Fade In : A Tales of Bryant Novella #1 (Tales of Bryant Novellas)

by V. L. Locey

  “I wish you’d let me ride home with you,” he said, taking the suitcase from me as we made our way out to the sidewalk. A hot wind ruffled his hair.

  “You don’t want to see where I live,” I answered, stealing a kiss then another, and then a final one. He ran a finger along my arm then, as if handing it over caused him great pain, he passed the small suitcase to the driver who dropped it into the trunk.

  “I do, honestly.” I shook my head. “Okay, okay, I’m backing off now. Just know that I do have deep feelings for you, and I want to resume this when I get back.”

  I smiled and nodded, unable to really say anything that would make the moment any less gut-wrenching.

  “It’s been amazing,” I finally came up with. A taxi pulled up behind the Lexus then laid on the horn. “I have to go.”

  I grabbed his head, kissed him hard and fast, and then crawled into my ride home. I never looked back as the car pulled from the curb. If I had I’d have probably thrown myself out of the car and gone racing back to him, pride and common sense be damned, and we’d have a glittery little happily-ever-after as the credits rolled. Only this wasn’t a movie no matter how badly we both wished it was. God, how I wished it was…

  Chapter Seven

  Seven weeks later

  “Can you please double check one more time?”

  The dude behind the glass in the financial aid office was getting pissed. The students behind me with crinkled FAFSA forms and copies of their parents’ tax forms were getting pissed. I felt ant-sized, but there had to have been a mistake.

  “I’ve read over your account five times, Mr. Maxwell. Your tuition bill for your final two semesters is paid in full.” He was now snippy. Someone behind me grumbled about rich kids. But I wasn’t rich, that was the whole point. I was a lower-class kid from Kansas who’d been tossed to the gutter like a sock with a hole in the toe. All communication and financial support had been terminated. Right? Could my mother have maybe made a sneak-around somehow, skirting my father’s dictates? No, no, it was just too far-fetched even for a guy who worked in the world of cinematic make-believe. “Now, if there’s nothing else, the line behind you is growing longer and more irritable with each passing moment.”

  I chanced a glance over my shoulder. Ouch, yeah, angry CUNY students. Lots of them.

  “Sorry,” I told the line then turned back to the skinny guy with the thick glasses and utter lack of shit giving. And it was only ten after nine in the morning. Poor bastard. I’d rather shovel human waste into trash cans than work in financial aid during the week prior to classes starting. “Can you at least tell me who paid for my tuition? Was it my parents?”

  He gave me a long lethal look before he started typing again. Several people behind me groaned in misery. I shrank down into myself a bit more. Maybe it was my mother. If it was, then perhaps that meant she was ready to reach out to me. I could call her. She could fly out and I could show her my city and—

  “Why are you jerking my chain like this?” Mr. Weary behind the glass asked. I stared blankly at him. He rolled his eyes. “Seriously, do you not check your mail? They always send a congratulatory letter to the winner of the scholarship.”

  “Uhm.” He huffed. Literally huffed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “A letter. It’s a written or typed communication in an envelope that is sent to you via the postal service.”

  Okay, now he was just being a jerk. “I know what a letter is. What I’m saying is I never got any letter about any scholarship, grant, or endowment.”

  That brought him up short. “Oh. Well, that’s unusual. They’re usually very good about that. Well, go home and check your mail. I’m sure there’s a letter from the LGBTQ Film and Arts Society telling you all about how you were chosen to be the recipient of this year’s Future Filmmaker Scholarship Award. Next!”

  I wanted to ask a few more questions, but the girl behind me shoved me aside while stabbing me to death with dirty looks. Hoisting my bag to my shoulder, I slunk out of the financial aid office, just as confused as I had been when I’d entered it. I sat down on a low brick wall, the sun beating down on the back of my neck and studied the students rolling into campus and strolling past. There was something odd about all of this. I’d not applied for any kind of filmmaking grant or award, simply because I didn’t know there was such a thing. A bee flew past me, intent on the thick crop of black-eyed Susans in the neatly manicured flowerbed behind me.

  Two guys jogged past, talking loudly about hockey. A pack of girls, young, probably freshman, hurried along, their tiny sandals and short skirts catching the eye of the two hockey guys.

  I wasn’t sure why I was so upset about all of this. Most students would be thrilled to find out they owed zero for two semesters, including room and board. Moving back into the dorms would feel like leaving the benches and bunking in Brian’s loft had back when I’d been on the streets. And I was happy, really I was, but there were two nagging nits to pick. One was that my mother had not paid for my tuition. Realistically, I knew she wouldn’t be able to, which was why I’d gotten student loans for my first three years. But that flash of hope had been nice. I blew out a long breath through pursed lips.

  Right, no point wallowing in the past. I spent enough time there every waking moment thinking of Caiden. Didn’t help that Isamu texted me all the fucking time with updates about the movie, Caiden, how bummed he was that Brian hadn’t been able to get a temporary transfer and now had to fly out to the set when he could wiggle it in, Caiden, how hot it was in Arizona, Caiden, the amazingness of the actors, Caiden, the fact that he found a scorpion inside a prop boot, and Caiden. I wanted to scream “Enough!” but I was too polite. Stupid Corn Belt manners.

  Lifting my face to the sun, I closed my eyes and concentrated on this grant. Where had I heard of the LGBTQ Film and Arts Society? Had my student advisor mentioned it? Unlikely as she seemed to only care about my issues when I forced her to care about them. I’d given up on applying for all those oddball handouts after my freshman year when I’d been turned down for the twenty or so I’d applied for. So, was this some old application that had somehow clawed its way to the top of the pile? Doubtful. Sweat popped out on my brow. My dorm room was a double occupancy shared room, which was fine. I was not going to bitch about sharing a room when someone else was footing the bill. I’d done it for three years, so what was one more?

  My phone buzzed. I sighed. If this was Isamu again, I was going to throw myself off the Brooklyn Bridge. It was within sight so it was doable. The man was relentless. He had this stupid idea that everyone had to end up happily wedded to the man of their dreams. There was no way he was giving up on me and Caiden, as I had, according to him. Which was total bullshit because you cannot make a relationship work long distance, and we’d never even had a relationship. It was a two-week fling. Not his fault I fell in love with him. Not his fault at all. Totally on me. I bet Polly and he were talking about what a stupid little prat I’d been. I bet they made me the topic of Sunday morning chit-chat just to giggle about the dumb kid from Kansas. Bet they never called me pompous or standoffish like they did Brian, or adorable and sweet like they did Isamu. I bet they’d exhausted the subject of stupid Devon and were now onto other things like art and how much money this person or that one donated to this or that charity and how…

  My eyes flew open. Someone called to someone else, a guy to a girl, as the remembrance flared to life in stunning Technicolor.

  “He’s just distant.”

  “Distant is one word for Gilles. A pompous prick is another.”

  “That’s two words, Caiden. Also, do keep in mind that while Brian might be standoffish he is the largest contributor to the LGBTQ Film and Arts Society, which you are a co-chair of.”

  “No way,” I muttered, giving the tiny honeybee buzzing around my head a soft brush away with my hand. Had Caiden leaned on someone to give me that scholarship? No. Fuck. Ugh. Now it felt cheap and dirty and undeserved. How d
are he do such a thing? I yanked my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans and had Caiden’s number punched when I realized we’d stopped communicating right after he’d reached Cave Creek, Arizona, at my request. Hearing from him had just been too painful, even if they were just film related texts and images. I ended the call and began pacing. I had to know if Caiden was behind this before I rampaged his ass. “Brian,” I murmured as I stalked back and forth in front of financial aid. “I bet he knows and would tell me if it were Caiden, especially if I said I was pissed about it.”

  An older woman gave me a dark look as she walked past. I ducked my head, my anger propelling my feet to the nearest subway entrance. Within ten minutes I was in Manhattan, my ire building as I pounded down city streets, the address of Pazat & Lamb Web Designs front and center on my phone. The tall mirrored building on 42nd Street loomed over me. Still filled with righteous indignation, I pushed inside, registered as a guest of Brian Gilles after a call was made, found the directory, and made my way to the twentieth floor. As I rode up in the elevator, I started to feel the tingle of self-consciousness settling in. Everyone in the swank lift with me was in business wear, and I was working the distressed jeans, apple green tank top with BC FILM on the front, and sloppy sandals. Had I combed my hair this morning after being evicted from my room under the Blossom Bop? Probably not. Shit.

  Exiting with my eyes averted, I stumbled out into the lobby of Pazat & Lamb and found a slim young woman with dark eyes, deeply tanned skin, and a bright yellow dress waiting for me.

  “Mr. Maxwell?” I nodded. She smiled. “I’m Aarushi, Mr. Gilles new office assistant. He’s cleared five minutes for you if you’d like to follow me?”

  I fell in behind her, trying to dredge up the fire I’d had in my belly on the way over. There were doors open along the long corridor, some had meeting rooms inside, and others were offices where people were working. The carpeting was so thick we made no noise as we walked to the office at the end of the hall. We stopped in front of a solid door with BRIAN GILLES, CTO engraved into the rich, dark wood. She knocked, I swallowed, and we were summoned to enter. Stepping into Brian’s office was like stepping into the set of Wall Street.

  Everything was done in silver and gray. The floor was smoky gray, the furniture a deep sooty color, the windows were huge and looked down upon New York City. Brian’s desk was in the corner, in front of the sweeping panoramic view. Behind the sleek, modern desk that held a laptop, a coffee mug, and a swath of papers, sat Brian. Austere, distant, mouthwateringly hot while icy cold. I wished I’d thought this out more before shouting at his office assistant about needing to see him right fucking now.

  Hazel eyes lifted from the readouts and papers strewn across his desk. “You have five minutes. Speak quickly and it had better be important.”

  “Would you like refreshments brought in, Mr. Gilles?” Aarushi asked as she backed to the door.

  “No, thank you. He won’t be here long enough to have a drink,” Brian replied. Out she went and there I stood, gaping at him like a brainless fruit fly. He looked at me then the slim gold watch on his left wrist, the sun catching the shiny new wedding band on his finger as he rolled his hand over to check the time. “Four minutes.”

  “What do you know about me getting the LGBTQ Film and Arts Society yearly scholarship?”

  He leaned back in his chair, his gaze moving down over me then back up. Now I felt even more badly dressed. There he sat in a three-piece navy suit that probably cost more than the grant I’d been given and here was me in my ratty student gear.

  “What makes you think I have any idea as to why you got that scholarship? Perhaps they thought you were the most talented and needy of the applicants?” I rolled a shoulder. His eyebrow lifted an inch. “Ah, no, you’re not here all flushed and fired-up because you’re curious about the grant; you’re here because you think that Candida gave it to you because he fucked you.”

  “I fucked him and maybe.” Oh crap. I shouldn’t have let that slip maybe. My stupid suitcases were getting heavy. Thankfully, Brian didn’t ask about them, and I didn’t offer any explanations.

  Brian smiled, and it was at once breathtaking and a little frightening. “Well, I didn’t picture him as a bottom at all. Imagine that.”

  “So, do you know anything?”

  “No, why would I?” He was already shifting from me to his work, as his eyes darted down to the papers in front of him.

  “Because your name has been mentioned in association with it a few times and I—”

  That brought his gaze back to me. “Listen, Devon, I have nothing to do with the Film and Art Society other than giving them a ton of money every year. Why are you in my face tossing this petty crap at me anyway? Why not call Craven and ask him if he gave you that handout?”

  “Caiden. His name is Caiden. And we’re not seeing each other anymore.” That still hurt to say.

  “Yes, I know. I’m growing sick of hearing Isamu go on about how right you two are for each other, and how he needs to help get you two back together, and how worried he is that your chance at true love might escape you.” The sarcasm was so thick it was a wonder it didn’t slide down the glass in sheets of yellow acidic goop. Then, his tone softened, just a little. “That’s one of the reasons I married him. His big, warm heart helps to defrost my tiny, cold one.” I nodded silently. Brian sighed, looked at his watch, and then settled those brownish-green eyes on me. “I only donate to them. I’m sure the only way you’ll get the truth is to call Caiden. Now, if the Degrassi: College Years angst and drama is over for the morning, I have a job that needs my attention if I hope to make my flight out to Arizona on time this evening.”

  “Oh right, sure. I’m just going. Thanks, Brian.” Aarushi appeared before I could open the door myself. She whisked me along in a hurry, smiling and steering me to the elevator with a small hand on my elbow. I was standing outside on the street when the full impact of how clean and precisely I’d been ejected from Brian’s office hit me.

  I wandered a bit, eventually ending up in Central Park. I wasn’t scheduled to pull a shift today, and really didn’t want to spend my time hanging out with my boss on my day off. How fucking pathetic would that be? Returning to campus had a real pull to it, but for now I just wanted to sit in the shade and think about what Brian had said. He was right. The only real way to find out if Caiden had pulled strings would be to call and ask him. Not Polly or Isamu or Brian. I had to go to the man himself. Ugh. Hearing his voice in my ear would make my heart ache again. Again hell. Still. Always. It always ached. The pain wasn’t lessening.

  I prayed that school and work would make the yearning ease up. Calling him certainly wasn’t going to do so, but I had to know if I’d been given such a great gift because I’d slept with one of the committee chairs. If that were the case, I’d refund the money. Throw it right back in his face if necessary and then get a second job. And third job. Maybe a fourth. Whatever it took. I’d eat burnt brioche or stale donuts from the Muffin Top sets for the next year as long as I wasn’t being rewarded for my dick having been inside Caiden’s ass on a nightly basis.

  I found a seat under a huge tree next to a couple of old men playing chess. The air was muggy, the wind brisk. The stirrings of a thunderstorm could be felt on the air. I turned my back to the chess players, looked at the contacts list on my phone, and tapped Caiden’s number. My gut rolled over on itself, much like the dough Lou and I supervised every day being kneaded and twisted on that big spinning hook. Texting would have been an option, cowardly maybe, but perhaps a better one in the long run because when I heard his voice I’d either—

  “Devon, hello. I’m so happy to hear from you.” Caiden’s greeting sucked all the fire out of me for a moment. Sitting among chess and backgammon players, kids laughing, people riding bikes and jogging, the hustle-bustle of the city all around us, the earth opened up and swallowed me. Only me. Eyes squeezed shut, I felt myself fall into a pit filled with the quicksand of loneliness and want. �
�It’s been a long time since we talked. Is everything okay?”

  Arm pressed to my stomach, I bent over, pinning my forearm to my midsection, pulling in shaky breaths, my world now reduced to his voice and the sweat on the nape of my neck.

  “Did you rig that endowment thing from the LGBTQ Film and Arts Society?”

  I heard his exhalation and winced. Fuck, he did know about it. “Not even a hello, huh?” He waited. I said nothing. “Okay then, we’ll get right into it. Never mind that I just woke up or haven’t even had coffee yet.” It was on the tip of my tongue to ask if he’d woken up alone, but I scraped that query off my tongue with my top teeth. “I did not rig it. I may have mentioned your name when the selection process began.”

  And just like that, all my jealousy, rage, and impotence over all my stupid choices and decisions burst free. Like a pen leaking ink or a wound hemorrhaging blood, livid words pulsed out of me with each thump of my speeding heart.

  “Why would you do that?” Breath. “You know I have to do this on my own.” Breath. “It’s important that I show my parents and the world that I’m a capable gay man!” Breath. “I can handle this. I don’t need your help; don’t you get that?” Gasping breath. “I don’t want your money, your connections, your grants, your apartment, or your clothes. I never wanted any of that!” Furious shaking shout. “I never wanted anything from you but your love, you asshole, and you gave me everything but the thing I desired the most!”

  “Devon…”

  “No, do not. Just do not. I’m going to tell the people who co-chair with you to give that money to someone who didn’t fuck his way into that scholarship nomination. Don’t ever talk to me or interfere in my life again. I might be a throwaway but I’m not some experiment or some sort of pauper for the movie prince to ride in and save. Either you love me as I am or you don’t love me at all.”