For a Good Time, Call

by Anne Tenino

  He dropped a kiss on the top of Seth’s head, which made him nestle closer and fling an arm across Nate’s stomach.

  Nice. But I really need to pee. He slipped out of bed, chuckling when Seth made grabbing motions against the sheets. “I’ll be right back.”

  “You better,” Seth mumbled into the pillow.

  Always.

  Humming as he pulled on his briefs, Nate strolled to the bathroom to take care of business. As he washed up, he eyed the shower. Would Seth be up for a little shower massage, so to speak? Nate had never gone that route before, but it might be fun to try it with Seth. I want to try everything with him.

  His earlier contentment amped up, fizzing in his veins like one of Seth’s magical cocktails. Not just contentment. Anticipation. Hope. Joy. Seth had awoken new desires in him that he’d never had before, and Nate intended to cherish every one of them.

  In return, he’d do whatever it took to make sure Seth was free to pursue his ambitions, to achieve his full potential without the burden of his family’s obligations. Nate winced when he remembered the bomb he still hadn’t dropped—that Seth’s family included another member who’d be about as welcome as an outbreak of Ebola.

  Finn Larson. Christ. Despite Nate’s assurances to Seth that douchebaggery wasn’t an inherited trait, Finn seemed to be a solid argument in favor of nature vs. nurture. He was also a money-focused guy with an eye to the main chance. Hard to tell what he’d do once he found out the truth. Would he try to challenge the Larson trust—and if he did, would it be a good thing or a bad thing? Maybe Seth would know. So as much as Nate hated to break the peace of their morning, it was time to come clean. Then maybe they’d try out the shower.

  When he got out of the bathroom, Seth was sitting up, blinking sleepily. He stretched, a lovely arch of his spine. “Morning.”

  “Hey.” Nate strolled over and sat on the edge of the bed, capturing Seth’s hand and kissing his palm. “Do you have to work today?”

  “Nope. Day off. How about you?”

  “Night shoot, so the day is free.” He toyed with Seth’s fingers. “So there’s something we need to talk about.”

  Seth eyed him warily. “That’s kind of a loaded statement. Is this a good talk or a bad talk?”

  My question exactly. “I’m not entirely sure.” Nate swung his legs onto the bed and draped his arm across Seth’s shoulders. For an instant, Seth stayed tense before tucking himself against Nate’s side. “So the other night, we were on the beach for a night shoot, and Finn Larson showed up.”

  “He’s like a bad penny, isn’t he? Whatever that means.”

  “I actually know that. Back in the—” Nate shook his head and kissed Seth’s temple. “Never mind, but I totally get your point. Just to get away from him, Morgan and I bailed on craft services and drove to the Roadhouse for our dinner break.”

  “I don’t blame you. I’d probably go there and risk food poisoning or a beer bottle in the head if the alternative was dinner with Finn Larson.”

  Nate shifted uncomfortably, then rested his chin on the top of Seth’s head. No way would Seth take the Big Finn Reveal well. Did Nate really want to bring the guy into the room with them—hell, into bed with them? Maybe he should pick a better time—

  “Go on.” Seth poked him in the ribs, making him flinch. “Oho. Ticklish, eh?”

  “Yes.” Nate grabbed Seth’s hand before he could land another jab, and the little chuckle that escaped as he nestled close again pinged all Nate’s protective circuits. Hard. But how could he protect Seth from something rooted so far in the past? I can’t. On the other hand, that same night he’d done one thing that had had an immediate effect—one thing he could be proud of. “Funny thing, though. While we were at the Roadhouse, I went into the restroom.”

  “Wow, you were all kinds of daredevil, weren’t you?”

  “What can I say? I guess Ginsberg’s rubbing off on me. Well. I mean not, you know, that kind of rubbing off—”

  Seth laughed, sending vibrations through Nate’s chest. “Relax, Nate. I’m so over your accidental awkward innuendos.”

  “Thank God for that. Anyway, I found your phone number on the wall over the urinal.”

  “Huh?” Seth pulled back far enough to meet Nate’s gaze. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Along with the old ‘For a good time, call’ chestnut.”

  This time, Seth pulled away, tensing under Nate’s arm. “It was probably— Listen, this guy, Evan? He came into the bar last week and he was looking for some . . . you know. Some.”

  Nate squeezed Seth’s shoulder. “I know about that. I heard you talking to Gabe at the haunting.”

  “Thought so,” Seth muttered, then took a deep breath. “I tried to tell him—Evan—I told him I wasn’t into anything with him anymore, like, ever, and he didn’t take it well. I mean, you heard what Gabe said—”

  “Yeah.” Scowling, Nate tightened his grip. “And Gabe should have stepped up and told Evan to shove it right then.” That earned him an eye roll, and when he tried to pull Seth against him, he met resistance. “I don’t think this was related though—looked like it had been there a while.” He dropped his scowl, attempting a smile if that would get Seth to lean into him again. “I had your crabbing invitation in my pocket, so I could tell it wasn’t your handwriting—”

  “Hold on a second.” Jerking away, Seth scrambled to the other side of the bed and turned to stare at Nate. “You compared the writing? Wait, you seriously had to make sure I wasn’t trolling for sex in the Roadhouse bathroom? What the fuck, man?” Throwing off the sheet, Seth stood, then immediately bent to grab his briefs off the floor.

  “No! I mean you and Gabe talked about your old rep, and just last night you said they didn’t call you the good time guy for nothing.” Okay, forget the eye roll—that look was a total glare of death. “But this—well, it was obvious it wasn’t you who’d done it, but that’s not the point.”

  Yanking his underwear on, Seth planted his hands on his waist, face like a thundercloud. “Well, then, Nate . . .” his voice was ominously polite, “what exactly is the point?”

  The hell if he knew. How had he fallen down this rabbit hole anyway? He’d been trying to avoid the Finn Larson shit pile and instead put his foot in an even bigger one. “I just wanted you to know that I fixed it. I borrowed Morgan’s Sharpie and changed the number, so nobody will bother you anymore.”

  Seth threw his arms in the air, exasperation clear in his expression. “Jesus, Nate, nobody actually calls those numbers.”

  “But they could, and that’s the point.” He kneeled on the mattress, wishing he had more on than a pair of briefs. “It’s personal information, Seth. Your personal information. It should be your decision when and how and who to share it with—not have it broadcast to any asshole taking a piss at the Roadhouse. This violated your privacy, your choices—like when you were outed in high school.”

  Seth’s jaw dropped, and he sucked in a sharp breath. “I cannot believe you just said that.” He turned and walked out of the bedroom, the sunlight on his bare skin doing nothing to soften the line of his spine or the tension in his shoulders.

  Ah shit. Nate practically fell off the bed in his haste to follow, snatching a pair of sweatpants off the hook on the back of the door and trying not to break his neck as he struggled to step into them and walk at the same time. “Seth. Wait. That didn’t come out right. I was trying to protect you, that’s all.”

  Seth already had his jeans on and didn’t even look at him, just continued scrabbling for something under the couch as Tarkus sniffed his hair. “Are you really sure it was me you were protecting? Because from my perspective, it looks more like you were trying to protect yourself from my past.”

  “That’s not it at all. Your past is irrelevant.” He wrapped his arms across his stomach, gooseflesh rising on his arms from more than the chilly air. “Why is it a bad thing for me to want to look out for you?”

  Seth stood up, his socks balled in his
fist. “I’m thirty, Nate. I can look out for myself.”

  Nate blinked. “You’re thirty? I assumed— That is, you seem younger.”

  “Is that why you’ve gone all paternalistic on me?” He dropped down on the sofa and yanked one of his socks on. “You think I’m a child?”

  “Of course I don’t.”

  “Then why treat me like one?” Seth yanked on the other sock.

  “That wasn’t my intention. I’m sorry if it seemed that way.” Nate skirted the sofa, and although he desperately wanted to sit next to Seth, to touch him, ground them both, he remained standing. “If it had been Morgan’s number on that wall, I’d have done exactly the same thing.”

  The tension drained out of Seth’s shoulders, and he hunched forward, hands dangling between his knees. “Shit. I guess I might have too . . . I kind of overreacted, huh?” He patted the cushion next to him, and Nate accepted the invitation before Tarkus could zip in ahead of him. “How did we end up talking about this, anyway?”

  Nate rested his hand on Seth’s back and breathed a relieved sigh when he didn’t pull away. Dodged a bullet there. Although Seth was still a little tense under his touch. “Finn Larson.”

  “Right.” Seth snorted. “That dude can stir up shit when he’s not even around. What was he doing at your shoot anyway? Is that a normal thing?”

  “More normal than we like. But this time, he had an agenda. He’s got it into his head that CGI would be more cost-effective than practical effects.”

  “Would it be?”

  Nate shrugged. “Filming all those action scenes against a green screen? I kind of doubt it, but I’m not a CGI jockey. If he has his way, though, I’ll be out of a job.”

  Seth turned to him, eyes wide. “But it might not happen, right? How much of a possibility is this?”

  “Oh it’ll happen someday. One way or another, we both know my job in Bluewater Bay is short-term. It could happen tomorrow, if Finn prevails, or if the fans hop on a new bandwagon, or if Hunter Easton decides he’d rather write about zombie motorcycle gangs than werewolf cops.”

  Seth grabbed Nate’s hand. “But . . . that means—”

  “It means we should be prepared for possible futures, that’s all.” Aaand the kid goes for broke. He kissed Seth’s forehead. “So here’s the thing. I’m in this relationship for the long haul, you do get that?”

  Seth nodded. “And I told you that I care for you, a lot. I even . . . I’m serious about you.” He gestured between the two of them. “About this.”

  “Thank God. We’re on the same page, then.” He pressed a kiss on Seth’s lips this time. “So I was thinking. Now that we’re on the verge of getting your family off your back, I could check with the head of the set department, maybe get you a job on Wolf’s Landing.”

  “But . . .” Seth’s brow puckered, and he retrieved his shirt from the floor. “Why? I’ve already got a job.”

  “I know, but without your family obligations tying you down, you’ve got other opportunities. You’ve got the skills for an entry-level set carpenter, and I know you’d move up fast once they got to know you.” He grinned and flicked a lock of Seth’s hair. “You’d be primed for department head once we get to Hollywood.”

  “You’re making a lot of assumptions, Nate.” Seth’s voice carried a warning edge as he pulled on his shirt, causing Nate’s belly to tighten with worry. “Why would you think I’d want to work on that stupid show? Or in Hollywood?”

  “Oh.” Nate laughed nervously. “Right. You’re not a fan. The entertainment industry is the world I know, where I’ve got connections and could do you the most good, but that’s not your only option. Would you rather go back to school? You could turn your bartender amateur psychotherapy into a real counseling degree.”

  Seth’s scowl had melted into a cool, almost contemptuous smirk and Nate’s palms started to sweat.

  God, I’m screwing this up. He chuckled, a pitiful thing laced with nerves. “But if you don’t like psychology, something else. I mean, you don’t want to be a bartender all your life, right?”

  Seth lifted his chin—Christ, were those tears glittering in his eyes? “And what if I did?”

  “But—” Nate swallowed, trying to switch his train of thought onto a different track. “Look, all I want is for you to be happy. Whatever shape your happiness takes is fine with me—as long as I’m part of the picture.”

  “What would make me happy—” Seth scooted away until his back was pressed against the sofa arm “—is knowing you think I’m good enough for you.”

  Nate reared back. “What? You’re good enough. You’re better than good enough.”

  “As long as I’m not a bartender.” He didn’t phrase it as a question.

  “I didn’t say that. But you’ve got so much potential. Why would you want to—”

  “To waste my life? Is that what you were about to say?”

  “I—”

  “Because if it was, you can save your fucking breath. I’ve heard it all before. Everyone, from my first-grade teacher on, yammering on about my fucking potential.” He crossed his arms, closing him off from any possibility of touch. “You know why I stuck it out as the Sentinel House handyman all these years? Not to impress anyone or fulfill somebody else’s expectations, but because I like it, and because I wanted to help the one person who’s never told me I’m not good enough for them—Grandma.”

  “But . . . but that’s the point. Your grandmother will be out of the house, and you’ll both be commitment-free. You can do whatever you want. You can do so much better—”

  “Aren’t you even listening? I wanted to help Grandma and I like being a bartender.” Seth stood up and crossed to the French doors where his shoes lay jumbled in a pile with Nate’s. Tarkus followed, nudging Seth’s hand until he relented and scratched his ears. “Letting other people plan my life never did shit for me, and I decided a while ago that I’d only be meeting my own expectations, no one else’s.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “Do you?” Seth gaze was intense. “I’m not so sure. Because you’re giving me a whole new set of standards to meet—your own. Why would I want to exchange one set of expectations for another?”

  “That’s not— I didn’t mean it like that. Why can’t I want what’s best for you?”

  “You know what? I get to decide what’s best for me, and I like the way I am. If that makes me beneath the great Nate Bedrosian/Albano, heir to a goddamned Hollywood dynasty, so be it.” He wiped his hands on his jeans, brushing off Tarkus fur, his lips pressed in a thin line. “It’s a huge disappointment for me too, finding out you’re a fucking snob and I can never make the grade.”

  Nate’s jaw dropped, and the air whooshed out of his lungs. “I don’t— I’ve never thought of myself that way. And I definitely don’t think of you as less.”

  “No?” Seth lifted his chin. “Then why didn’t you introduce me to your mother that night at the play?”

  “It—it didn’t occur to me.”

  “Of course it didn’t,” Seth muttered, then opened the door to let Tarkus outside.

  “Come on, Seth, cut me a break here. I hadn’t seen her face-to-face in fourteen years. Don’t you think I might have been a little gobsmacked?”

  “How hard would it have been? I was standing right there.”

  “Hell, I didn’t want to be standing right there.”

  “Oh, so you were doing me another favor?” He kicked Nate’s shoes aside to free his own. “Protecting me from your mother—or were you really protecting yourself? Keeping your underachieving ‘friend’ on the down-low?”

  “Is that how you see yourself? As my dirty little secret?” Nate thrust himself off the sofa and stood, hands fisted at his sides. “Christ, Seth, I haven’t exactly tried to hide you.”

  “No. Just change me, with all your suggestions about monetized blogs and Victorian renovations and, Jesus, psychology? Seriously, Nate?” He shoved his feet into his shoes. “You know what? I’
m done.” Seth stalked toward the front door, the untied laces of his sneakers clacking on the wood floor with each step. He grabbed his jacket from the back of a barstool as he passed.

  Fear and anger and despair tangled in Nate’s brain, darkening his vision at the edges. “That’s it? You’re walking out on me too?” Just like Jorge.

  Seth froze with his hand on the doorknob. “What do you mean, ‘too’?”

  “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?” Steeling himself so he wouldn’t break down, Nate’s tone was a little more contemptuous than he wanted. Leaving? Please don’t leave. “Good-time guys aren’t into commitment. They always bail before shit gets real.”

  The way Seth’s face paled and shut down—God, that was the wrong thing to say. Why did I say that?

  “Yeah,” Seth said, voice wooden. “I guess I am meeting your expectations.” Then he turned and walked the fuck out.

  “Seth?” Nate shook off his paralysis and rushed across the room to stand in the open door, the cold wind against his chest reminding him he was still half-naked—not that it mattered. Nothing mattered except Seth, slamming his car into gear and peeling out of the driveway.

  Nate’s knees buckled, and he sat down in the open doorway with a thump. Alone again. God knew he ought to be used to it by now. Why the hell had he imagined this time would be any different?

  Seth made it home on autopilot, not really aware of driving or even climbing his own stairs. How long he stood there after letting himself in the door, he didn’t know, but eventually he came to. Frozen in his entryway, staring at his tiny apartment.

  Wondering how it was that discovering he was Nate’s guilty pleasure made him feel dirtier than years of casually sleeping around ever had. He’d worried so much about proving that he was committed to Nate that he’d forgotten a guy like him might not be good enough to commit to, not without meeting some expectations first.