by Avery Aster
She screamed in frustration. “Masi, I swear to God.”
M2 started to cry.
“Don’t cry, baby. Mommy’s okay. Daddy and I are just playing a game,” Lex said in her baby-talk voice, all the while giving her fiancé the evil eye. Unbelievable that he’d done this. “What if I have to go to the bathroom?”
“I’ll bring you a bedpan.”
The way he spoke to her, she knew he was serious.
“Birdie will only be hurt by whatever comes out of your sharp mouth.”
Damn him. He was right. He was always fucking right. It wasn’t her intention to hurt her mother’s feelings, but sometimes it just happened. The more Birdie had sobered up, the more sensitive she’d become.
“I need to know.”
“You knew your father and Irma had an affair, sì?” Massimo went over to the crib, putting his hand down for M2 to hold. It took both of his little hands around just one of Massimo’s fingers.
“No.”
“Lex.…”
“We knew my dad screwed around. We knew Taddy’s mother did, too. We never figured it was together. At least, I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Have you met Mrs. Brillford?”
She had last seen Countess Irma when they were teenagers. It was during Taddy’s emancipation trial at the courthouse. Irma was the wife of Joseph Graf, part of the Brillford elite who’d emigrated from Austria at the turn of the century. The woman was stuck up and wasn’t anything like what her father had screwed around with in the past.
“You never questioned why Mr. Brillford abandoned her?”
“I knew he wasn’t her father, we all did. But I never figured it was my dad.”
For the first time in their relationship, he looked at her as though she were naive. That hurt her feelings.
“It’s true, Masi. How could I? Who the hell would think such a thing about their own father?”
“The test was inconclusive. The blood sample was contaminated.” He scooped up M2 as if he was going to leave the room.
She’d be stuck on the bed, alone. She laid there, handcuffed. What the fuck could she do?
“This isn’t about you. And it’s not about Birdie, either.”
“Of course it is. How could Mom keep this from me?” She thought the pain from her past, the hell of her childhood was over. She’d buried it when she put her dad to rest in the Queens cemetery.
“Birdie, I’m sure, has good reason.” He came over and caressed her cheek as he leaned over her. “You don’t get it, do you?”
Massimo’s stature intimidated her. But holding her son added a sweetness to him that she adored. “No. What?”
“This is about Taddy,” Massimo said softly.
M2 squirmed in his arms, whining. Massimo lowered him down to Lex’s level. “Kiss him ciao. His madre needs her nap.”
Lex touched her lips to his as she thought about her BFF. She didn’t want to hurt Taddy. Her life had been the hardest out of everyone’s. The cry which burned in the back of her throat for the last hour finally broke.
“When will you talk to her about this?” Massimo seemed to soften up a bit when he noticed she was crying.
“I don’t know. Tonight. Tomorrow. After the wedding? I wish Warner was in town.” Warner was Taddy’s globetrotting billionaire boyfriend and her rock.
“He’s still in Paris?”
“Yes, for the week.” Lex didn’t want to dump this on her best friend without Warner being there. She was tempted to call him, but knew that would be breaking all friend codes. There wasn’t any easy way around this.
“I’ll call Birdie and tell her to come back uptown.”
“Please, let me call Vive before my mom gets here.”
“Why?”
“I need to ask her if Taddy has ever mentioned anything to her.” She was her only hope. That wasn’t breaking friend code. Vive was hers just as much as Taddy’s. “She’d be the only friend who would know.”
“Sì, you got it. They both can come over. You three can talk.”
“Uncuff me.”
“No.” Massimo closed the door. “Bella, rest!” he shouted from the hallway.
Miguel’s Seven Needs
Lower East Side
You have a list, too…
Terrified Miguel would push him to the brink, Blake didn’t know what to say. He was going to back out of this, for sure. His friend remained a man-eating player by most standards, including New York’s. But Blake was indeed curious as to what his list could be. He’d entertain this, at least for the day.
“Okay, let’s hear ’em.” Lying down, he blinked his eyes shut, feeling the shave of his scrotum. The pit in his stomach sunk deeper.
“Número uno, you’ll move in with me while we do this list together.”
“You want me to live with you in the Lower East Side?” He didn’t expect to hear such a demand. Shit¸ the hipster area was absurd.
“Sí.” Miguel glanced down sternly.
“Why can’t you live with me in Chelsea?” His hands flailed midair. “You’ll have the guest wing all to yourself.” Though, it would be nice to get away from those bad memories. No matter how many coats of paint he put on the walls, or new furniture he bought, his penthouse still haunted him with bad dreams from the past.
“Cool it.” Miguel reached for him, placing his hands palm down on his heaving chest. “You know I work from home. Moving to your penthouse with my art supplies isn’t going to happen.”
The disagreement, which was ready to that boil over, expelled on a loud sigh. “Okay, fine.” He realized it might be nice to stay someplace else. Maybe he’d finally get a good night’s sleep.
“My driver will take you to work.”
“Good. I’m not riding that subway.” Going underground wasn’t a consideration. He hated mass transit. He hated mass anything.
“Plus, I don’t want to siesta in your guest room. We’re going to share a bed, night after night. That’s número dos.” Miguel seemed to study him, giving him a once-over in his usual suave manner.
How sweet. “Do you snore?”
“I’m a quiet sleeper.” His large, almond-shaped eyes shot up studying Blake’s face. “But the first night you’ll only sleep in my arms. We won’t have sex.”
“Sounds easy enough…” He was all too familiar with sleeping next to someone and not having them touch him. “No problem.” Though, if he was being honest with himself, he did for a split horny second think about burying his face in his friend’s crotch. Yes, getting face-fucked was on the Seven Desires.
He tried to envision tasting Miguel. Would he be spicy? Hot tamales and cinnamon candy perhaps? Or would he be saccharine and creamy? A flan, sweet, lapped up as dessert.
“Número tres, I have to babysit my two nieces Cierra and Ofelia tomorrow along with M2. You’re going to help me with them.”
There went his free Sunday leisure—Barneys with Taddy, mimosas with Vive, and reading over the New York Times with Thor. He didn’t have much experience with kids, though he’d always wanted a family. “Okay, we’ll take them shoppingThe American Girl store or FAO Swartz. This’ll be fun.”
“No.” Miguel bowed his head. “Inez, my sister, won’t approve. The girls are not into Barbie, Disney’s Princesses, or anything pink.”
“Snow White or Cinderella?” he asked in confusion.
“Afraid not.”
“That’s silly. What about the new ethnic protagonists?” Blake noticed Miguel’s full lips purse together in confusion as if he didn’t follow, so he added, “Jasmine or Pocahontas?”
“Mr. Morgan, no princesses.”
“Inez is one of those types of mothers?” He’d heard of them; they lived near Lex on the Upper East Side and sent their kids to The Spence School.
“Sí. We’ll have to do arts and crafts. Maybe take them to the science museum after we go to church.”
“Church? Oh, for Christ’s sake.” He didn’t care for the sound of that,
either. God hadn’t answered his prayers in recent years no matter how hard he’d tried. No one had helped him at his darkest hour. “Number four?”
“You’ll clean my apartment, cook our meals, and do the laundry.” Miguel lifted his nuts and gave him one final swipe with the blade. His feet arched in a pleasant response.
“That should count for three things, not one.” His mind jumped to calling a cleaning service, ordering Thai food for delivery, and sending the laundry out to be done. The Lower East Side should have those accommodations, right? Blake was many things—a marketing executive, a good friend to many, a great son—but domestic wasn’t one of them.
“It’s all under household chores. Your rim job checklist should be accompanied with fisting. Your domination is combined with being tied up. Those are two for one.”
“That was Thor and Vive’s doing. All of this is.” He couldn’t believe he was going along with it. “You won’t be fisting me any time soon, okay?”
“Sí, I will. We’ll be getting to it”—Miguel held up his hand, large and surely capable of a basketball slam—“right before I top the shit of out of you,” he finished with an uncompromising intonation.
Jesus. He about came in his ears hearing Miguel’s determination. But it also terrified him. Was it all talk, or could his friend do this for him? “Number five?”
“You’re to walk and feed Brutus, my pooch, in the morning and at night.” One final swipe then Miguel tossed the razor into the steel bowl. He grabbed a towel and wiped him down.
Blood pounded in his ear as he touched the scar on his face. The mark always tensed up whenever he was stressed. Hearing he’d be taking care of Brutus terrified him.
Scarred in a plane crash the summer after graduating from Avon Porter, it took two cosmetic surgeons eight hours to reconstruct Blake’s face. He never recovered on an emotional level. The traumatic ordeal caused him to flinch, tense up, and vacate areas where his face would be under bright lights.
Though he’d been told time and time again his features were perfect, so much so that Ford Models recruited him in college as a catalog model, he never got over the accident. How could he?
“Your dog terrifies me. Brutus is no pooch.” He heard his own voice become thick and unsteady. He inhaled and argued, “It’s a pit bull rescued from some Long Island fighting farm, bred to eat little kids.”
Before attending Avon Porter he’d been attacked by a pack of dogs. His classmates had sicced them on him as a lesson to stay in the closet.
“I remember your trepidation about my dog.” He leaned into Blake’s face and stroked the hair away from his eyes. “I remember everything about you. And don’t call my Bru an it.”
His thigh stung from the sudden swat his friend gave him as punishment. Why was that suddenly turning him on?
“Let’s put Brutus in doggie day care while I live with you. You know, that place on Park and Sixty-something, where Vive puts Hedda when she travels. ” He smiled, trying to sell it, and suggested, “Your dog can get a massage and take obedience classes.”
Miguel frowned. He leaned his face directly over his. An intimidation tactic, no less, but it worked. Blake tried to giggle but couldn’t. All he could do was smell the spearmint coming off those juicy lips.
“Brutus lives with us.”
“I’ll pay for it.”
“He is mi bebé. You’ll feed him, walk him, and love him—as I do.”
Impossible. “What if he bites me?” Blake’s fingers trembled over his face. He realized he’d be walking on eggshells the entire week and his face would freeze up, making him look weird. The scar wasn’t visible to most. But he sensed the area where the Air Carribea shrapnel had torn at his skin as if it were yesterday. His pointer finger ran up and down the thin line where the doctors cut and stitched. If he pressed hard enough, the scar tissue underneath felt hard. Often in February, when outside temperatures dropped, his face’s right side would tighten. Migraines followed.
I can’t do this.
“He won’t hurt you. I would never let anything bad happen to you—ever.”
Somehow, Miguel’s words mended his shot nerves. A reassurance he’d never heard from his friend. He sensed his Latino spoke about more than just Brutus. Blake got the sense that he really cared about him. A part of him wished he’d let his friend in on what went down when he was married. Maybe I wouldn’t be in the mess I am now.
“But I’ve never fed a dog let alone walked one.”
“I’ll help you the first day. After which he’ll be your responsibility until we’re done with our lists.” He reached for his hand and encouraged, “Hanging with Bru is the best way to conquer your fear. You’ve been afraid of dogs for as long as I’ve known you.”
Bru shmu. “How many days do you think we’re going to live together?”
“One week.”
“Seven days with a pit bull.” Fuck. You better be worth this Hell. Could his Seven Needs get any worse? What was next, retiling the bathroom? “And number six?”
“I want you to go as my date to Lex’s wedding.”
He exhaled a reprieved sigh. At last something easy. “Sure, we’re all going together in the limo. We’re in the wedding party together. You, me, Vive, and Thor. We’ll get dressed at Vive’s. She’s hosting a pre-cocktail mixer to get us all loaded.” He laughed nervously as he still didn’t want to be in the wedding. He didn’t think Vive did, either.
“We’re not going with the usual group,” Miguel ordered.
“Why not?”
“It’ll be you and me, as a couple.” There was a maddening, arrogant gist to his tone, one which Blake had never heard from his friend before.
A tingle sparked his stomach. “Okay.” Since when did he become so possessive?
“Get dressed. We’re done,” Miguel bossed in a tone which suggested he’d enjoyed himself. He laughed, probably because he’d gotten away with it, then dried his hands and threw the wet rags onto the countertop.
“Right. This was incredible.” Lightheaded from the experience, Blake sat on the table’s edge sensing Miguel’s gaze was still on him. He slipped on his Burberry briefs and looked up to confirm his suspicion. “Stop looking at me like that.”
His best friend’s attention focused on his body. Embarrassed for wearing designer underwear, the most expensive money could buy, he figured Miguel was a 2xist or Jockey wearer. With his mocha-fucker cock, he probably wore boxers affording his girth room to breathe.
He continued with his slacks, buttoned his shirt, and slid his feet into his favorite Ferragamo loafers.
“I’ll look at you however I want. Got it?”
“Ah-huh.” He loved it. There was a part of him which was ready for this, a part which wouldn’t think about the past and go solely on instinct and embrace this. A man, one who was dominating, in charge, an alpha, a top, the pig who would do whatever he wanted to him. But the other part, the practical, slightly jaded, very hurt part of him, said no.
“You have some dried wax in your hair. Let me.” Miguel ran his hands through Blake’s hair.
“Thanks.” He smiled, turned to face him, and realized his friend really did care.
The dark eyes stared at him as if he had something else he wanted to say. Something he had to get off his chest. “What?”
“And now for número siete…”
Blake gave him his full attention. “Yes?”
Miguel vacillated as the ceiling fan above them kept the seconds passing with a repetitive swoosh. “My parents will be in town this week from DC, staying at their apartment uptown. I want you to come with me to dinner.” His chest rose and he blurted, “To meet my family.”
“Sure, I love your sister. I’ve always wanted to meet your folks.” He couldn’t remember why Miguel never brought his parents into their circle. Lex’s mom was active with the group, so was Vive’s. But Blake remembered, with good reason, why he didn’t pry. His father worked as a Mexican diplomat who retired from a post in Washington
, D.C.
“You don’t understand.” His developed arms crossed over his broad chest. “When you come home with me, I’ll come out to them.” A whisper broke from his tense, full lips. “It’s time to tell them I’m gay.”
Catching air in his throat, he nearly coughed but swallowed instead, remembering his friend wasn’t out. He always forgot. Miguel was so at ease being gay with his friends. Closeted to him was unimaginable.
“I’m honored.” Stepping forward, he pulled him into an unyielding squeeze. He’d do this. He wouldn’t back out. His friend was serious and he wanted to help him come out. Possibly, when all this was over, he’d be able to trust Miguel enough to tell him what was really going on. The truth.
Over the years, he’d observed his friends’ stress. Their throats sore at times, ulcers in their stomachs, and constant unease—all from being in the closet. Miguel was no exception.
“I’ll be with you through each step,” He vowed his support as he then reared his head, suddenly Miguel’s lips locked with his into one passionate kiss.
Exciting him all the more, Miguel pushed him against the table. His friend’s actions may have been plain old-fashioned lust, but someone sought him, in the flesh. Not for his monetary assets, but for his ass. “I want my tongue inside your hot mouth.”
He wrapped his right leg around his friend’s tight waist. The warm friendship blanketed them, making him feel desired. He’d never been kissed by anyone but his ex-husband before. This felt different. Real. Mutual.
His buddy tilted his head to the side. Bit by bit, Miguel gazed down over his forehead and finally rested upon his eyes, almost speaking intently, as if saying, I’m going to give you the passion you’ve always wanted. I’ll fill your need.
Miguel brought his tongue to a long-stroked lick over Blake’s bottom lip before plunging into his mouth, deep and hard with a grunting moan.
Breathless as a teenager kissed for the first time, his cock stiffened all over again.
“You’re going to be my niño this week,” he muttered in a thick accent. “All mine.”
Relishing in the forceful kiss, exhilarated in agreement, he forgot the Hell and nightmare he’d been living in and answered, “Yes, I’ll be your boy this week.” Blake wondered how he’d ever be able to walk away from him once the lists were completed. Would they be able to go back to being best friends? More importantly, if he told Miguel the truth, could he keep it a secret?