Taking Lead

by Dallas Redford

  Jordan appears across the hall.

  “Jordan, back off,” I warn him. I distance myself from him, heading towards the elevator in the room where Priscilla greeted me. Near the painting that she told me matched my eyes. I fight the urge to rip it down. Because all of this is bullshit. Priscilla. Jordan. Rebecca. This stupid night. People thinking they can manipulate me as if I’m some imbecil that doesn’t know what he wants.

  Jordan has followed me. He just looks at me. We’re like a bull and a matador sharing a moment. “I know,” he says.

  “You don’t know. That’s the fucking problem! You stopped knowing me when you became a New Yorker. Fuck you, Jordan, you presumptuous bastard. You think you’re too good for me? Well, fuck you. I don’t care!”

  I’m shaking. The corners of my eyes sting. I won’t cry in front of him. I won’t give him that satisfaction.

  “No,” he says. “I know.”

  The moment snags on time.

  He knows about Davis.

  I look at my old friend, with nothing to say.

  “I painted this,” he says, gesturing to the panel behind me.

  “How did you know?” I ask.

  He tightens his lips and gives his head a sharp little shake. He says, “Priscilla and I went to college together. I went there in love with you and you came up in conversations with every single one of my friends. The one I was holding a candle for back at home. She’s known about you for years.”

  “Jordan—”

  His voice goes low, his eyes hard. “Do you know what it’s like to be in competition with your own dad?”

  I can’t look at him, so I stare at the painting. Endless, iridescent blue. “It was never like that.”

  “Do you know what it’s like to know that you don’t stand a chance because of some stupid obsession?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “But isn’t it, though?” I hear knocking and I turn to find him picking up a glass off the mantle. I don’t remember him setting it down. He takes a long swallow. His eyes burn into me. I start to sweat.

  “It’s not like that. I swear.”

  “He can’t ever love you, Chris. He’s straight. You’re a man. I’m not even saying be with me, but for fuck’s sake…”

  I can’t take anymore. I dash to the elevator and stab the button. I’m grateful when it dings right away. The bronze doors slide open.

  I can’t hear Jordan’s voice as he draws near. So bitter and harsh. He keeps talking but I can’t hear a word he says.

  16

  Chapter 16

  I make it down to the ground floor and stumble out of the elevator, my chest heaving, my eyes stinging. I know immediately that I’ve made the wrong choice, to run. I’ve run again.

  I can’t leave it like that.

  I ask the doorman to let me back up. He nods and calls the elevator.

  Jordan is still in the room, alone and drinking, shadows around him. When I step around the corner, he looks at me and anger flashes into his eyes, but it fades as I draw closer to him. He turns his face to his phone as I sit down across from him.

  “You were supposed to be my brother,” I say and it’s honest. He was supposed to be someone I could count on and trust.

  “I was.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? Why did I have to just search it out?”

  “Tell you that I was in love with you? How should I have brought it up? What could I have said that wouldn’t have sickened you?”

  “Sickened me? Jordan, we have gay friends. I’m not a homophobe.”

  “Yeah, but we weren’t gay. You and I together. There wasn’t anything gay about us. I would have lost you. You would have accused me of tricking you.”

  “Tricking me? How? I’ve known you since we could talk. We haven’t had a choice but to be friends. Our dads are friends.”

  “Were.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “We’ve drifted apart; so have they.”

  “My dad never said.”

  “Straight men never do talk about how they feel.”

  I feel truly stunned. I left to prevent my dad losing a friend and now I find out that it was futile.

  “I really never meant to deceive you. I came back from New York acting like a little shit because I was trying to shield myself. I knew seeing you and telling you was going to be hard. I just didn’t know how hard. I didn’t want to lose you. I wanted you to be impressed, to think I was cool and interesting. Worth the risk. In the end, it didn’t matter.”

  “I tried to be there for you. To listen to you. Why didn’t you just talk to me? Tell me what was up?”

  “Would you have listened?”

  “I would have at least tried.”

  The sounds of the party, which were so quiet before seem loud now. The bass from the DJ’s speakers’ thumps. Laughter can be heard ringing out from a far corner. There is a soft tinkling that I realize comes from a chandelier above my head, comprised of what looks like a million pieces of tiny, shards of glass.

  “So, you and my dad, huh?”

  I shake my head. “He shut me down. I mean, it’s nothing. Just a one-time experiment, I guess.”

  “Good. You can move on and find someone our age.”

  I chuckle from the hopelessness of it all.

  He looks at me. “But you don’t want to find someone else, do you?”

  There’s no right answer so I stay quiet.

  What is true is that Davis Clay is the only man I’ve ever wanted to be with. No other man would ever do. For a while, I thought that meant that a woman would do but now I’m not so sure.

  “Come with me to dinner tomorrow? I know he wants to see you.”

  “Jordan…”

  “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

  I look up, into his intense eyes.

  I know it’s a bad idea, but I nod my acceptance.

  Then, I don’t leave the party after all. I stay and hang out with Jordan. After a couple hours, it almost feels like before. Almost. Like a dropped vase that someone’s glued back together. And sprinkled with glitter.

  We drink and swim and even plunk around on the piano once the DJ leaves in the early hours of the morning. Priscilla keeps her organic eggs on the counter “like they do in Paris,” so we use them to make breakfast together, some dish Priscilla remembers from her travels to Israel called shakshuka. We run out for fresh bread and sop of the spicy red sauce with it as we sit huddled around the pan. We wash it all down with strong coffee she made in a small metal contraption she bought while she was in Milan.

  I steal a quick nap afterward. When I wake up, I call an Uber and leave without disturbing Priscilla and Jordan as they’ve both fallen asleep, too. The sun washes through the glass wall into the sitting room where they are slumped on a sofa decorated with what looks like hundreds of buttons. Priscilla is using her pashmina like a blanket.

  As the car pulls away from the curb to take me home, I feel good that even though Jordan and I don’t have what we had back, we aren’t cold to each other anymore.

  A boy needs all the friends he can get.

  17

  Chapter 17

  I’m at the hotel when I get the text from Jordan begging off dinner. As I set down the phone on the table top, I realize I expected he would do just this. After last night, I don’t know what this sudden cancellation on his part means. Does it mean he can’t deal with me and his dad, after all? Is it his subtle way of giving me an okay to go for it? Either way, I was nervous before and this ratchets things up a notch. This is the first time I’ve been alone with Mr. Clay in years.

  Shit. What am I doing?

  I got home after Priscilla’s party to find all of Rebecca’s things gone. Like she just evaporated out of my life. Even the windows were bare, the curtains floated away like ghosts.

  After our disastrous dinner, I knew it was coming. But it still hurt to walk into our bedroom and find it ravaged, stripped bare. It was a physical manifestation of
the huge mess I’d made of my life since that afternoon at Mr. Clay’s house three years ago. I was wrecking my life and everyone’s life around me.

  The only thing left for me to do was come face him at dinner.

  The life I’d shared with Rebecca, though not as honest as the one I hoped to live from this moment forward, had been meaningful to me. She’d been a place of refuge for me.

  I rub my palms down the front of my pants. This whole dinner thing doesn’t have to be complicated.

  I’m the one to see him first.

  My breath catches.

  And my stupid dick stirs awake. Fuck. He’s a god and my body still craves him like I did three years ago. Not a thing has changed in that department.

  There he is across the room. I fight the urge to get up and run to him like they do it in the movies. Instead, I stay locked in my seat, my leg bouncing and thankfully hidden under the table.

  I’m used to seeing him in jeans and an old t-shirt or even better, his basketball gear. But it seems like Jordan and me aren’t the only ones who’ve been through some changes. Today, Davis wears a crisp white shirt, some tailored dark jeans and a dark blue blazer. Instead of looking like someone’s father, he looks fashionable and fresh. His face is clean shaven, and I wonder what his cheek would feel like against mine. The thought sends a warm feeling skipping around in my chest.

  He pauses in his advance before he turns his slow gaze around the room to land on me.

  And I swear he lights up.

  Seeing him light up lights me up. A smile breaks across his face that makes my cheeks hurt. My heart flutters. I don’t think it’s ever fluttered before. He’s the only one that has this effect on me.

  As he finishes his approach, I realize I’m totally into this whole look. Like really into it, from the way my cock is throbbing. Everything about Davis Clay the artiste, I approve of. From the sharp Italian brogues to the fullness of his thighs in the slim-fitting jeans to his narrow waist and broad shoulders. Even the perfect cut of his thick hair, gone pepper and salt at the temples. I can tell he wears a little pomade, but it’s not overdone. I just want to run my fingers through his hair and mess it up anyway.

  “Hey Chris,” he says, when he reaches the table and I feel what must be butterflies in my stomach and it’s fucking with my mind because it’s butterflies for a man that I technically can’t have. That’s the part of this I must keep in mind. A dude I have so much history with. I ran away from these feelings but here I am again.

  I tell myself to relax. It’s just Davis.

  But God, he has such a fucking sexy deep voice.

  I stand to greet him. He pulls me into a half hug, keeping our handshake between us, I nearly combust at the touch of his hand on my lower back as he presses me into him. My nose moves up against his neck where I take in the green, woodsy scent of his cologne. I’m trembling, I’m so nervous.

  When he pulls back, I fucking feel weak in the knees.

  I sit down to keep from making a fool of myself, but I realize it doesn’t matter because my face feels like it’s so hot it’s going to flame. I can barely look at him. I’ve never been this anxious before. My heart is thudding like it’s getting ready to launch into orbit and I still feel the traces of his embrace along my back. His fragrance lingers in my nostrils. I’m wishing that I was still in his arms. Three years is a lifetime but apparently just a blink when it comes to me and Davis.

  I’m so fucking happy, I can’t stop smiling. My cheeks burn.

  He flicks his fingers which summons a waiter out of the darkness of the room. “What do you think? Champagne? Scotch?” he asks me.

  “Champagne,” I manage to say. The waiter goes off. We’re quiet for a second just taking each other in, drinking in the view.

  “You look great,” he says. And I’m glowing, just from these three words. I’m happy I took the time to put on the slim black suit along with the skinny tie. I look a little like a hipster with my moustache and short, fluffy brown hair but I don’t mind. It’s a look Rebecca loved, and I love it, too. From Davis’ reaction, I’m guessing I got it right.

  “It’s so good to see you,” he says. As his gaze wanders over me, I feel almost like he’s peeling every piece of cloth from my frame. I shudder. My cock throbs along my thigh. I would be a liar if I said I didn’t love his attention on me like this.

  “You ever been here before?” he asks, with deep husky chuckle. Maybe he’s nervous, too?

  “My first time.” Blu, the hotel we’re in, is new. The restaurant/bar, Mojade, is all Prohibition Era cocktails with low alcohol content and lots of tufted sofas, pressed tin ceiling and dimly lit style. The hotel itself is crazy. Kind of Art Deco gone crazy and Baroque.

  “Mine, too,” Mr. Clay says.

  “How did you even find this place?” I ask him, trying to focus on his words and not the curve of his moving lips. Not my heart drumming in my chest.

  He tells me how his manager booked it for him.

  I bring up the success of his sculptures and congratulate him.

  He thanks me and tells me just how steep of a trajectory he’s on. Next month, he’s on his way to the Museum of Modern Art to talk to people there about getting something in their sculpture garden.

  “That’s ridiculous,” I say. “You’re like a shooting star.”

  He grins at me and my heart seizes. Gosh, it’s so good to just be around him again.

  The waiter comes over and serves our champagne. With the bubbles our conversation flows smoothly even though I find myself at times just staring at him, wanting him to touch me. Sometimes, I catch myself and think “Hey, that’s a guy,” then I think, “That guy wants me, and I want him.” I’m just so swept up in being in the same space with him, so close to him that I can barely think about anything else.

  In time, the conversation turns to that day.

  “Chris,” he says, his eyes on the white tablecloth as he toys with the stem of his glass. “I—”

  “It’s fine, Davis,” I interject. The last thing I want is to spoil this night. I, too, have things to tell him, but I just want a little time together. I want to hang in this space a little longer where things aren’t complicated.

  He glances up. I realized I’ve used his first name and not Mr. Clay. I blush. Scrub my hands through my hair. But then again, why shouldn’t I use his first name? Even if we’re not lovers, we’re both adults. I’ve had my hand on his cock.

  “It’s really not fine. I owe you an apology,” he starts. It craters my heart, those words. They’re so unexpected.

  “You don’t,” I assure him feeling like something somewhere is fizzling the warm glow of this evening. The shock I feel at his words is like heartbreak. I need him to stop talking like this so that I’m at least left with my memories.

  “Yes,” he says, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “I do.”

  He’s going to do it. He really is going to say something that I don’t want to hear.

  He says, “I took advantage of you.”