“A bet. Okay. And what do you want if hell freezes over and you golf under par?”
Gabe tilted his head back, appearing to think for a moment, then smirked. “I shoot under par and you sell me Solar Flare Technologies.”
“What the hell would you want that for?”
“I’ve seen the way you treat your employees. I’m looking at it like a puppy rescue.”
Simon looked like he wanted to laugh. “You’re such a fucking Commie, Juarez.”
“Yeah.” Gabe slid his putter back into his bag. “But I’m a fucking rich Commie.”
“Okay, and when I win this bet, what do I get?”
Gabe pretended to think again. “I’ll forget about that forty you owe me from last year.” Simon looked at him hard. “Works out for you either way.”
“Okay, then, it’s a deal. Witnesses?” Luke and Mark both nodded. “Then let’s play.”
They moved on to the next tee. While Gabe waited for his turn to drive, he tried to visualize every good shot he’d had the other day. He tried to remember exactly how he had been standing, how the putter felt in his hands, where the ball and club head touched.
He drove without thinking, still working on the visualizations. The four of them began to walk.
“Hey, Gabe.” Gabe pulled himself out of his own head and paid attention to Luke. “What’s with the whole coming out now? I mean we’re not that uptight around here, don’t think anyone would have cared.”
Gabe stopped dead in his tracks. The three turned to look at him. “I came out when I was sixteen. Sixteen!” He didn’t really care if his voice went up several octaves. “My mother found my Playgirls, threw a fit, and sent me to a priest. I haven’t been ‘in’ in decades, certainly not for a single second I’ve known the lot of you.”
“Really?” All three looked confused.
“You’ve met some of my boyfriends. André?”
“Wasn’t he your PA?” Luke asked.
“Ming?”
Mark suddenly looked confused. “Ming was a he?”
“I lived with Gregory Smith, for fuck’s sake!” Gabe was very close to flat-out yelling.
“He was gay?”
Gabe slapped his hand to his face. “Wow. My sociology professor was right. You lot really can’t see past your preconceived heteronormative world views, can you?” They looked at him blankly. “Guys, in 2006, 15.4 percent of San Francisco residents considered themselves gay, lesbian, or bisexual, and guess what, some of them are capable of driving out of the city limits, over one of many bridges, and swinging a country club membership. Think about it.” Gabe grabbed his bag and marched toward the next hole with purpose.
For the next four holes, Gabe ignored the other three men and turned all his focus to his game. Before every putt he ran a hand over the grass to work out the speed. He carefully gauged the strength needed for each and worked on his form, the whole time picturing treasure chests and laughing plastic pirates. By the seventh hole, he was one over par.
“Are you sure you’re not hustling us, Juarez?” Simon asked.
“Yes, Simon. I’ve pretended to play like crap for over a decade so I can win a bankrupt second-rate tech company off you.”
The look Simon gave him was what his grandmother would call “the evil eye.” “I wouldn’t put it past you.”
Gabe grinned. “I’ve been working with a new trainer.”
Mark made a chip shot out of the sand trap. Mark was the opposite of Gabe. He could putt like a dream, but his balls were always magically attracted to sand and water. “Did you really live with Gregory Smith?” Simon asked suddenly.
“Yes, I really did.”
“I remember him being a complete asshole.”
Gabe resisted making a comment about pots and kettles. “He was a giant asshole. He was also handsome and very charming and could be quite persuasive when he wanted something.”
Luke made his putt from a good fifteen feet away. “He always used to brag that he was going to scoop up this funny little tech company he’d found called TechPrim and make a fortune selling off the patents. We all just thought it was a kinda stupid name.”
Gabe grit his teeth. He was never going to live that down. “It was a typo, okay? It was three in the morning, and I was tired when I submitted the trademark registration. And yes, he was trying to get TechPrim, by any means necessary.”
Mark finally made his putt.
“Was the sex at least worth it?” It would be Simon who would ask that.
“No. No, it wasn’t.”
After the tenth hole, Gabe felt the conversation flowing back his way. He’d managed to make a birdie putt and was now at par.
“Juarez, not that you’re going to win this, but if you did get Solar Flare, what the hell would you do with it?”
“Gut it,” Gabe lied smoothly. “A couple of your engineers would be good additions to our battery enhancement team. Buying the whole company is a fuckload easier than trying to work around the restraint of trade clauses in their contracts. And TechPrim still has enough R&D going that we can find a spot for the rest of them.”
Gabe hit his drive. He watched it sail into the air, land on the green, bounce twice, and roll neatly into the hole. He threw his arms into the air.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Simon whined.
“Like I said, new trainer.” Shots like that were pure luck, and everyone knew it, but Gabe gladly took that luck. It made him two strokes under, a buffer, which he was happy to have with seven holes to go.
By the next hole, Gabe was thankful for that buffer as he overshot his first putt and found the sand trap, then skinned the ball out of the sand trap into the rough. Coming out of the rough put him on the far edge of the green, putting him over par by the end. He heard Simon snicker.
Gabe took a deep breath, then indulged a quick moment to visualize drowning Simon in a water hazard, then set about trying to visualize the rest of the game.
Within another two holes, Gabe was nearly back at par. Mark and Luke had stopped talking. Even Simon had given up on his version of wit. It was now really about one thing: pride.
I am a heterosexual teenaged boy, Gabe thought. If I make this putt, an attractive girl will sleep with me.
He let out his breath slowly, then tapped the ball. It rolled across the expanse of green, rimmed the cup, and popped back out. He decided one of the few positives to come out of years of playing badly was that when shit like that happened you had less of an urge to break a titanium club over your knee.
Simon didn’t fare much better. Not that Simon’s final score had anything to do with the bet, but as Gabe improved, Simon seemed to feel the need to do that much better. Luke and Mark didn’t even seem to be trying anymore.
Gabe teed off on the last hole and watched his ball arc once more into the air. It hit the green, bounced, and rolled to the far edge.
“Shit,” Gabe breathed.
Simon gave him a less-than-sympathetic pat on the back. “Don’t worry about it, Juarez. It’s still your best round ever.”
“It’s not over yet.” It was true that Gabe only had two strokes left to keep under par, but he was sure he could manage that.
They got to the green. Gabe sighted down the ball to the cup. It was at least fifteen feet. He ran his fingers along the grass. It was still slightly damp from the morning fog. He spread his legs and set his body. Simple machines.
He had two. He just needed to get as close as possible. He pulled back his arms and tapped the ball. The ball rolled. It slowed. It perched on the edge of the cup. Gabe held his breath, and there was a plink as it dropped into the cup.
“You are fucking shitting me.” That smug little smile was nowhere to be seen on Simon’s now slack face.
Gabe twirled his putter around, then slid it back in his bag, looking as cool as anything. In his head he was doing a dance of joy, possibly to “U Can’t Touch This” that would have gotten him thrown out just for looking like a total moron.
“Fuck it! Okay, who is this trainer, and how much does he charge, because if he can teach you to play like that, then he should be able to make me a pro.”
“Sorry, he’s very exclusive, invite only. But tell you what, boys, I’ll buy lunch.”
The laundromat television was on mute, but someone had found the remote and put on the subtitles. James didn’t read Spanish as well as he spoke it. Fortunately the plot wasn’t exactly hard to follow. Ernesto’s father was threatening to cut him out of the will unless he agreed in writing never to give any money to Gabriella, whose mother had been nothing but a gold digger, at least according to Ernesto’s father.
James reached into his pocket and counted the change with his fingers. There were some towels in the load, which always needed extra time in the dryer. He supposed he could get out the worst of the damp and dry them the rest of the way in the kitchen.
His phone vibrated in his pocket against the change.
Can I come over? At the Club. About a half hour away.
James checked the countdown on the dryer, then which part of the wash cycle his last load of laundry was in. If he folded the laundry at home, he could make it back up in half an hour. He’d have to iron some of his work shirts.
He wondered who did Gabe’s ironing. He’d never seen any kind of housekeeper while at Gabe’s place, but he wasn’t actually there all that often. He still doubted Gabe had the time to fold his own shirts that always looked perfectly pressed. Or mop his own floors or clean his own windows.
James secretly hated folding laundry. Something about it grated him to the very bone. Someone to fold it for him would be nice. But that was never going to happen. He glanced back up at the TV. Gabriella dramatically wiped the sweat away as she bent over a hot stove in a small kitchen. Her hair still looked perfect, and her blouse clung to her body in a way that just hinted at what was underneath.
James ran his fingers through his own hair. The heat from the washers and dryers always made it stand up at strange angles. He looked down at his phone. Dylan was going out. James couldn’t think of any good reason for Gabe not to come over.
Sure.
Gabe knocked on the door to James’ apartment in a jaunty rhythm. He’d been bouncing all day; for a while he’d felt as if he could have run all the way to James’ building. The joy of banishing that smug look from Simon’s face was only seconded by the knowledge that Solar Flare was going to change the world and make him an unbelievable fortune in the process.
Dylan opened the door. “Hey, is your dad here?”
“He’s finishing up the laundry. He should be up in a minute.” Dylan stepped aside, letting him in.
“Great. Actually—” He pulled Dylan into a back-slapping hug, nearly taking him off the floor.
“Okay.” Dylan blinked at him. “What was that for?”
“I shot one under par.”
“Okay. Good.”
“Oh no, you don’t understand, previously my best game was twelve over. In fact, this is for you.” Gabe pulled out a few hundred from his wallet and held it out to Dylan. “Years of high-paid pros completely failed to teach me what you managed to get across in ninety minutes on a minigolf course. That is how much those pros make for ninety minutes of instruction.” In truth it was close to double, but Dylan deserved a hell of a tip.
Dylan counted the money. “And I’ve been busting my ass playing baseball all this time? I picked the wrong sport.”
“And not only did I shoot under par, but I won a bet I made with this total asshole named Simon. Absolute tool who has done nothing but try to give me shit for damn near a decade. I hate him, and I will take the look on his loser face to my grave.”
Dylan had a grin of his own. “I’m glad I could help.”
Gabe heard keys rattle in the door, but before he could get to it, James let himself in, hefting a basket of laundry. Gabe took it from his hands, set it aside, closed the door, and pressed James against it, locking their lips together. After a few seconds, Dylan loudly cleared his throat. Gabe took a half step back but didn’t turn around. “Hi. I’m having a really good Saturday. Let me take you out someplace nice in the city. How about Ame? I can absolutely get us last-second reservations.”
“Hi. Okay.” James looked startled, but Gabe didn’t care. Frankly, if they didn’t have a very inappropriate audience, he’d have ripped off James’ clothes right then and there.
“Great. Go get changed. Actually, I’ll help.”
Dylan put his fingers in his ears and started singing “Yellow Submarine” loudly and completely out of tune.
Gabe ignored it and dragged James down to the bedroom.
“Why the good mood?”
Gabe threw open James’ wardrobe and quashed the urge to take him clothes shopping instead of to dinner. “I played a round of golf today and scored under par.”
“This is about golf?”
“No.” Gabe pulled out the silky green shirt James had worn their first time together. “This is about golfing under par, something I have never once done by the way, and in doing so winning a bet with Simon.”
“The tool?”
“Yes, the tool. And by winning the bet, he has agreed to sell me a crappy little tax shelter tech company he owns.” He pulled out James’ best-looking trousers.
“Would this be the company with the patents you really wanted? The big game changer.”
He picked James up, spun him around, and kissed him hard. “I’ve got the patents,” he whispered. “Take a good look at the world, because it is five years and one Russian trade deal away from a revolution that will change it forever and for the better.”
“And make you rich?”
“I’m already rich. This….” He kissed James again. “You know what, I’ll tell you about it later. I promise you it’s a good thing.” He pulled off James’ work shirt and flung it across the room. “Now get changed before I just take you on that tiny little bed of yours and scandalize the whole damn building.”
James had only quickly scanned the menu of Ame and was now fiddling with the edge of his napkin. Gabe could already guess that James would order the cheapest thing from the appetizer menu and claim he wasn’t all that hungry. Gabe had had other boyfriends who pulled that, but they’d all been verging on eating disorders.
“Are you okay?” James had seemed distracted since they got to the restaurant.
“What? Oh, I’m fine.” James flashed a quick smile, but Gabe didn’t buy it.
“How’s Dylan doing?” That often seemed the top of the list of James’ worries, even when he had nothing to worry about.
“He’s fine.”
“Good.” Gabe reached into his pocket and pulled out a slim little black case that fit neatly in his hand. “I’ve got something for you.” James put down his napkin and opened the case. He blinked a few times. Gabe grinned. “It’s our new P22X phone.”
James took it out. It wasn’t much thicker than an old 3 1/2-inch floppy disc. The screen had a patented coating that would not pick up fingerprints, and the case was a shade of black reminiscent of the obelisk in 2001: A Space Odyssey, with the TechPrim logo subtly embossed on the back. It had more computing power than most of last season’s laptops. It had more memory, more battery power, and a higher grade of HD camera than the standard P22. TechPrim had “leaked” a half dozen fake P22s to throw off their competitors, to catch them flat-footed when the official model hit the shelves. When the P22 had hit the shelves the previous month, Gabe had stood on his balcony and listened to the sounds of the competition screaming in frustration way off across the valley. TechPrim had already grabbed a serious chunk of the high-end smart phone market and would be dominant by the end of the year.
“And it has been thoroughly tested, and it should never drop calls and should actua
lly ring when someone calls you.”
James turned it around in his hand. “I’ve seen the ads for this.”
“Yeah, marketing’s been patting themselves on the back pretty hard.” Marketing had been insufferable. “Turn it on.” Gabe had programed in his number, Dylan’s, and a few others he thought James might need.
James looked at him. “I’ve looked at these. This is several months’ rent.”
“You need a new phone.”
James put the phone carefully back in its case and closed his eyes. “I don’t think this is going to work. I’m sorry.”
“What?”
James stood while Gabe tried to process what had just happened. He’d had a lot of practice at rapidly backtracking relationships to see where he fucked up, but he was missing something big here. He stood and chased after James, who had already made it to the bus stop halfway down the block.
“James…. Wait, what are you doing?”
“I’m waiting for a bus,” James replied quite calmly, not looking at Gabe. “That’s what people like me do, we catch buses and trains.”
“Please, what did I do? If you don’t like the phone—”
James took a deep breath. “I don’t need a sugar daddy.”
“What?” Gabe could have sworn a brick slammed into his chest at James’ words, completely derailing what few thoughts he had.
“I am thankful for the way you helped Dylan the other day, but I don’t need… things from you. I don’t need to be saved. I am quite capable of living within my means and taking care of myself and Dylan, and have been doing so for a long time.”
“It’s just a phone.”
James finally turned to him. “And what happens when my car breaks? Will you get me a new one?”
“I’d love to! Your car terrifies me.”
“That is not the point.” James’ words were clear and crisp. A bus pulled up, and the door opened. Gabe threw himself between it and James.
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