Tipping the Balance

by Koehler, Christopher

  That race. Brad dwelt on it quite a bit on those long afternoons, when it was too hot even for hungry real estate agents to drag wary clients out to this “entry-level” subdivision. Sure, the race itself had been one for the CalPac record books, but it was the aftermath that he returned to again and again. Coach Bedford had stepped down after dropping an atomic bomb on the crew: he’d been dating one of them! Brad hadn’t been surprised—after all, there’d been that day in the boathouse—but he acted like it. Morgan had gone off after their coach, and on a whim, Brad followed.

  What he saw had stopped him in his tracks, and every time he thought it about, it still had the power to freeze him in place. Morgan Estrada and Nick Bedford locked in an embrace, kissing like they were the only two in the world. The sight of it had puzzled his brain at the time, but the more that Brad thought about it, the more he understood it. That kiss had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with love, a love he’d never experienced. He’d thought he had, but that day after the race, watching those two men, Brad knew he’d only been fooling himself with all those chicks he’d banged in high school and beyond. Nothing with his last girlfriend, the one who’d talk about marriage, had ever felt like that kiss between Morgan and Nick looked, like for that moment, they were all that mattered. Each was the air the other breathed, the sunlight that warmed them, and the ground beneath their feet.

  Brad, a little wistfully, wondered what that might’ve been like. Then, like the caboose on a runaway freight train, came the thoughts of Drew, Coach Bedford’s fairy friend. Brad was uncomfortably aware that once upon a time he might’ve called a man like Drew St. Charles a homo, not that he’d have meant anything by it. It was just a word.

  But that was… before. Before the kiss. When he thought about it, and lately it seemed like it was all he thought about, maybe his attitude toward gays had started to change before the kiss. He’d never been homophobic; gays just weren’t on his radar. But at some point, Brad noticed Drew. He tended to show up at the local regattas, and Brad just figured it had been because he was Coach Bedford’s friend. Had he and Coach…?

  Brad shook the image out of his head. It was nowhere he wanted to go. Drew. Brad had noticed him everywhere that spring, and now he seemed to be a permanent resident of Brad’s imagination. He couldn’t figure that out. He just kind of enjoyed the fluttery feeling in his stomach that came with the thoughts.

  Brad spun in his chair and flicked his computer back awake. Damn thing was as bored as he was. He opened up the web browser and his mail account, his private e-mail, not the company account. He wasn’t that stupid.

  He started typing a note to Morgan. He wrote to him more and more lately, sometimes just to say howdy, sometimes to talk about crew, sometimes… sometimes to beat around the bush for awhile before asking Morgan to ask his boyfriend for Drew’s e-mail. Brad had already looked Drew up on Facebook. Actually, Drew seemed to have two accounts, a personal one and a professional one. The personal one was locked down tight, and Brad didn’t have the balls to friend him out of the blue. Instead, he chewed his guts out and perused the professional one for glimpses of Drew. They were there, obviously. Drew showing houses. Drew renovating, including one tantalizing pic of Drew in a tight, sweaty shirt.

  Morgan had yet to come through, but he was weakening, Brad was sure of it. Brad could be a pretty charming guy when he wanted to be, and right now, he really wanted Drew’s e-mail.

  Brad wasn’t much of a letter-writer, and the e-mail, including beating around the bush, was soon sent, and reality once again intruded. He was still stuck where he didn’t want to be, living at home, earning money at a job he hated, and a boss… he wasn’t fond of his boss, either. He missed his old life, and if he’d known what the new one held, he might’ve gone for that sixth year. He went back to staring out the window.

  It felt like hours later, but someone drove up the feeder road. Brad watched with unseeing eyes. Then he jumped as the dust cloud registered. That meant traffic. That meant something to do. That meant human contact.

  The dust cloud resolved into a pickup truck. Okay, that didn’t necessarily mean one of the construction crews. But then he caught sight of the sunburst logo of Sundstrom Homes, and his dad, Randall Sundstrom himself, got out of the truck.

  Brad sat up, pulling his feet off his desk. He rubbed one hand across his cropped hair nervously. He watched his dad approach, practically strutting. His father was shorter than he was, but broader, if that were possible, and built like a fireplug where Brad was just big and heading for beefy. Despite the weathered appearance a career spent outdoors had given him, Randall’s hair was still just as blond as it had always been. Sometimes Brad wished he’d inherited his dad’s genes for hair, rather than the baldness from his mom’s father, but mostly he’d made peace with his thinning hair.

  Randall walked in the door, a battered leathern portfolio tucked under one arm. “Bradley.” He crossed the room and went directly to the file cabinets where Brad had been told to store the files of pending and completed sales, as well as the design records on each inhabited house. “There’s nothing new here, Bradley.”

  “Randall, this place blows,” Brad complained without stopping to think first. “You told me when I agreed to come work for you that I’d be in the custom end of things.”

  Randall looked up from the file he was reading. “First of all, there was no ‘agreed to come work for me’. I hired you because with your qualifications, I’d be paying for your upkeep regardless, and this way I’m getting some work in return. Or I would be if you’d actually sell some homes.”

  “How am I supposed to do that when no one ever comes out here?” Brad grumbled.

  “You’re here to prove yourself,” Randall said, shrugging as if it weren’t really his problem.

  “How can I, when this place is dead?” Brad grumbled. Even he could tell the conversation had already curved back around on itself.

  “Bring it back. That’s one of the reasons you’re out here. Since you’re so smart, it shouldn’t be any problem for you,” Randall said.

  And there it was. Sooner or later their every argument came down to that. Randall thought Brad was stupid, and never missed a chance to remind his younger son of that fact. Every time they had this conversation, Brad felt like a naughty six-year-old caught with his hand in the cookie jar or breaking a window. Or breaking a window with the cookie jar.

  Brad knew he wasn’t the smartest guy around, but he also knew he wasn’t that dumb, either. He’d actually done all right in school, graduating with a respectable GPA, even if he’d been a physical education major. But Randall had decided that of his two sons, Brad was the dumb one, and no amount of evidence to the contrary would be entertained.

  Brad took a deep breath and tried again. “You specifically told me that I would be working in the custom division, not here. This isn’t even the active part of the tract-home division. This place is going to fail, and you know it.”

  “Prove yourself, then talk to me about a transfer,” Randall said, shrugging.

  “How can I do that when this place is dying?”

  Another parental shrug. “That’s why I’ve put you here. New blood, fresh ideas.”

  “Well, gee, Dad, I’ll just rewrite the marketing plan, since this one’s not working so well. Oh wait, I never studied marketing!” Brad said, trying to sound like Drew, the wittiest person he knew. He slapped his forehead. “That’s right, you pay some company for that. You’re sure getting your money’s worth. You never even asked me. You just plunked me down out here after telling me—guaranteeing me—that I’d start in the custom division. If I’d known I was going to be stuck out here in Outermost Bumfuck, I’d have taken another job,” Brad said.

  “What other jobs?” Randall asked pointedly. “Did you even apply for anything else, or did you just assume I’d carry your ass like I always do?”

  Brad looked down. “I didn’t apply for anything else because you promised me a job.”

>   “You’ve got no experience,” Randall said with exaggerated patience, “and—”

  “You mean besides every summer since I started high school? I’ve done everything on the homes you build but pick out carpet in the design center. I’ve even led crews,” Brad said.

  “No experience that counts,” Randall snapped, “and you’re lucky to have this one. Grow up.”

  “I am grown up,” Brad said.

  “You can’t be a teenager forever, but that’s what you act like. Man up. It’s time,” Randall said, shaking his head. He opened the leather folder and pulled out a business card. “Here’s the number for that worthless advertising agency. Call our sales rep and see what you can come up with to turn this place around.”

  “Oh yes, sir,” Brad muttered as Randall stomped back to his truck. He glared at the clock. Fifteen whole minutes later than the last time he’d looked. At this time just a few months before, he’d have been carrying oars down the dock to get ready for practice. The realization made the office around him look smaller and tackier than it already was.

  He picked the business card off the desk and stared at it for long moments. How the hell was he supposed to come up with a marketing plan, advertising agency or not? He almost wished he’d studied something useful in college, but CalPac College didn’t offer building management, and the communications major was aimed at broadcast journalism rather than PR. But somehow he was supposed to convince real estate agents to bring their clients out to this godforsaken wasteland.

  Wait a minute. Brad sat up a little straighter in his chair. Drew was a real estate agent. He grinned, the first time since he’d started working there, as an idea sprouted.

  Chapter Two

  “Good, you’re here,” Nick said when Drew walked in to check the progress of the Abernathy renovation early one morning. “The flooring finally arrived, and we’re behind here, but you also want me to oversee the start of the demolition at the McKinley Park property and then place that order at the hardware store before I deal with the other five things you’ve got on the list for today. Despite my reputation for awesome studliness, I can only do one thing at a time, and there are only twenty-four hours in a day. Pick one.”

  “God, you’re up early. Don’t you ever sleep?” Drew said, squinting at Nick over his bladder-buster-sized coffee.

  “It’s six and I’m a rower. I’ve been awake since four thirty. Besides, you’re the one who said sleep is for sissies,” Nick said, grinning at Drew’s obvious pain.

  “And you said I’m a sissy, so it’s your fault,” Drew muttered.

  Nick just laughed. “Seriously, I can’t be everywhere at once.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Drew said, thinking. “Call the flooring contractor and beg. All that reclaimed teak doesn’t do a lick of good if it just sits in the garage. I just hope we haven’t lost the window of opportunity and have to go with someone else. She’s one of the best in town.”

  “Will do,” Nick said, nodding. “Then?”

  “The demolition, then the order, and then the list, which is exactly what you just told me. Why did you even need to bother me with this?” Drew asked.

  “Because you’re the boss, and I’m not a contractor. Seriously? Wood floors in a kitchen? I don’t care how much marine varnish we put on this, water’ll get under it,” Nick said.

  “I know, but we’re not the decorator. This is kind of an unusual case. When Emily Schoenwald called begging, I couldn’t tell her no. Her regular contractor flaked and is now her ex-contractor. But that left her without someone to oversee the reno, and this is a chance for me to build my renovations portfolio. We’re kind of in the middle between the decorator and Bob Miller, the tame contractor I keep on a string who checks off all my work before it’s inspected.”

  Nick shrugged. “It’s not my kitchen, but I’ve seen what water does to the docks at boathouse. They’ll be yanking this out within five years, tops.”

  “Speaking of crew and tops,” Drew said, drawing a sharp glance from Nick. “Can I please, please, please have Brad’s number?”

  “I told you—” Nick began.

  “Yes, you did,” Drew said, “and your integrity is one of the reasons I love you, but damn, man. Help me out.”

  Nick leaned against the counter, regarding Drew. “What is it about him that gets to you?”

  “He’s just… I don’t know. There’s just something about him that grabs hold of me and won’t let go.” Drew didn’t feel like getting into it right then with Nick. It made him feel defensive. He knew Nick didn’t mean it that way, but still.

  “He’s been e-mailing Morgan a disturbing amount this summer. I’ll remind Morgan that he can give Brad your info if Brad asks for it, but honestly, that’s the best we can do,” Nick said.

  “I know.” Drew sighed, wishing it was more.

  Nick looked at his watch. “I’ve got my marching orders for today, but I’ve also got a time slot in the human performance lab at school. As much as I use all those erg tests in my research, I need more data points than I can wring out of my crews. I’ll call the flooring contractor on my way to school and get on the rest when I’m done.”

  “Thanks, buddy, I appreciate it. I’ll check on the work crew myself. Keep me posted on the flooring situation,” Drew said as Nick headed out to his car.

  As long as he was there, Drew decided he’d better inspect the rest of the job very thoroughly. Hopefully the snafu with the flooring wouldn’t push the job too far past the due date, but in case it did, he needed to be able to justify it to the designer and the homeowners. He grabbed the file and a pen and started prowling. He needed a contractor of his own, or better yet, he needed to be a contractor, but how was that going to happen? He couldn’t just quit real estate to work for his contractor’s license, even assuming his home reno experience would give him enough background in the necessary trades. He had bills to pay, and that meant selling houses.

  He was stuck in a holding pattern. Real estate was slower than it had been and home reno was booming, but he couldn’t afford to jump into reno full-time because he financed his reno business through selling homes. Until he figured out a way out of this puzzle, he couldn’t really grow either aspect of his business.

  As he went over each room from ceiling to floor, looking for flaws in the install or even just too much dust from the plaster, Drew’s mind moved to his usual favorite subject these days.

  Brad.

  Drew couldn’t shake the guy from his mind and didn’t want to, when it came down to it. The attraction mystified him, but it was there and it was real. Brad wasn’t gay. He wasn’t beautiful in the usual sense. He wasn’t scathingly intelligent, although Drew had no data for that beyond Nick’s comments.

  There was just something about him, something Drew found compelling beyond his “big lug” looks. Sure, the beefy build and shaved head hit all the right notes for him, but there was more than that. That shy smile Brad gave him when Drew helped after regattas. After the last one, the big win at the PCRCs, Drew was pretty sure Brad had been looking for him and didn’t relax until he spotted him. That shy smile went right to Drew’s heart… and groin.

  But was Brad gay—that was the question. Sure, there was that smile. But what else, besides the vague feeling that where there was smoke, there’d be fire? Drew liked to think his gaydar was highly developed, but where Brad was concerned, he wasn’t sure. Brad pinged on his screen, but Drew knew very well that wishful thinking overrode gaydar every time, and where Brad was concerned, Drew wished pretty hard.

  But then Drew remembered the last time he’d spotted a closeted jock about whom he just hadn’t been 100 percent sure. He’d studied the guy and then made his move, luring the guy out of the closet and into his life, and now Morgan Estrada reaped the rewards for Drew’s perseverance all those years before.

  Nick had been a challenge, but Drew had always thrived on those, even as a child, defiantly and, at times, flamboyantly himself in the face of his family’s horr
or at the bird of paradise amidst the sparrows. Once they’d come around, he’d used their love as a shield behind which he’d stared down high-school bullies and tackled other perils of adolescence and adulthood.

  Now Drew had found a new challenge. Sure, Brad was a little rough around the edges, but that was part of his charm and attraction. Drew’d dated plenty of suave and polished men, and none of those relationships had lasted. No, Drew had the desire and the drive to coax Brad out of the closet, and as soon as he had the means to do so, like a phone number and address….

  Address. Shit. He looked at his watch. He also had a meeting with his broker and then an appointment to show clients a handful of houses. It was going to be a long day.

  Morgan came through! Good ol’ Morgan, Brad thought. He was a stand-up guy, and when Brad had checked his private e-mail upon getting to work that morning, a message from Morgan had greeted him. With bated breath—and really, when had Brad ever done anything with bated breath?—he’d opened the e-mail, and pay dirt! There it was, contact information for one Mr. Drew St. Charles, e-mail, cell phone, even the land line. How cool was that?