against traffic and down one block to where he found Tiki Noodle Shop, not exactly the high-end kind of establishment he expected of Patsy, but certainly its run down kitsch was just the kind of joint you found on Melrose Avenue. An outside deck extended off the main building, a series of umbrellas open to shield diners from the harsh glare of the sun. It was 80 degrees today, and Freddie didn’t even bother to remove his shades when he entered the dimly-lit restaurant. A pretty Asian woman greeted him.
“I’m expecting a lady, perhaps she’s already here,” he said, noting the time on his iPhone. It was 1:05 He doubted she’d made a reservation; they didn’t look necessary based on the empty tables spread throughout the room.
“Ms. Abbott?” the woman asked.
“Uh, yes?” Freddie said, surprised. “You know her?”
“She called. She’s running late. Said to give you a table outside and a Tropical Breeze.”
“I’m guessing that’s a drink and not a something off the ocean.”
The woman didn’t get his joke, and instead she just guided Freddie through the back of the restaurant and out a door, positioning him at a corner table under a large yellow umbrella. While it was still winter back in New York, March offered little difference than did October or June in L.A. He’d already worked on his tan while Santo worked, and so he fit right in, sunglasses, cell phone, all the needed accoutrements.
In short order, a pink-colored drink with a pineapple slice and a paper umbrella appeared before him and he thanked the lady. Two menus were placed on the table. Freddie ignored them, concentrating on his surroundings. The deck was painted white, with an accompanying picket fence, and enclosed within it were four couples and Freddie. None of them paid him any mind, and so he picked up his phone and sent Patsy a text.
I’M HERE. HOW CLOSE R U?
He was halfway done with his Tropical Breeze when Patsy herself breezed in, not having responded to his text. She was his age, 38, but as much as he’d made barely an impression on the other diners, Patsy’s whirling dervish of an arrival grabbed their attention. She was dressed in a stylish print dress, tight against his slim frame, and her blonde hair was perfect, a trendy pixie cut, and with her designer sunglasses and Roberta Pieri handbag dangling off her arm, she was the picture of success. People liked to know people like her. Freddie forgave her her tardiness. The others looked at him with newfound envy.
L.A. was status-central. His Q rating had just skyrocketed.
“Sorry, darling, sorry, sorry, sorry,” she said, kissing his cheeks.
She actually made physical contact, the air compressed between her lips and his cheek.
“When one makes an entrance like that, all is forgiven,” he said.
She smiled wickedly. She’d been aware of her every move, as calculated as the first time they had met, at a bar at JFK while he awaited his flight to Rome. He’d been checking out guys, and Patsy had played along, doing shots alongside him while they waited for their plane to arrive at the terminal. They’d become fast friends, mostly because Patsy’s pretentiousness was an act and she could relax around Freddie, who didn’t have a snooty bone in his body. Frederick Richard Markson was a New Yorker, he kept it real.
“Now that you’re here, can I just have a beer?” he asked.
“Oh, shoot, I forgot, you’re one of those straight gays,” she remarked.
“I’m looking forward to April and my first Dodgers game.”
Patsy ordered a white wine, Freddie a Singha, and soon they had their drinks and were left alone to decide on their meals. Freddie shifted in his seat, realizing all of the questions he’d had since her phone call were about to be answered. Should he brace himself/ Should he order a shot to go along with his beer? No, he was driving and he had to be good…another of the things he hated about L.A.
“So, Patsy, what’s up?”
“Oh, Freddie. No social niceties? How am I, where have I been?”
“You look fine, no doubt you’ve been trotting around the globe because it’s what you do. Have you picked up any more stray gays at the airport?”
“No, I learned my lesson with you.”
“Haha, nice.”
“So, Freddie, how are you enjoying L.A.? I haven’t seen you since you first arrived.”
“I hate it.”
“Hmm, I’m hardly surprised. You always liked having fun. L.A. is all business, even when it comes to concepts such as fun. What about Santo?”
“Do you really want to get into that now? You’ve talked to him.”
“He does seem…not himself.”
“Is that why we’re having this lunch?
“Speaking of, I’m famished, let’s order.”
“Nice deflection,” Freddie said.
Still, the waitress returned and they ordered spicy noodle dishes, his with grilled chicken, hers with Seitan, which Freddie wasn’t even sure what it was and didn’t ask. They sipped at their drinks, Patsy changing the topic the moment the menus were taken away.
“I was just overseas, where I saw my brother.”
“Which one? You have two of them.”
“Oh, what a good memory you have. Colton, as it turns out. I was passing through Paris, and he was there on some personal business. Turns out, he’s going to be hosting a wedding sometime this spring, and he’s asked me to attend. Hunter, too.”
“Is Colton the one getting married?”
“No, that’s not his style,” she said with a wave of her bejeweled hand. “He’ll fuck any man he wants, but he’d never get tied down. At least, not in the respectable way.”
“The Abbott siblings, they’re quiet independent.”
One of the strange coincidences to come out of Freddie’s sojourn to Rome was meeting Patsy, all while Matt was forging a relationship a country away with her brother. And then there was Jake over in London, who inexplicably had met Hunter and enjoyed a torrid, complex affair with him. It was like the three best friends were destined to encounter the ambitious, wayward, and intriguing Abbotts. Freddie had yet to meet either of the brothers, but he felt that was all about to change. He knew where she was going with this.
“Yes, it seems the only thing we have in common is a fierce independent streak. This wedding will mark the first time we’ve all been together in years,” she said. “I believe you’ve been invited, too.”
“Matt’s wedding to Anton,” he said, not surprised. “I hope to be there, with Santo.”
“Ah, well, that’s the rub, as they say,” Patsy said.
“Care to elaborate?”
“Oh, look, lunch.”
The Tiki Noodle Shop had a way of perfectly timing their inopportune moments. Freddie wouldn’t put it past Patsy to have orchestrated this entire meal, from the Tropical Breeze to the hot air she was currently spewing. She dipped into her noodle dish, complaining of how little sauce seemed to be in the bowl. She signaled the waitress, who brought her a small bowl of fish sauce with hot oil, and that seemed to appease her earlier concern. She ate. Freddie picked at the chicken, not happy to find mushrooms among them. He kind of craved of a bacon cheeseburger.
“So, Patsy, can we get back to the reason you called for this lunch?”
“Santo is jeopardizing his career, and if he doesn’t start listening to the people he pays to think for him he may well find himself back in Italy planting sunflowers along the Tuscan hills.”
“Actually, that sounds ideal.”
“I think he’s content with a Freddie.”
“Oh, you’re being droll. How delightfully East Coast.”
‘I’m being honest,” he said. “Look, Patsy, we’re both grateful for the opportunities you’ve given Santo. Your play was a huge hit on Broadway, mostly thanks to Santo’s exotic, but innocent performance, and while he garnered a Tony nomination, he didn’t win. He became the toast of New York, invited to all the A list parties, the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s annual gala, award ceremonies, you name it. And I got to go along with it, no one in New York batting an eyelash that he had a man on his arm. I realize L.A. is a different animal, and I’ve played the dutiful role of house husband—which means I stay home and out of the spotlight. You’ve set him up with young starlets for red carpet events, blah blah, all that crap, to deceive the rest of the country into thinking he’s sleeping his way through Hollywood’s B-list actresses. He’s finishing up the filming of his third movie, all of them in which he’s played a supporting role in. And you know what? He’s even more miserable than when you pushed him two years in Italy into starring in your play. He walked away from all of this as a teenager, and out of some twisted obligation to you he agreed to your play. But now things are out of control. He told me a couple weeks ago that he didn’t know who he was anymore—that Hollywood was changing him.”