If so, it wasn’t for lack of trying. Freddy was one of the best-looking guys I’ve ever known, and that includes men who got paid $2,000 for an hour of their time. A beautifully built African American with perfect features and the piercing eyes of a professional Casanova, Freddy exuded a sexuality that made me believe in the power of pheromones. Men were drawn to him like no one I’d ever met, and Freddy enjoyed his gift to its fullest potential.
“I haven’t slept with your husband, darling. At least not yet. So, stop pissing me off before I decide to steal your man, blondie.”
“As if,” I answered, channeling Alicia Silverstone from Clueless.
“Haven’t fooled around with Brent Havens, either,” Freddy continued. “Although I wouldn’t mind. That’s one sweet-looking kid. And probably as close to sleeping with you again as I’ll ever get.”
Huh. Freddy had noticed the similarities, too.
I told him about our awkward flirtation.
“He probably did it just to get on the show,” Freddy offered.
“Why,” I asked sharply, “would it have to be about that? Is it impossible to believe that he found me attractive?”
“Of course not,” Freddy said, enjoying this opportunity to yank my chain. “For a man in your late thirties, you’ve held up remarkably well.”
Freddy knew I was twenty-four, the insufferable bitch. “As have you,” I countered. “And I don’t care what anyone says, I think you look great with that extra weight. There’s nothing wrong with a little muffin top.”
Despite the fact he knew we were teasing, Freddy couldn’t help glancing at his perfectly flat belly.
“Ha!” I said victoriously. “Made you look!”
Freddy decided to ignore my triumph. “I’m just pointing out that Brent Havens sounds like a manipulative little thing who knows how to hook a guy. You said he wanted to get out of the porn business. Maybe he thought that appearing on your mother’s show could be the first step to a legitimate career.”
“You think he was playing me?”
“I think he’s a player. The problem with being a player, though, is you don’t always know yourself what’s a game and what’s real.”
“One real thing,” I said, “was that the guy who runs his studio, Mason Jarre, was a total sleazebag. He practically raped me with his eyes. He pushed me hard to consider working for him—too hard, if you know what I mean. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. I can see why Brent feels like a slab of beef.”
“This guy Mason is forcing Brent to make movies?”
“No,” I answered. “Not exactly.”
“So, he wouldn’t accept Brent’s ‘no’ when offered, then? When he said he wanted to get out?”
I tried to remember our conversation. “I don’t think Brent’s asked yet.”
“Huh. But you think Mason pressured Brent to work for him in the first place, right? Coerced that innocent-looking sweetie into a life of onscreen debauchery?”
I couldn’t say that, either. In fact, I distinctly recalled it differently. “Actually, I think it was the opposite. Now that you bring it up, I don’t know that Brent’s ever said ‘no.’ ”
“My kind of boy.” Freddy grinned. “I don’t know, Kev. I’ve watched some of Brent’s work—he seemed to be having a pretty good time. I’ve seen him in interviews and read articles, too. Feels to me like that kid’s doing exactly what he wants to. Not by accident, either. He gets himself where he wants to be. And my feeling is, if he wants to move on to something different, he’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen.”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “You didn’t meet him like I did. He seemed very sweet. Genuine. Not the Machiavellian figure you’re painting.”
“Machiowhatnow?” Freddy asked. “What does a Starbucks drink have to do with anything?”
Freddy was what you call street-smart. Let’s just leave it at that.
I’d been a psychology major at NYU. Despite my ADHD, what I did learn stuck in my head like glue. “ ‘Machiavellian.’ From the sixteenth-century Italian writer and philosopher Nic-colò Machiavelli. He wrote about immoral men in a way that seemed to endorse the unethical use of power to get ahead. He’s become a symbol for selfishness and greed. Psychologists even have a test called the MACH-IV that measures a person’s likeliness to deceive and manipulate others for his personal gain.”
“Thanks for the lecture, Doctor IQ. Put simply: Brent’s power is his sexuality, right? So, that’s what he’d use.”
See? Street-smart. Not an insult after all.
Had Brent been planning to use me? Was I really so naïve that I fell for it?
Of course, I hadn’t told him I worked for the show until midway through our conversation. On the other hand, maybe he noticed the ID his boss missed and figured it out when I first bumped into him.
Assuming he hadn’t planned the whole thing and been the one to bump into me.
My head was spinning out of control. I either needed to take more Adderall or get off this train.
Disembark, I decided. What did it even matter? Brent hadn’t called me and I hadn’t called him. Whatever happened, or might have happened, was behind us.
Except, I felt it wasn’t. We’d made a connection. I was sure of it. It didn’t feel “over” at all.
So, why hadn’t we been in touch?
I knew why I hadn’t called. Too much temptation.
Why hadn’t he?
“There’s only one thing I don’t get,” Freddy said, sounding genuinely puzzled.
I leaned forward. In his own way, Freddy could be very insightful. I felt lost in the dark trying to figure this out. Maybe Freddy would shine just the light I needed.
“Why,” he asked, squinting with the effort to understand what could very well be the question that would clear this all up for me, “would Starbucks name their delicious milky coffee treat after some old Italian guy everyone hates?”
Or, maybe not. “That’s a ‘macchiato,’ honey. Not a ‘Machiavelli. ’ ”
“I thought that sounded wrong,” Freddy said, shoving me in the shoulder like I was the one who’d made a mistake. “I just didn’t want to embarrass you by correcting you. I’m considerate that way.”
The funny thing is that made perfect sense to him. Freddy’s self-confidence in the face of even his obvious mistakes was his one perfect defense.
“Yeah,” I said, “that’s me. Always confusing my caffeinated beverages with reviled Renaissance-era writers. It always pisses off the baristas when I order a grande skinny Michelangelo.”
“Not to mention confusing boys who want to get on TV with those who want to get in to your pants,” Freddy added. “You know, that’s something you might want to look at if you’re going to continue working as a casting director.”
Damn that Freddy. Maybe he had shed some light. I just didn’t want to see what it revealed.
“Well . . .” I began when the DVD was done. We were sitting on the couch in front of my too-big-for-the-room fifty-five-inch TV, and I turned to see his face. “What did you think?”
“It was great. Like one of those jokes you’d hear from old comedians,” Freddy said. “A dominatrix, a gay porn star, and a purple dinosaur walk into a bar. Only the bar is really a TV talk show, and the bartender is a Long Island hausfrau who somehow wound up as its host.” He stopped.
“That’s a decent set-up,” I conceded. “But it needs a punch line.”
“Yeah, but the only one I can think of involves the reveal that the hausfrau’s son turns out to have done more kinky shit than the three guests put together, and I’m afraid if I say it, you’re gonna slap me on the head.”
I slapped him on the head anyway.
“So very big ‘ow,’ ” Freddy whined, rubbing his close-cut hair. “I hate it when I’m right.”
“Lucky for you it hardly ever happens,” I said.
“You know, you’re not too old for a spanking,” Freddy said. Faster than I could react, he reached out and threw an
arm around my neck. “Come here, you little . . .”
“Would you cut it out?” I said, laughing.
“What, you think Mistress Vesper is the only gal in town who knows how to treat a bad boy?” He pulled more strongly and I pushed my hands against his chest. Pecs like granite pushed back. I might have felt his nipples swell under my touch, but everything about Freddy was so hard I really couldn’t tell.
Entwined as we were, it would have been tough for someone watching to tell if we were embracing or wrestling. We were both breathing hard. From exertion, I told myself. Between that and the grunting we were making a lot of noise.
Which is why we didn’t hear the door open.
“Ahem,” Tony said, his voice coming with no warning from the doorway. “Am I interrupting something?”
He didn’t sound friendly.
5
Home Bodies
“Yeah,” Freddy said, still holding me. “Unless you want to join in.”
“Love to,” Tony said, walking toward us. “What’s it going to be? Noogies? Pink bellies?”
“That’s too good for the likes of him,” Freddy answered. “I was going for a full spanking.”
“I’ll hold his legs,” Tony offered.
For the longest time, I’d worried about letting Freddy and Tony spend time together. My feelings for each of them were too complicated to risk their being in the same room. It was like the threat of matter and antimatter combining.
Once things settled with Tony, though, it became inevitable I’d have to find a way to get them at least comfortable with each other. They were both too important to me to give up one. To my surprise, they got along pretty well. Turns out they actually enjoyed having someone to complain to about me. I didn’t mind being the butt of their jokes if it kept peace in the family.
Speaking of butts, mine was saved when Tony’s son, Rafi, raced in between his dad’s legs. “No ’panking Kebbin!” he ordered. He threw himself on my back, wrapping his arms protectively around my neck.
The message was clear—you’ll have to go through me to get to him.
I reached around to give him a reverse hug. “My hero,” I said. “How’s it going?”
Rafi craned his little head to whisper in my ear. “Were they weally going to ’pank you? ’Cause my daddy says ’panking is wrong.”
“Naw, little buddy. They were just funning.”
“Good,” Rafi said. “I missed you, Kebbin.”
“I missed you, too, little buddy.” I squeezed tighter. So did he. Which would have been very sweet if his arms weren’t crushing my windpipe.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Love hurts.
Tony saw my face turning red and stepped in to save me. “Hey, Rafman, I’m getting jealous.” He sat on a chair across from us and patted his thighs. “Get over here, you.”
Rafi abandoned me for the sweeter shores of his daddy’s lap, his favorite seat in the house. Mine, too, the little punk.
Freddy took that as an opportunity to make his exit. “Well, I’ll leave you to tonight’s reenactment of Two and a Half Men. Talk later?” he asked me.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“And you,” Freddy said, sinking to his knees to meet Rafi eye-to-eye, “didn’t even say hello to me tonight.”
“That’s ’cause I thought you were gonna ’pank my friend Kebbin,” he said, still a little wary.
“Well, do I at least get a good night?” Freddy asked.
Rafi rolled his eyes in a way that looked hysterical on a five-year-old. “Goo’ night, Fweddy,” he said condescendingly.
Freddy laughed and kissed him on the forehead. “Good night, slugger.”
Tony held his hand out for a fist bump. “ ’Night, Fred.”
Unlike most of my gay friends, Tony didn’t hug or kiss other guys for hellos or good-byes. But also unlike them, Tony didn’t consider himself gay. He’d been married before we got back together (after a brief fling in high school). The only good thing to come from that union was Rafi (his “real” name, as Tony’s Italian heritage might have suggested, was “Raphael,” although no one called him that unless they were very cross with him). Tony always maintained the only male he ever had sexual feelings for was me. Much, much more importantly, he also told me I was the only person, of any gender, he’d ever truly loved.
Somehow, we both counted on that being enough to see us through his ongoing process of accepting life as half of a same-sex couple. Because, despite the fact that he’d finally admitted to me that he had a son, and even letting me into the boy’s life, part of him still held back.
Which is why, as far as Rafi was concerned, his dad was just my friend. Even worse, Tony had Rafi thinking this was his apartment and I was the roommate. Which meant, on the nights Tony had visitation, I slept on the couch while Tony shared my bedroom with his son.
The activist in me thought this was an unforgivable betrayal of everything in which I believed. An ugly cover-up born of homophobia and self-hatred to which I should never have agreed.
But that political part of me was eclipsed by the simple truth that I’d been in love with Tony Rinaldi since I was fifteen years old, and he was the lanky pony boy two years my senior who lived down the block. He was the sexiest goddamn thing on two legs back then, and he’s only gotten better with age. I’d walk on hot coals for Tony, take a bullet, crawl across broken glass, insert whatever cliché you want, I’d do it for this complicated man who held my heart.
I’d even participate in this terrible, soul-crushing, and painful farce in which Tony, the most honorable man I knew, lies to his own son about his love for me.
I knew it hurt Tony, too. It wasn’t in his nature to act like this. To mislead his own flesh and blood. I also knew he felt guilty asking me to aid in that deception.
“God, Kevin,” he’d said. “He’s only five years old. He’s my son. How can I tell him about this? About us? His mom and I just separated a few months ago. Just give me—give him—some time. Can you do that for me?”
“Of course,” I’d told him. “We’ll know when the time is right.”
The problem was, that time seemed right to me from the start, but Tony didn’t seem to find it particularly imminent. Tony had been brought up as hetero as they come. His family, co-workers, and friends were old-school Catholics. For years, he regarded the few months in high school in which we’d fooled around as a bizarre detour from his otherwise straight path.
As far as I knew, he hadn’t told anyone about us. It was a Herculean effort for him to admit his feelings even to me. What would it take for him to tell the rest of the world?
In the meantime, we were building a life together on a shaky foundation of half-truths and denial.
I thought of Rafi’s arms squeezing the air out of me. I had the terrible feeling that, one way or another, these Rinaldi boys were gonna be the death of me.
Love hurts.
Three hours later, with Tony’s tongue halfway down my throat and his hands gripping my denim-covered ass as I straddled him on the couch, I was feeling a lot better.
Rafi had fallen asleep twenty minutes earlier in my bed. His light snores were like a reverse alarm—as long as we heard them, we knew we were safe.
Tony snuck out to help me make up the sofa bed where I’d be sleeping. We got distracted.
“Mmmm,” he moaned into my ear. “You feel so fucking good.” The growl in his voice almost had me coming in my pants.
I answered him by grinding deeper into his lap. “You like that?”
“Yesss,” he hissed. “I wish . . .”
“What?” I licked him from his ear to the base of his neck.
“Aw, man,” Tony groaned. He grabbed my hips and pulled me even closer, crushing our absurdly covered erections against each other. “I just . . . I mean . . .” He nodded toward the door of my bedroom. “He’s twenty feet away, Kevvy.”
He pushed me back. “I can’t, babe. Not with him right there. What if he wa
kes up?”
“We’ll hear him,” I panted, scooting myself back to where I’d just been. I liked that place. That was my happy place.
Tony put his hands on my shoulders. “Honey, you know how we are when we get going. We wouldn’t hear a bomb, let alone a four-year-old ninja in footie pajamas.”
“I promise,” I said, leaning in for a kiss, “we’ll be quiet.”
Tony leaned back. “When are we ever quiet?”
He had a point. “We could tie a bell around his neck,” I suggested. “Or put up a force field. Have those been invented yet?”
“Sorry, babe. He’s only here for two nights. Think you can hold on for that long?”
I grabbed his still steely cock through his dress slacks. “I don’t know. Can I? Wouldn’t someone notice?”
“Ha, ha,” Tony said, not amused. “You really know how to hurt a guy, don’t you?” He removed my hand from its perch.
“Me hurt a guy?” I asked accusingly. “You’re the one trying to kill me with blue balls.”
“Poor baby,” he said. His hand slid up my thigh toward my aforementioned body parts. “Are they really blue? Maybe I should take a look. . . .”
Yes! Score one for the home team.
“If you promise to be quiet,” Tony began.
“Like a mouse . . .”
“I mean, really, Kevvy . . .”
“A mute mouse.” His hand reached my crotch and rested there. “A mute mouse wearing a gag.” He squeezed and I gasped. Quietly.
“I guess we can . . .”
Then the bomb went off.
“Daddy,” came a small voice from the bedroom. “I’m tirsty. Can I have some water?”
“Sure, sweetie.” Tony tossed me off his lap like I’d suddenly burst into flame. “One minute.”
He walked, uncomfortably I’m glad to say, to the kitchen and returned with a half-full plastic kid’s tumbler. Just before going into the bedroom, he turned to me with a guilty expression. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed.
I nodded. “Me too,” I whispered.
“Daddy?” Rafi called.
“Right here, honey.”
“Go,” I told him.
Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery) Page 4