Rafi giggled. I looked at the clock. It was just a little after five. Rafi should have slept at least till seven. My guess was he’d have fallen right back into dreamland had Tony been in bed with him. But finding himself alone, Rafi cried out.
“You want to play a game?” I asked. I patted my chest and Rafi settled against me. I put my arm around him.
“I love games,” Rafi said, his voice conveying exhaustion and excitement in equal amounts.
“I bet . . .” I said, pausing dramatically as if about to offer a truly thrilling proposal, “I can stay quiet longer than you can. Deal?”
“Deal,” Rafi said, thinking himself very grown-up.
“Okay,” I said. “You count it down. From three to one. After that, the next one who makes a sound loses.”
“Bet I can be quiet longest,” Rafi boasted, yawning halfway through.
“We’ll see. Okay, start the clock, Rafsters.”
“One . . . two . . . twee!” he announced confidently.
All right, he didn’t get the whole “counting down” thing quite right, but ending on the adorable “twee” was better idea, anyway.
I clamped my hands comically against my mouth and bulged out my eyes, as if struggling to stay silent. Rafi lifted his head and giggled.
I shot a warning look—no noises! Rafi clamped his lips together and rested his head back on my chest.
I stroked his hair.
Five minutes later, I won. Turns out that not only did Rafi steal the blankets like his dad, but he snored like him, too.
Lucky kid. I felt more awake than ever.
I couldn’t believe I’d almost left the apartment while he was in my care. What was I thinking?
I wasn’t. But, in my defense, Tony hasn’t exactly been making me feel like I was a significant person in Rafi’s life. Last night and this morning were the first times he’d given me sole responsibility for his son’s welfare. Look how close I came to blowing it.
But I didn’t.
There is, I thought, feeling the warm body next to me and the weight of his little head against my heart, a kind of magic in this. A level of trust and unconditional love that you just don’t experience from anyone other than a child. A special brand of blessing.
But it’s a burden, too. I was really looking forward to going to the gym. I felt like I deserved it. While I wished I were selfless enough not to resent it, I did feel a little “stuck” here. Literally, as I was afraid to get up and disturb Rafi’s sleep.
Sleep. God, that sounded good. Too bad it had deserted me. There’d be no returning to slumber now, not with my feelings of guilt, appreciation, resentment, and happiness running around my head like a bunch of unruly toddlers determined to keep me awake.
Still, it was nice to lie there with this toasty warm little guy nestled against me. He smelled good, like the bubble gum shampoo I’d used on his hair last night with an undertone of that scent unique to loved and happy boys. What was that fragrance? Smooth, new skin, clean sweat, innocence. Even his snoring was sweet, not loud like his dad’s but rhythmic in its regularity. Not noisy enough to drown out the sound of his breathing, that relaxing metronome of respiration, in and out, in and out, in and out, in and
“Kebbin!” Rafi called, amused at the reversal of roles that found him waking me up for school. “It’s time to get up, sweepyhead!”
I groaned and looked at the clock. 7:37. Enough time to get ready, but we’d have to hustle.
So much for being unable to fall back asleep. Maybe this is why people had kids—for their narcotizing abilities.
He’d rolled on top of me and pressed his nose against mine. “He wwwooo. . . .” he said. “Is there anybody in there?”
“I’m up, I’m up,” I grumbled. Not that I was really mad. I thought Rafi was enjoying playing the bossy parent, though, so I thought it was only fair that I acted the truculent kid.
“On your feet, soldier,” he commanded. “We have to go to school.” He straightened up and grabbed my hands. “C’mon.”
I let him pull me up to sitting and blinked a few times. “All right,” I said, “you got me. I’m getting up.”
“Good boy,” Rafi said, in his manliest voice. “You don’t want to be wate for school, do you?”
“No,” I said, deciding there was no reason to point out he was the only one going to school. “Have you made breakfast yet?” I asked him skeptically.
“No, Kebbin. I can’t make breakfast. That’s your job!”
“Fine,” I said. “You get dressed and I’ll make breakfast for us. But first . . .” I let the tension build.
“What?” Rafi finally asked.
I flipped him off me and on to his back.
“It’s attack of the Tickle Monster!” I cried.
Rafi squirmed and laughed with delight as I alternated my attacks between his tummy, underarms, and legs.
“C’mon,” he ordered after a few minutes of this. “We have to get weady!”
“All right, boss. You need my help getting dressed?”
“Kebbin,” he said with exasperation. “I’m a big boy now. I know how to get dwessed.”
Not so big that you can pronounce it, though.
Which I thought was just about perfect.
Ms. Sally gave me a wry smile as she saw me approach with Rafi.
“Is that bed head I see?” she asked wryly.
“On me or him?”
“You,” she asserted. “He looks perfect.”
It was true. I’d paid a lot more attention to his grooming this morning than mine. The price of being a parental stand-in, I conceded. First I’d skipped the gym, then my shower. Apparently, good child rearing was an exercise in sacrifice.
Her knowing look implied I’d come to this messy end after a night of impassioned lovemaking with Rafi’s sexy dad. I would have hated to disappoint her with the dreary truth: Tony and I had a conversation followed by conflict followed by sleep. Then, I helped his son get to sleep and ready for school. Not quite the bawdy man-on-man action she’d been imagining.
Instead, I echoed her observation. “Yeah,” I said, “he does look perfect, doesn’t he?” I’d taken extra care getting Rafi ready today, dressing him in a nice outfit he’d left over on a Sunday when Tony’d taken him to church, and slicking his hair back with about fifty dollars’ worth of Clinique for Men styling products. He looked like a miniature businessman on his way to close an important deal. He was so cute you could die from him. A fate I wished upon his “faggot”-flinging mother.
“See?” Ms. Sally asked. “Didn’t I say you’d make a great second dad?”
“You did at that,” I commented. “And if the job opens up, I’ll be sure to apply.”
Ms. Sally regarded me curiously. “I thought you and Mr. Rinaldi were . . . you know.”
“It’s complicated,” I said. “He’s complicated.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But he’s not stupid. Hang in there, sweetheart.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek.
28
Finding Emo
“It’s all set,” my mother announced cheerily. “Tomorrow’s the big day! Isn’t this exciting?”
My mother had a habit of labeling as “exciting” events I found, alternately, embarrassing, horrifying, or deeply traumatic. This was looking to be one of those that managed to be all three at the same time.
We were in Andrew’s office again, this time at the oval conference table that fit six. And six we were: Andrew; my mother; myself; Roni, the segment producer; Steven Austen, who’d be handling the makeup; and our cameraman, Laurent. The job before us was to plan the covert taping of the interview Andrew had set up for us at Families by Design, the adoption agency that had placed Adam with the Merrs, the couple who’d caged and brutalized him for the two years he’d been in their custody.
“We’re going to expose these chozzers for what they are,” my mother practically spat. Well, when I say “almost” I mean “actually.” Spittle flew from her lips at the t
hought of the serial child abusers. The fine spray landed on the left hand of Roni, a somewhat quiet woman in her mid-thirties who commanded respect on the set without ever raising her voice. Roni discreetly wiped the anointed hand against the leg of her jeans.
“We’ve never done a location shoot like this,” Andrew observed. “But we’re lucky to have Laurent on our team. He’s got the skills to carry the ball on this one.”
Andrew had been a jock in high school and it showed.
“Thanks,” Laurent answered. Before joining Sophie’s Voice, he had worked on 60 Minutes for three years. He was well versed in covert video technology. He explained to the group—sorry, Andrew, team—where the cameras and microphones would be concealed on our persons. Laurent was a true geek—passionate about his equipment and oblivious to the mind-numbing boredom settling over the room. My mother suppressed yawns, Andrew started texting on his BlackBerry, Steven appeared to have fallen asleep, and even Roni, whose job was to understand all the details of any given shoot, doodled elaborate designs on her notebook while he droned on for over an hour.
The video would be streamed to monitors in a van that’d be parked on the street, as close to Families by Design as they could get. Andrew, Laurent, Roni, and Steven would be waiting for us in there, observing the proceedings in case something went wrong.
And when I say “in case” I mean “when.”
Steven was coming to apply any last touches to our makeup, a process we’d begun hours earlier in the studio.
“How close in age do you think you’ll be able to get them to look?” Andrew asked him. I don’t think Andrew had anything particularly against Steven, so why he put him in that position I’ll never know. My mother had me late in life and was a good forty years older than I was.
Steven’s eyes darted nervously around the room, like a man looking for the shooter with the worst aim on the executioner’s line.
As he’d just helped me the other day with my SwordFight makeup, I felt compelled to rush to his aid. “I was just talking to Steven about it this morning,” I answered brightly. “He says my mother and I will be totally believable as an unmarried couple looking to adopt.”
I left out the last part of his warning: “if they’re deaf, dumb, and blind. Or just very, very dumb.”
“Yes,” Andrew said, “but exactly how close can you . . . ow!”
I’d kicked him under the table. Hard.
“Andrew, darling”—my mother slipped into her maternal voice—“are you okay?”
Andrew shot me a dirty look. “I’m fine. Just a cramp.”
“Probably from sitting so long,” my mother concluded sagely. “I think we’ve covered everything we need to. Shall we break for now?”
Under the best circumstances, my mother had the attention span of a hyperactive three-year-old. I suspected she’d been looking for a way to wind up the meeting halfway into Laurent’s excruciating monologue.
“Good idea!” I sprang to my feet. “It’s a wrap!”
On set, that’d be Roni’s line, but I felt free to use it here. Steven’s grateful nod toward me affirmed I’d been right.
“Kevin, just a minute,” Andrew said as I made a beeline for the door. “Could I have a word?”
Andrew’s tone implied the word wasn’t thanks.
“Just one,” I said, trying to keep it light. “Choose carefully.”
“Is there some reason you kneecapped me just now?”
I explained I was protecting Steven from having to pretend that even with all the makeup in the world, he could get me and my mother looking within a decade of each other.
“Fine,” Andrew granted. “But next time you want to change the subject, can you do it without pulling a Tonya Harding on me?”
“Sorry,” I said, ducking my head, giving him a look of boyish repentance through my blond bangs. It was a move that worked with most guys. Even the straight ones fell for the contrite choirboy routine. “Forgive me?”
Andrew sat on the edge of his desk and spread his legs. He dropped a hand mid-thigh. “You could,” he offered, “kiss it all better.”
I should have known that on perennial horn dog Andrew, that look would work too well. Lucky I hadn’t kicked him in the balls.
“You know Tony carries a gun, right? Even when he’s off duty?”
“How is it,” Andrew asked, snapping his knees together, “that the mere mention of that man’s name is like the anti-Viagra for me?”
“It’s a good sign,” I encouraged. “It means your desire to remain alive is stronger than your desire for a blow job.”
“Oh god,” Andrew groaned. “That’s a good sign? What’s a bad one? Male pattern baldness? Early Alzheimer’s? Erectile dysfunction?”
“We already covered that last one. You got aging on the mind, old man?” I figured Andrew was around twenty-seven. A little young to be worried about joining AARP.
“It’s just everyone I know is settling down. Partnering up. Getting married. Whatever.” He hunched over in a defeated slump. “Soon, I’m going to be the last single man in Manhattan.”
“Please,” I said. “You’ve got more men nipping at your heels than Joan Rivers has had face-lifts. You’ve got a pretty deep pool of potential husbands out there. All you have to do is pick one.”
“That’s just it,” he complained. “How do you pick one? How will I know?”
“Oh, honey, not even Whitney Houston, god rest her soul, could have answered that question. Although she did hit number one with it.”
He looked at me blankly.
“Okay, forget the eighties pop culture reference. Listen, the grass is always greener, right? Half the people I know in relationships wish they were single. Almost all my single friends wish they had a partner. Just enjoy what you have now. The chance for variety. When you meet the right guy, you’ll know.”
“What,” he said, regarding me gravely with a dramatic hoarseness in his voice, “if the one you know is ‘the right one’ is otherwise engaged? Like, to a jealous cop who could break me in two, for instance?”
Andrew and I met in high school and I think he was still stuck there in his interactions with me. Any day now, I expected him to have Suzy pass me a note in homeroom saying, I think you’re cute. Love, Guess who???
“You can say that to me because it’s easy,” I told him, sounding harsh even to myself. “It’s safe. You know I’m unavailable.”
He looked surprised at my directness.
“The trick,” I said, “is being able to say it to someone who is available. To make the offer to someone who can say yes.”
“You could say yes,” he countered. “If you wanted to. There’s no ring on your finger, Kevin. At least not yet. Are you really going to wait forever for a man who won’t even admit he’s gay?”
Was there some reason everyone felt compelled to comment on my personal life? It was starting to piss me off.
“Self-pity isn’t a good look for you, Andrew. There’s hundreds of guys out there who’d cut off a finger for you. Stop pining for the ones you can’t have.”
“Hundreds?” he asked. “Not thousands?”
Oh. My. God. “Do you want me to get the other knee? If you can wait a minute, I think I have a baseball bat in my office.”
“Fine,” he barked, but not without humor. “I hear you. Switching roles for a moment, don’t think I haven’t noticed how much time you’ve spent out of the office these past few days. You don’t have another job or anything, do you?”
No, but had the audition gone better, I might have.
“Sorry,” I said. “I had some personal issues to take care of.” Thinking how I’d run out of leads on my quest to find Brent Havens, I felt safe adding, “I think I’ve taken them as far as I can, though. I shouldn’t have to miss any more work.”
“Good,” he said. “Please don’t make me get all ‘boss’ with you. I’d hate to have my flirting mistaken for sexual harassment.”
“No,” I assured him, “you
were a pig way before I started working for you. Safe as houses there, chief.”
“Cute. Just try to cut back on the outside activities a little, okay? At least during working hours.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” I said, taking this as my opportunity to make an exit. “I promise no more sneaking out during the day.”
Although I meant it when I said it, in less than an hour I’d turn that into a pie-crust promise: easily made, easily broken.
“Angel boy,” Mrs. Cherry’s honeyed voice cooed over my phone. “Is this a good time?”
“Absolutely,” I told her, encouraged by her call so soon. It was just yesterday I’d asked her to use her contacts to discover if Brent had escaped into full-time hustling. If she was calling back so soon, she must have found something.
“I found nothing,” Mrs. Cherry declared. “I’ve checked with every contact in the escorting business, as well as those brokers who arrange for . . . more permanent engagements. I even dipped my dainty and perfectly pedicured toes into the tainted waters of the gossip mill to see if he was working off the grid. Nothing’s turned up. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s been less than twenty-four hours,” I pointed out. “Maybe someone hasn’t gotten back to you yet.”
Mrs. Cherry was quiet for a moment. I could swear I felt a chill of cold air coming though the receiver. “Darling”—I could tell Mrs. Cherry was trying to contain her inner bitch—“no one ‘doesn’t get back’ to me in this town. If they’re smart, they answer my questions before I even finish them. I am, as they say, quite ‘connected.’ Not to mention”—she dropped her voice to a husky whisper—“I’ve got a killer rack that no man can resist.”
“So, that’s it?” I asked dejectedly.
Mrs. Cherry softened her tone. “Not necessarily, darling. He could still turn up. He’s just not working in the sex industry. Perhaps he’s selling cologne at Bloomingdales, or, I don’t know, what do regular boys do, darling? Attend trade school? Install cable boxes?”
Yeah, maybe. But it didn’t help me find him.
“The frustrating thing,” Mrs. Cherry said, “was for a moment I thought I’d found him.”
Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery) Page 21