by Ann Lister
He checked the time on his phone. It was still really early. No one would blame him for wanting to go back to bed, considering the long day of travel he’d had yesterday, and then Mason’s visit last night with all the talking and the … touching they’d managed to squeeze into their time together. Jesus, he was exhausted from all of it and even had sore muscles from the exertion, but he’d never felt better or lighter.
Instead of crawling back into his bed with the sheets still rumpled and damp with sweat from Mason being there, Tessler climbed the spiral staircase up to his office loft and went to work. Taking all the different emotions spinning around inside his head and writing them into his manuscript sounded like the perfect cleanse. At the rate his current story was unfolding, he’d have the first draft done in short time. He’d gotten half of it written while on vacation, and being with Mason last night had him inspired once again to tell the story.
Boy meets boy and they fall in love.
Was life imitating art or was his art just a reflection of what he was going through himself? Either way, meeting Mason had opened the creative flood gates for Tessler to write about something he didn’t always tackle in fiction—love. His stories were always filled with angst and darkness, or alternate universes with elements of twisted sex, but this story was layered with brightness and fucking life. For the first time since he’d started writing, his work felt real, like it meant something more than the words he’d typed onto the pages, and damn, if that wasn’t why he’d gotten into this racket in the first place.
Tessler re-read the first several chapters of his “work in progress” and realized this was the closest he’d ever come to telling his own truth. This was as real as it got, and as much as he felt stripped bare, this story was astonishingly liberating. Perhaps in the end, this would wind up being his swan song, the story where everyone saw him as the main character. They’d be right in thinking so, because this was him, ripped open and raw for all to see with plenty of possibilities to pass their judgments.
Tessler rubbed at the fatigue in his face. He’d been working for hours, and the tension had his muscles tied up in knots. By design, he never allowed his stories to get this close to himself, but this was a story that needed to be told. He saved the file and shut down his laptop, then squared his shoulders as he stood up. This felt so right. He was finally telling an honest story and the words flowed that way, too. The truth had a way of doing that, and as difficult as this was to put himself out there, he was damn proud of this project.
This is my story, he thought. Mine.
He managed to grab a couple of hours of sleep after he got home from Tessler’s. It was the first time in quite a while where he fell asleep with a genuine smile on his face. Exhaustion had never felt this good, and he hoped to experience a lot more of it in the months to come. After a quick shower, he called the car service to take him over to the Ventura Security offices. He hadn’t realized he was still grinning, but Zac picked up on it as soon as he stepped inside the main office.
“Jesus Christ!” Zac shouted. “Look who finally got laid!”
“I didn’t get laid,” Mason scoffed.
“Well, you got something because you look … happy, and your face and neck have beard burn all over it. I’d recognize that anywhere,” Fizzbo commented.
“Don’t make it sound like you’ve never seen me happy,” Mason replied. He plunked his ass down at his desk and prepared to get to work. He was actually very pleased that the guys were ribbing him about this. He wanted to share his happiness with them—even if he couldn’t mention names.
“There’s happy and then there’s ... happy,” Victor said. “Your current expression is screaming ‘H-a-p-p-y!’ Are we wrong about that?”
“Okay, okay!” Mason said, pretending to be exasperated by their inquiry. “I’m very, very … happy.”
“Fan-fucking-tastic!” Zac hollered. “It must have been one helluva a blowjob to put that shit-eating grin on your mug.”
Mason couldn’t bring himself to correct Zac on that and admit he was walking on air from nothing more than a couple of intense hand jobs. With Tessler, everything went far beyond the act itself. They didn’t need to know that though. For now, they could settle with the idea that Mason had gotten his dick sucked.
“So, who’s the lucky bastard?” Victor asked.
“Who said it was a dude?” Mason answered.
“The fucking beard burn on your face does!” Zac reminded him.
Again, his lips lifted into a big grin. “Yeah, he’s a guy I met a few weeks back and I … really like him.”
Zac and Hightower high fived each other and hooted out a catcall like Mason had just scored the winning touchdown.
“Did you hear that, Vic?” Hightower asked. “Our boy has his first crush.”
“He’s all grown up now, and it happened so fast,” Zac added and sniffled. “Brings a tear to my eyes.”
“Fuck all of you,” Mason retorted. He opened up a file on his desk and pretended to be annoyed, but secretly he loved every minute of it. Maybe true happiness did that to people? This was all new to Mason, so he had no clue what was normal. Was he was simply losing his mind? Either way, he couldn’t wait to see how this all played out with Tessler.
Chapter Twenty
He was working in the coffee shop the next day when a familiar voice broke his concentration. A shiver ran through him at what it meant when he looked up to face the man with the voice.
“I see you’re still choosing to work in public places,” Barry Edleman stated.
“Why would you care where I fucking worked?” Tessler spit the words out at his first agent.
Barry was responsible for so much in Tessler’s professional career and also his personal life, but he’d more than paid back anything Barry felt he might still be owed, unless Barry wanted his blood or a kidney as payment. Considering those two items weren’t going anywhere, that left Tessler with one question:
“Why are you here?” Tessler asked Barry.
“To see you. Why else would I drive all the way out here?” Barry countered.
“You’ve done far stranger things than make this drive out from Los Angeles,” Tessler scoffed.
“Hmmm, and some of those strange things were done with you,” Barry said and chuckled.
Tessler narrowed his eyes at Barry and leaned forward on the table. He tried to ignore the fact the man still looked incredible and hadn’t changed a damn bit in the few years it had been since he’d last seen him. His dark, wavy hair was combed perfectly into place, and a pair of casual, linen slacks and white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the forearm were neatly pressed. Jesus, this man looked like a model right out of GQ magazine. Once upon a time, it was that very look that drew Tessler to him like a moth to a flame, but now it was just one more aspect about the man that was fucking annoying as hell.
Barry had a way of exuding a relaxed demeanor about himself, but Tessler knew the hard edge the man really had to him. It was a firm imaginary line which Barry had drawn all around him and rose to the sky like an invisible wall. He had similar lines drawn with everything he did, right down to who he touched and how he allowed them to touch him. It was all mapped out in precise detail. Go against his wishes and Barry had ways to make you pay for your ill-advised misstep. The man seemed to get as much pleasure from someone’s fuck up, as he did from their accuracy, but for completely different reasons.
Tessler was no longer the stupid, easily impressed kid Barry had met a few years back. He understood what made men like Barry tick, and he was no longer immune to the slick ways a snake like Barry could attempt to charm people. What he had now was more of an allergic reaction to Barry, where the sweet smiles were no longer working their magic. Tessler knew the danger that lurked below the smooth veneer of the man standing before him, and there was no way he’d allow himself to be caught up in it again.
“Let me ask you again,” Tessler all but growled at Barry. “What . . . do you . .
. want?”
Barry’s eyes bounced around the semi-crowded cafe then landed back on Tessler. “Can we go somewhere private and talk, like perhaps your apartment upstairs?”
“No, we can’t,” Tessler answered with curtness. “Say whatever is on your mind that you thought was important enough to drive out to Glendale. Get it over with, so I can get back to work.” Barry grabbed the back of the empty chair at Tessler’s table and pulled it out. “I don’t remember inviting you to sit,” Tessler said.
“Stop acting like a petulant child,” Barry softly scolded.
“Oh, so now you think it’s prudent to point out our obvious age difference?” Tessler asked.
Barry scraped the metal chair legs across the tiled floor and plunked himself down into the seat in a huff. Tessler kept his gaze trained on his laptop screen and pretended to work. Maybe he was acting like a brooding adolescent, but he didn’t much care. How dare Barry barge back into his life now after all this time had passed—and right when he’d met someone he was really starting to care about. If he did or said anything to fuck up his chances at having something real with Mason, he’d make Barry regret this unexpected visit.
“You look really good,” Barry said in a low voice.
Tessler saved his file and slammed the cover shut on his laptop. “Let’s eliminate the useless small talk and get to it,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”
Barry leaned back in his seat and took a slow intake of air as if selecting his words carefully. Tessler had come to hate that dreaded pregnant pause that Barry loved to use for dramatic effect. It was no longer effective on Tessler. It only pissed him off now, but he held his tongue and waited, then waited some more.
“I think you should write another book to add to the trilogy series,” Barry finally said.
“That’s it? That’s what got you into your car to fight the traffic on the drive out of LA?” Tessler asked with sarcasm. “You wasted your time, because the answer to that question is still no, and I believe I was clear with you about that when we parted ways. That series is a trilogy, which as I’m sure you know, means three. That’s it. There will not be a fourth book.”
“Why not?” Barry threw back at him. “That series made you a millionaire several times over.”
“It made us both a lot of money, but I no longer need that series to fall back on for monetary gain,” Tessler explained with bitterness. “I’ve moved on to other projects which earn me plenty of money.”
“But not like the Black Key Trilogy did,” Barry pointed out. “The titles you’ve released since the trilogy have done well, but no blockbuster status like the series earned for you.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Tessler answered. “I refuse to whore out my work just to earn a quick buck, which leads me to wonder what your angle is? What would another installment in the series mean to you? Is that what this is about? You’re looking for me to earn you some quick cash? Is that it, Barry? What makes you think I’d sign a contract with you now on any level? So, tell me, what’s in this proposed project for you?”
“Don’t you think your fans would love something new added to that series?” Barry continued to bargain.
“I’m pretty sure my readers understand the definition of trilogy and realize that means there won’t be a book four.”
“And what comes of LJ Mechum?” Barry questioned. “This no-name author comes from out of nowhere with his first and only series and then just disappears. You don’t think people will start to do some digging into that?”
“So what if they do?” Tessler argued. “What are they going to find? It’s a pen name—like numerous other authors use every day. There’s nothing scandalous about that.”
“No? You don’t think your fans might raise an eyebrow to know a twenty-year-old wrote about his own personal sexual awakening at a gay sex club?” Barry questioned. “You don’t think that might stink a little bit like a ‘scandal’?”
“You know what might cause their breath to catch, Barry, is the fact that a much older literary agent took his twenty-year-old client to a sex club,” Tessler grit out. “I think they’ll find that piece of this twisted puzzle is far more scandalous than me writing three books of fiction.”
Barry laughed at Tessler’s last word. “Fiction? Really?” Barry protested. “Your three books of fiction got my membership terminated to that club. That’s how fictional your story turned out to be.”
Tessler shrugged with indifference at Barry’s reveal. He couldn’t possibly care any less than he did, and he was finished having this discussion with his ex-agent. He reached for his laptop bag and began to collect his things from the table before he slid his laptop inside and stood up to leave.
“Go back to LA, Barry, and stay there,” Tessler said. “My answer is no and that is never going to change, so you’ll have to find yourself another naïve, little cash cow to save your financial empire.”
“My finances are fine, you little ungrateful brat,” Barry hissed as he rose to his full six foot two inch frame. “You seem to forget who put you up on that pedestal you’re comfortably living on today.”
Then Barry leaned in closer to Tessler’s face. There was a time when Barry’s larger build could intimidate Tessler, but not anymore. He was over the effect this man once had on him. Now Barry was nothing more than an annoyance that Tessler wanted to shoo away like an unwanted bug.
“I wish I could say it was nice to see you,” Tessler stated flatly, “but that would be a lie.”
“Right, and you never lie, do you?” Barry said to his backside as Tessler walked out of the cafe.
Tessler double-checked the door to the private hallway that led up to his apartment, just to be certain it was locked when he closed it behind him after leaving the coffee shop. He hurried down the hallway and didn’t breathe a sigh of relief until the elevator door shut. Then he collapsed against the wall and almost slid to the floor.
He was fuming mad at having to see Barry again. The cafe had always been a safe place for him to sit and blend into the walls while he worked. Now that space was tainted with the image of Barry’s fucking face. Seeing him again had so many old, negative images flooding his system and he hated it. He’d worked really hard to put that chapter of his life behind him, which also included cutting ties with Barry. He didn’t need the toxicity of that relationship, but it wasn’t until he was completely free from Barry before he realized how bad it actually was. Hindsight was a bitch.
Even after he’d locked the door to his apartment, he still didn’t feel at ease in his own home. Instead, he paced the floor to his living room. Back and forth he trekked a path over the large area rug, stopping several times by the door to make sure the alarm was set and the bolt secured. It felt like he was losing his mind. Barry wasn’t a physical threat to him, not in the least. With Barry, it was always about the mind-fuck. He used his wits to fight, and the wounds his words cut always stung like a motherfucker.
He pulled his phone from his back pocket and pressed the speed dial button for William Kent, his lawyer of the past several years. When his attorney answered, Tessler got right to it. “He’s back, and he’s looking for something.” Tessler blurted.
“Who’s back?” William asked.
“Barry Edleman, my first agent,” Tessler explained. “You know, the agent who got me my very first contract with Moriarty Publishing.”
“He’s also the man you wrote about in the trilogy who brought you to the sex club when you were barely the legal age of consent,” William added.
“I was twenty-one years old, William. Even with my limited knowledge of the law I know that is far above the age of consent in every state in the union,” Tessler said. “He didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to do. I explained that all to you.”
“Are you sure about that?” William asked using his fatherly tone.
“Am I sure about what?” Tessler fired back. “I told you, I wanted to be at that club, and I have zero regrets about anything I experi
enced while I was there.”
“He took advantage of your youth, Tessler, and the manipulation he’s guilty of, which you’ve talked about before, could, in fact, be considered criminal, depending on what he gained by doing it.”
“He gained money,” Tessler added. “Lots of money from the trilogy project, and he’s back looking for more.”
“How is he trying to manipulate money out of you now?” William asked.
“I know him,” Tessler explained. “He wouldn’t have driven out to Glendale and showed his face at the coffee shop below my apartment without a damn good reason, and it wasn’t simply to see my cheery face or because he missed me.”
“What do you think his reason could be?”
“He wants me to write another story to add to the trilogy,” Tessler seethed.
“And he’s playing mind games to try and make you do that?” the attorney asked.
“Yes, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!”
“You need to be specific,” William argued. “What did he say that made you feel as though he was trying to influence you into doing this project?”
“He talked about how much money I could make and that my readers deserved another story to go with that series,” Tessler said.
“Hmmm, it would be a stretch to consider that kind of dialog as manipulation, Tessler.”
“I’m telling you, he’s up to something!”