For a Good Time, Call

by Anne Tenino

  “Abso-fucking-lutely.” Seth insinuated his fingers between Nate’s.

  They arrived at the growing clot of actors and crew that surrounded Levi and Iris in time to see her cock her head, surveying Levi from head to toe, and say, “You would make an excellent Bottom.”

  Nate sucked in a breath. “Mom!”

  Levi laughed. “It’s okay, Nate. She means Nick Bottom, one of the mechanicals in Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  “Exactly.” She patted Levi’s arm. “I’ve been toying with the notion of setting it in gangland Chicago, with Hippolyta as a gun moll and Hermia and Helena as chorus girls. From what I’ve seen, your company should be able to carry it off.”

  “You want to direct?” Levi’s voice broke on the last word. “Here?”

  “Why not? You have a lovely little jewel box of a theater. The seats could perhaps use an upgrade—”

  “That’s next on the priority list,” Guy Parker blurted, his arm firmly around Elle’s waist. “We’ll spare no expense.”

  Iris inclined her head. “Excellent.”

  Levi ran a hand through his hair. “I . . . uh don’t really act in the shows anymore. Not a lot of time, with the Wolf’s Landing shooting schedule.”

  “We’ll arrange to do it during the show’s hiatus, then. I’m determined, Mr. Pritchard. Your comedic talents have been sadly underrated.” She nodded at Shannon. “Miss Carr, please call me regarding that interview. I’m leaving town tomorrow at noon, but perhaps we can meet before my flight.”

  Shannon nodded enthusiastically, waving a business card. “Yes. First thing. I mean, as early as you want. Wherever. I mean thank you!”

  “I look forward to it.” Iris turned and met Nate’s gaze. “May I speak to you privately for a moment?”

  Seth gave Nate a prod in the small of his back. “Go ahead. I’ll be right over here, watching for you to send up the bat signal if you need me.” He dodged past Guy to give Shannon a hug.

  Nate didn’t blame him for retreating to a safe distance. When Iris Bedrosian demanded privacy, Nate didn’t know anyone in the US, UK, or the entire Pacific Rim who could deny her. The woman had directed Anthony Hopkins, for God’s sake, and Christopher Walken—although not at the same time. There’s a nightmare for you.

  He turned to Iris, and as they strolled down the hall, she took his arm. With the echo of Seth’s words to support him, Nate managed not to yank himself away.

  “I’m pleased you’re venturing into legitimate theater again.”

  “It’s Frankenstein. At a community theater.”

  “It’s a classic text. Shelley’s commentary on the nature of the soul, on our responsibility for our own creations and our relationship to the infinite—”

  “Okay. Fine. But tell me the truth. This . . . this sucking up to everyone.” He gestured to the cast, who were still milling around in the hallway, casting starry-eyed glances at Iris—which was pretty ironic considering their director was a fricking TV icon. “Is it a ploy to earn my forgiveness?”

  “Don’t be coy, Leonato.” She patted her hair. “Of course it is.”

  “Iris—”

  “You called me Mom earlier.” She looked up at him, and once again he was struck by the fact that she’d aged. Of course she’s aged, idiot. It’s been fourteen years since you’ve deigned to meet her face-to-face. “Could you— Do you think you might do that again?”

  He swallowed. “Why . . . Mom? Why didn’t you tell me? About my father? Why didn’t you tell him? Didn’t you feel anything for him at all?”

  “I did.” She shifted her gaze to a point beyond his shoulder. “I didn’t expect it, you know. By most people’s standards, I suppose the attraction would be considered tepid, but it was more than I had ever felt before. You of all people should understand that.” She glanced down the hall where Seth was laughing at something with Ty, who was still in his Creature makeup. “But it wasn’t enough to justify the changes I would have had to make in my life to accommodate him.”

  “You had to make changes to accommodate me.”

  “Yes, but that wasn’t a hardship, my dear. That was my privilege and my joy.”

  Heat prickled at the corners of his eyes. “Still, we had the right to know. Both of us.”

  “In hindsight, perhaps my choices weren’t ideal for all parties. But as much as I wanted you, I wanted to live my life on my terms as well. You’ve always wanted the same for yourself. Do you think I deserved less?”

  When she put it that way, he sounded like a self-righteous prick. But . . . “I wanted a father.”

  “And I wanted a child and a career. What if your father hadn’t wanted the same? Or had, but at a cost that I wasn’t willing to pay? Nothing I knew of Robert at that time hinted that he was willing to compromise his own career for mine or for you. Ultimately, I had to choose what I wanted. I’m sorry I hurt you. I never meant to. I never meant to hurt Robert either, but I had to prioritize, Nate, and he came last.”

  She’s never called me Nate before. “Did he tell you about this show?”

  “Yes. He also told me that you might have formed a meaningful connection with someone.” She nodded at Seth. “Is that him?”

  When Nate followed her gaze, Seth looked over and smiled at him—that same brilliant flash of interest that had captured Nate’s attention that first night. Something kindled in his chest—not a bonfire, not even a blaze, just the quiet warming glow of an ember.

  “Yes. Yes it is.”

  Grandma had been on board with the haunting plan before Seth and Nate had finished explaining it the next day. Nate had had the idea of asking Shannon if she’d like to do a story on it, and even she was on board.

  Convincing Lucas took more work. Seth had been counting on the guy’s ego, but he’d misjudged it.

  Which was why, when Seth was working a closing shift by himself, Lucas’s butt was in a barstool being manipulated into acting as the patsy. Not his butt, his whole person. “So, will you come give Grandma your opinion on the house?” Or, rather, come be a haunting victim. “She’s nervous about putting it on the market, and I think it would help if she had someone outside of the family telling her it’s sellable.”

  “Why me again?” Lucas squinted at him.

  Gah. “Because.” Placing a dirty pint glass in the dishwasher first, Seth held up his hand, extending his fingers as he ticked off his points once more. “First, we aren’t ready for everyone to know about selling the house, but I’ve already told you. Second, you recently sold a house in Los Angeles. Third, you’re a professional artist, therefore Grandma assumes that you will be able to offer a valuable opinion.”

  Lucas’s head bobbed side to side as he apparently thought it over. “Okay,” he finally said, then swallowed the last of his beer. “When were you thinking?”

  “Sunday afternoon.” He probably needed to take extra steps to be certain the dude showed. “How about I text you that morning?”

  “Yeah.” Lucas nodded. “I’ll probably need the reminder.”

  Seth gathered up the dirty wineglasses littering the bar, and when he turned back, Gabe was standing behind Lucas’s stool. “Hey.” Seth grinned at him. “Haven’t seen you in forever.”

  “Hey, man.” Gabe extended his hand across the bar, so Seth clasped it a second. That was nice. He had to admit, he’d been worried Gabe was backing off from the friendship.

  “Want a beer?”

  “Nah.” Gabe looked at his boyfriend as he explained. “We gotta get moving. Momma wants us to come for dinner.”

  Shortly after they left, Evan Miller came into the pub. The guy sat himself down at a secluded stool that Seth had to pass by frequently. Whenever Seth was close, Evan would engage in some light chitchat. Some about the weather, and some about Shannon Schumer’s divorce. She and Evan had been in the same graduating class.

  “She’s changing her name back to Carr,” Seth told him. It was probably the most meaningful thing he said in the three hours the dude sat there, nurs
ing his way through two beers. To be honest, he didn’t much want to talk to Evan.

  At eleven thirty Seth gave last call, which caused a mini-rush. The few drinkers left besides Evan were sitting at tables, in intimate little groups. Preparing to say good-bye or to leave together, depending on their circumstances.

  Seth was pretty sure Evan was here in the hope that they’d leave together.

  “Hey, man, what time do you get off?” Evan called from his end of the bar. The smirk he flashed after the question wasn’t at all subtle.

  Get off. Yeah, I get the joke. Seth treated the question at face value, the way Nate had his innuendos early on. “I won’t be done until about one.”

  Apparently taking that as an invitation, Evan hung around.

  I’m not interested. How did he tell him, though, if that was even why Evan was here? Seth wasn’t sure of proper protocol. Sure, he’d told guys he wasn’t in the mood—he’d told Evan that the same night he’d met Nate—but this was different. Because it wasn’t that he wasn’t interested in sex, it was that he wasn’t interested in sex with Evan. Ever again.

  There was only one person he was interested in doing anything with.

  Best to be direct. After all the other patrons had paid and left, he brought Evan his bill, setting it on the bar right under his nose. “Time to settle up and go. I need to close.”

  “Didn’t think you meant me too.” Evan ducked his head, giving Seth a very practiced—and familiar—look from under his lashes. Seth had never found it particularly sexy (dude had smallish eyes and average lashes) but he’d responded to it in the past as a signal that sex was on offer.

  How sad was it that, when Seth had taken him up on the offer, he’d done it because he’d had nothing (or no one) better to do? Staring at Evan—who was growing increasingly agitated—it was so obvious: Seth didn’t really like him. He barely knew him. They weren’t friends. The only things they had in common were growing up in Bluewater Bay and being into sex with guys.

  “Hey.” Throwing his chin up to flip his bangs off his forehead, Evan regarded him narrowly. “You want it or not, dude?”

  “No,” Seth blurted, then didn’t act on his urge to lessen his bluntness. He gripped the rag he’d been wiping down the bar with in between his fists, pulling it taut and twisting it. Evan’s gaze fell to Seth’s hands and his forehead wrinkled up. What was he reading into Seth’s fidgeting? Nerves? Didn’t matter.

  “What’s with you, man? You used to be a good time.”

  That surprised a short bark of laughter out of him. “I think I’m done with the good-time guy thing.” He paused to take a deep breath. “Sorry, Evan, but I think that, um, aspect of our relationship is over.”

  “What relationship?” He sneered, then threw back the last swallow of his beer like it was a shot. “Whatever, you aren’t worth chasing after.” He tossed a ten on the counter and turned to go, stalking out.

  Well. Easier than he’d expected.

  Thoughts of Evan didn’t linger long after the man himself left. Because Nate took front and center in Seth’s mind.

  He had no clue how to deal with a guy he was so attracted to who didn’t want him in return. At least not sexually. Nate did seem to be into their friendship, which was great. Seth had consciously chosen not to read into Nate’s frequent affectionate gestures. Not even when he’d put his arm around Seth as they watched Frankenstein, or the way Nate had held his hand. He’d just let it happen, leaned into it. Because while the guy might not want sex, he did want contact—a physical connection—or he wouldn’t have done those things.

  Seth was dying for much more intimate touches from Nate, though. It would figure, wouldn’t it, that when he found a guy he wanted a real relationship with, he couldn’t have it?

  Not that he was in love with Nate, just . . . He didn’t know. Could it simply be his own curiosity getting the best of him? Like kombucha—Seth couldn’t claim to love the flavor, but he was compelled to keep tasting it. Maybe to figure out why it was so evocative, or because it had some nutrient his body craved, he couldn’t say. He only knew he wanted to put it in his mouth, over and over again.

  Which was the same thing he wanted to do with Nate. One of the things he wanted to do with Nate. Over and over again.

  Could that ever even happen? He knew Nate had had relationships, sexual ones, but he didn’t understand how that worked for someone like Nate, not really. Romantic feelings, he’d said. That was what it took to get him interested.

  Seth didn’t know about Nate, but he had plenty of romantic feelings.

  An hour later he was at home, lying on his bed in nothing but pajama pants and looking up gray asexual on his laptop.

  It had to be Nate’s imagination that the click of the hammer mechanism for the broken mirror effect sounded so loud. But even though the workshop wasn’t any emptier than usual—Morgan sat at her table, squinting in concentration as she put the finishing touches on a plaster bust destined to be the remorseful ghost of Fennimore Larson—the sound seemed to echo in Nate’s brain.

  Maybe it was because the rest of the warehouse was deserted. Yeah, that has to be it. On regular work days, the place was never this silent—noise bled into the workshop despite closed doors and reinforced walls. Or maybe it’s all in your head. Just deal, Albano.

  He screwed the housing in place on the back of the mirror frame. “I really appreciate you giving up your day off to help me with this.”

  “Are you kidding?” Morgan grinned at him as she squirted another blob of red paint onto her palette. “This is historic. Nate Albano, interested enough in a guy to build him a big scary Valentine’s present—in October? No way could I resist playing Cupid’s assistant.”

  He scowled and turned away to remove the clamps from the other two mirror frames. “It’s not like that. I’m just helping out. We’re friends.”

  “Uh-huh.” Her tone was dryer than the pile of sawdust at Nate’s feet. “Mighty elaborate favor for someone who’s ‘just’ a friend.”

  He hung the clamps on their hook with more force than necessary. “Mmmphmm.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, baby—you always go the distance for your job. But how many people would you go to this much trouble for outside of it? I can count them on one hand.” She held up said hand and waggled her fingers. “Your dad.” She curled her index finger into her palm. “Levi.” There went the middle finger, thank God. “Tarkus.” Ring finger. “Me.” She grinned and tucked her thumb away then pointed her little finger with its Wonder Woman–themed manicure at him. “And now Seth.”

  “So?” Christ, could he sound any more defensive?

  “I’m just sayin’, Nate. Looks like your ice has finally cracked. In fact, if I didn’t know you better . . .” She shot him a sly smile before turning back to Fennimore. “I’d say you’re almost giddy.”

  He lifted a frame onto his workbench. “I’m not.” But for the third time in his life, he wanted to be. Did that mean he was sending out mixed messages? Yeah, you think? The daily phone calls and texts, the dates, the touching. Yet he’d never actually admitted—to Seth or to himself—the feelings that had been growing in him, twining around his battered heart, maybe even nudging his comatose desire into sleepy awakening.

  Maybe he should say something. In his mind, he heard his father’s voice, the testy tone he trotted out whenever Nate waffled over a decision: Time to make soufflé or get out of the kitchen. But what if Seth wasn’t interested in Nate’s soufflé? What if Seth thought Nate’s soufflé was too damn much trouble for not enough substance in return?

  “Morgan?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Do you think I’m a selfish asshole?”

  Her eyebrows shot up. She set down her paintbrush and hustled over to give him a hug—which he gratefully returned. But didn’t that prove his point? He always let her initiate the hugs, never offered any of his own.

  “Not selfish, baby. You’re always there when anyone needs you, but you don’t volunt
eer anything that’ll take you out of your safe little Wolf’s Landing box. I’m sorry I missed the Frankenstein opening, because from what I hear, all kinds of drama was on display, and I don’t mean on the stage.”

  He froze in her embrace. Was this about the scene with his mom? “What do you mean?”

  “Oh come on. Holding hands with Seth at the play? Actually snuggling with him? Mooning over him with googly eyes—”

  He reared back to glare at her. “I have never had googly eyes.”

  “That’s not what Ginsberg said,” she singsonged.

  “Ginsberg—” he ground out between clenched teeth “—is a giant gossip who needs to stick to flying through windows and falling off of buildings.” Time to deflect. He disengaged and strolled over to her worktable. “Whose face did you steal for this anyway?”

  “P.T. Barnum’s. He looks kind of like Fennimore, and it seemed appropriate, given that you’re trying to sucker someone into heart failure.”

  Nate studied the bust: its eyes bulged, its fleshy jowls sagged in horror, and the hair ringing the bald pate stood nearly on end. “In every picture I’ve ever seen of Barnum, he looks more smug and less like the second victim in a B-grade horror movie.”

  She shrugged. “So I took some liberties with the mold. Sue me.”

  “Man, you really don’t like Fennimore.”

  “You think?” She jabbed her paintbrush at his neck, adding another lurid splash of red. “Bastard deserves to be shot. It’s almost too bad he’s already dead.”

  Nate squeezed the back of his neck, suddenly wondering exactly what kind of backlash he and Seth had unleashed. Yeah, it made sense not to perpetuate the myth, especially at the expense of Adeline and her baby. But . . . “You don’t— I mean, you’re not mad at Seth, are you?”

  “Seriously, Nate? Sins of the fathers?” This time, she flipped the paintbrush, poking his chest with the handle to punctuate her words. “I. Do. Not. Project. Blame where it’s due, baby, and no place else.”

  Whew. “Good. I didn’t think so, but . . . good.” Let’s hope the rest of the town feels the same way.