by Kelly Fox
It’s like they have the same brain, I swear. “I’m just going to let you and Heath figure out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life, and I’ll just start showing up wherever you tell me to go.”
“Jean-Pierre, baby, don’t play with my emotions. If you give me that kind of power, we’ll all be rich. Hell, our great-great-grandchildren’ll be rich. You say the word, and I’m all over it.”
“I don’t need to be a billionaire, Cricket, okay? I just want to make sure that that I have my needs taken care of and that I can keep my charities operational.”
“Sure, Jean-Pierre. I get that, but I’d like to be a billionaire, and that means selling your ass to the highest bidder whenever I can.” She chuckles to herself.
“Why do I pay you two?” I ask, laughing sincerely. “I mean I nearly died fleeing for my life, and I wonder sometimes if you think that’s just a cool story that you can tell.”
I may have laid it on a little thick at the end there; Cricket’s eye roll is practically audible. “I believe the idea to sell your sad refugee story came from you,” she snarks back.
I laugh, which is probably inappropriate given the subject matter, but hell, if it happened to me, I can laugh all I want. “True, true. But I just wanted to make sure that people out there weren’t alone in their experiences with PTSD, war, and being a refugee. And I wanted to get the word out for Camp Sehene. It was for a good cause.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. But now that we know it works, we could make some real money,” she says, cackling.
If I didn’t know that she donated fifty thousand of her own dollars to my basketball camps and schools in Rwanda, I might be tempted to take her greed at face value. But Cricket is good people. Even if she is named after a bug.
“All right then, let’s go in with the robber-barons of the world and get super rich,” I say, smiling.
“Just keep doing what you’re doing with UT and your charities, and Heath and I will come up with a package that you’ll enjoy, that’ll make us money, and that will do good in the world. Sound good to you?”
“Yeah, sounds great to me. Get back to me when y’all have something.”
The twin gasps on the phone make me laugh way too hard. Cricket pipes up, “Y’all? Seriously? When did you start saying y’all?”
“I was trying something,” I say, thinking of a certain dark-haired Texan with a beautiful accent.
“Just… no. Y’all in a Montreal accent is wrong. You do that again, and I’m going to call your mother.”
“Oh come on, Cricket. Don’t be like that. My mother does not need to know what I’m getting up to in Austin, and believe me, she would use any excuse for a visit.”
The line goes silent for a long second. “Jean-Pierre, do I need to know what you’re getting up to in Austin?”
There’s the in I need, but I hesitate, wondering if now is really the right time to tell them. We’ve never gotten much into my personal life, though they were there for me when my marriage imploded. They didn’t quite understand why I wasn’t willing to throw Silvia under the bus after her affair with my teammate went viral and I had paparazzi stalking my house, but they went along with my suggestions and didn’t grumble too much about it.
“Jean-Pierre, that pause is making me nervous. Go ahead, say it. Quick like a Band-Aid. Remember, if we are to be robber-barons, then there must be honor among thieves,” Cricket says, sounding both nervous and supportive. It’s a talent.
Heath, who’d been listening quietly, says, “Hell, if I can tell you about my bisexual awakening and the world’s most awkward first date, you can share whatever it is that you’ve got going on up there in Austin.”
That was a funny story, and I’d felt like a hypocrite while he was telling it. Cricket’s right. Time get it out in the open.
“Well, I can tell you for sure that I am not bisexual.”
“Oh god, did you get somebody pregnant?” Cricket’s question is half-serious, half-joking.
“Congratulations, man—fatherhood is awesome,” Heath chuckles through the line.
I roll my eyes and snort a little to myself. “I’m sorry, let me be more clear. I am not bisexual. I’m gay.”
The silence on the phone line is nerve-racking. I know these two pretty well, and they’re obviously not homophobes, but I kept an important piece of myself from them, and this is our combined finances on the line that I’m talking about.
“Holy shit, dude. Way to bury the headline. You’re gay? Does this mean you’re in love with me?” Heath says in his deadpan voice.
“Wait, wait, wait. Does this mean you’ll never be in love with me?” Cricket’s smile vibrates through the phone, if that’s even possible.
“Sorry, my friends. I’m already in love. And to be honest, I’m not exactly sure how I should proceed with the publicity, especially with what happened after Silvia.”
“Shit! Silvia! What’s the deal there? Is that why she started fucking your teammate?”
I nod and then remember I’m on a call. “It was messy, and we had a couple of not-so-great weeks, but we’ve been on speaking terms for a while now. I still consider her a close friend.”
“Hell yeah, she is,” Cricket says. “She hasn’t responded to a single one of the homewrecker articles that have been written about her and Logan.”
“Dude, back up. You’re in love?” Heath’s question is warm, and he sounds genuinely happy for me.
Cricket pipes in, mostly sarcastic, “You kept this huge secret from us for over twenty years, and the first we’re hearing of it… you’re already a goner? We don’t get to show you off dating that hot country singer, Cameron something-or-other, or, if you like a slightly more seasoned vibe, Zachary Quinto, or… “
“Zachary Quinto is my age, stop calling him seasoned. And while Cameron Hawthorn is delicious, my heart already has its mate.”
Cricket and Heath sigh in unison, and little love hearts fly out of my phone. “Honestly, I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a while. I believe that my lovecrush knows how I feel, but I’ve been hesitant because of the publicity that this might get, and the fact that he is dealing with an anxiety issue. I feel so terrible that—”
Cricket comes on the line. “Jean-Pierre. Shut. Up. We love you to pieces, man. I’m sad that you had to wait so long to be able to be yourself, but I can’t be mad at you when you say words like ‘lovecrush’ and ‘my heart already has its mate.’ It makes me want to take my own dead, shriveled heart and see if it might have a mate out there.”
“Seriously, JP. You give me hope,” Heath says, his voice a little husky. For such a large guy, he’s just a big ol’ softy.
Cricket’s shrewdness returns. “And have you talked to Silvia about any of this?”
“Yes…”
“And…?”
“She says that I shouldn’t make a big deal out of it and just start living my life and let people draw whatever conclusions they want to draw. Instead of coming out, maybe start a new trend, where people simply be with who they want to be with and don’t make a big production of it.”
I cross my fingers and wait for Cricket’s response.
She makes thinking sounds for a moment and then says, “You know… I don’t hate it. Feels like getting out ahead of the curve. We’re too cool to explain to other people how we live our lives. You can get on board, or you can miss the train because Jean-Pierre is pulling from the station.” She even makes a little choo-choo sound. Dork.
I’m not surprised by their support, but I’m floored that they’re willing to go in this direction. “I have to admit, this feels premature to talk about before I’ve even had this conversation with Jake.”
“His name is Jake?” Heath asks.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice soft.
“You sound even more in love when you say his name, Jean-Pierre. And yeah, it is weird to talk to us before you talk to him, but that’s the life we lead, can’t be helped.”
Cricket speaks up, thoughtful.
“Well, I say go get your man so that we can stop talking in hypotheticals and start talking in reality. When you know that it’s going to work out, and it will because no man could stand against that much love, give me a call, and the four of us will chat about what to expect and how to navigate it.”
“Sounds good. Thank you, guys.”
“Buddy, I’ve gotta ask… did you not feel that you could tell us? I mean, not even me?” Heath’s question is gentle, and not unexpected.
I sigh, feeling so bad for misleading them. “It was never going to be a reality for me. I was so far in the closet, I would sometimes forget. My wife had to cheat on me to draw it out of me.”
“I know it’s been painful, my friend, but this is the part where it gets fun,” adds Cricket, with nothing but support in her words.
I thank them for their help and friendship, and then we spend the next fifteen minutes making gay jokes. Eh, what we lack in maturity we make up for in a solid and affectionate friendship. When I think about where my life began, and where it is now, I am grateful.
Chapter Four
Jake
My temporary date raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow and taps his Hermès-edition Apple Watch. We’re late for an art event that I’ve been dying to go to, and I’m realizing in this very moment that I just don’t want to go to it with him. So, as I’m running the quarterly tax documents to Wrecked on my way into downtown, I’m also trying to figure out how to end the night single.
The spot closest to the back entrance opens up, and I make my way over there, almost to have it taken by an enormous Cadillac XT6. Jean-Pierre. I hide my smile as he waves me in, taking the next parking space over. He’s in workout gear, and his long, beautiful locs are tied back in a loose bun. He’s effortlessly stylish, and I notice the Hublot Big Bang watch on his wrist, a $25,000 watch that he’s deemed perfect for casual wear. Roger’s beautiful $1,500 Apple Watch looks like it came from a gumball machine in comparison.
“Jake!” he calls out, jogging to give me a gentle hug. “It’s nice to see you again.”
A little under a year ago I would’ve gone stiff in his arms, but the aftershave he wears isn’t the dangerous kind, and I let him hold me in his warm embrace. After a moment he pulls away carefully, keeping a hand on my shoulder. Smiling up at him, I joke, “Same to you. Is that your new car? I figured you for a Bugatti.”
“In Austin traffic? I would never drive my Bugatti here,” he says with a laugh.
My mouth drops open. “You actually have one?”
He giggles as his eyes skate over my still-open mouth. “No, Jake. I’m flashy, not entirely impractical. I can’t even fit into a Bugatti. Speaking of flashy, you look good. Going somewhere?”
I glance over at Roger, and his eyes are about popped out of his head. I’m guessing that he doesn’t know who Jean-Pierre Sehene is, just that he’s a man hotter and taller than anyone has the right to be. Can’t say that I blame him.
“Qui c’est?” Who’s that?
“My date for tonight,” I say, self-consciously rearranging my clothing. I’ve got on a black, loosely woven cotton tunic with artfully frayed edges, inky-black skinny jeans, soft almost-motorcycle boots, and a nearly gossamer charcoal-gray loose-weave scarf to complete the outfit. I happen to like my style, but Roger’s response when I opened the door was, “Who the fuck died?”
Like I said, temporary.
“Wow, mon ami. I dig this ensemble. Very ‘angry European.’ The boots and guyliner are a nice touch.”
Already on edge and agitated by Roger’s judgment, I look up at him, uncertain. “I get that black and gray are not the most popular choices, but it is what I prefer.”
He puts his hands up. “I’m not making fun of you, Jake. I meant that you look nice, and I don’t play around when it comes to fashion. You’re très chic, honest. And you wear your personality, just like I do,” he says, gesturing at his loud magenta-and-black camo compression tights, paired with a perfectly cut black tank and $800 Prada high-tops. The man owns his own shoe line and still wears Prada.
Gesturing toward Roger, who is back to fidgeting with his Apple Watch, he says, “That guy? I have no idea if he’s dark and moody, or kind and funny, or just a fucking asshole.” The last part seemed to have more heat to it than seemed entirely necessary.
I drop my head, biting back a grin. “Ugh, worse. He’s vanilla.”
Jean-Pierre’s eyebrows knit together. “Vanilla? I’m guessing you don’t mean my favorite flavor of ice cream.”
I laugh, less of a rarity these days. “Seriously, Jean-Pierre? You’ve got rocky road, mint chocolate chip, pistachio, turtle fudge, and chocolate, and you choose vanilla?”
“So what? I like what I like,” he says, no fucks given as he casually fingers my scarf. “You wear only black, and I want nothing but vanilla.”
“God, I really hope not,” I say, looking down, surprised at the words falling out of my mouth. Not that I can do any of the kinky things I used to, and not that it would matter if he was vanilla, but…
Jean-Pierre tilts his head, as if trying to understand me. Grabbing me gently by the scruff of my neck, he leans in and whispers, “I would watch out for this vanilla man if I were you, Jake.”
His hushed words in my ear are a honeyed aphrodisiac, and I dread this stupid date even more than I did before. Jesus, what this man does to me. He looks me up and down one more time, approval like sunshine on his face, then gives me a gentle side squeeze.
Jean-Pierre
I googled the different meanings of vanilla, and, aside from the traditional definitions, discovered that it is a way to differentiate between someone who likes more straightforward sex versus someone who enjoys kink. My lower belly tightens as I remember his words: God, I hope not.
I smile, thinking about how perfectly his body fits up against mine when we embrace. Don’t worry, my dark cloud… I may not be experienced, but I am definitely not vanilla.
I get a warm, bubbly feeling every time I see his beautifully disgruntled face, and I wonder how he navigates a power exchange. Several months ago he’d become paralyzed every time I hugged him, but now it only happens every once in a while. If I’m to make him mine, I want to do everything I can to ensure that I’m never the reason he’s doing that.
Sometimes I forget that I have an excellent resource on speed dial. I reach into my center console for my phone, the latest and greatest in mobile technology of course, and call my ex-wife, reminding myself to leave the kink talk out of it.
Dr. Silvia Becker, ex-model, psychotherapist, and actual good human, picks up on the third ring. “Pete! How are you doing?” Her tone is crisp and cordial.
“You do know that I hate that nickname, right?” I’d teased her for the way she’d said Jean-Pierre when we were first dating, so she started calling me John Peter, and, well, it devolved from there.
“Yes. And as your scorned ex-wife, I take great delight in using it.”
“You and Roly both. Hey, do you have time for a quick chat?”
“You’re in luck! My last patient canceled—chat away.”
I’d like to say that I came clean about my sexuality and made the process of dissolving our marriage smooth and easy, but it was all her. She’s the one who figured it out, after years of lackluster, infrequent sex. I can still remember her delicate hand on my arm as I choked out the words, as I explained the tragedy that led me to hide it all of those years. It was the first time I’d admitted to being gay out loud.
“Cricket and Heath like our plan.”
“You told them? Way to go, Pete! How’d they take it?”
“We made gay jokes for fifteen minutes.”
Her full, deep-throated laugh sets me off as well. “Sounds about right. Did you tell them about the gold eyeliner?”
“Hey, you said you liked it!”
“I do. It’s tasteful as shit. But… they’re gonna wanna know about that.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. I’ll send them a selfie.”
“Seriously, though—I’m glad they’re on board. Everything else is doable. Is that the only reason you called?”
“Not exactly. You remember the guy I like?”
“Jake, of course. Scout’s brother-in-law.”
“Yeah…” I pause, then continue. “He’s worked through some serious issues, and he can be dark. Funny, too, but only if he’s comfortable with you.”
“Does he feel comfortable with you?”
I smile, feeling coy. “Yes, I think so.”
“What are his issues?”
I called her because I want to understand him better, but I’m hesitant. When someone is in AA, you shouldn’t really discuss their recovery unless they’ve expressly given you permission to do so, and yet, while he is quiet on many subjects, he speaks about his recovery steps in yoga class with some regularity.
“Jean-Pierre, I promise not to judge him, and you know that I will keep your confidences, as well as his.”
It’s true; she’s kept my sexuality from the press entirely, even as she is still being raked over the coals for daring to find a partner she deserves.
“He’s in recovery for alcoholism and has been sober for two years. According to Scout, his family always thought of him as a quiet, straightlaced kind of person, and that he’d been fine until he came back from a six-month stint in Paris. He said he’d been working in the Paris office of some big multinational he supposedly used to work for, but I have my suspicions.”
“What do you suspect?”
“I think he might be something covert, maybe CIA. Not sure.” Roly and Nick have always insisted that he’s more than he lets on, and the appearance of the man with the cane all but confirms this for me.
“Intriguing.”
“Very. Whatever he was doing over there, Scout says that he’d been on several long-term assignments with his ‘company,’ but this time he came back wearing ennui like a fashion statement and sporting a serious alcohol problem.”