Bleu Balls

by Tara Lain

  “I’ll take your word for it.” He scooted back to the ladder. “It’s brilliant. I had my doubts, but no more. I just had to meet you to feel comfortable.” He climbed down a couple of rungs, then looked back at Robin. “I understand you live in Laguna.”

  “Uh, yes. Who told you?” Tell me so I can kill them. He plastered on a smile.

  “Hyer, I think. He probably asked your agent to be sure you weren’t traveling from Utah or something. So maybe I’ll see you in Laguna. I live there as well. Do you participate in the festivals?”

  “Uh, yes, we have pieces in the Festival of Arts, and we sell at the Sawdust. My, uh, brother is setting up now.”

  He nodded. “Keep up the brilliant work.” He disappeared over the lip of the structure, and the scaffold shook as he climbed down.

  Well, fuck. Running into Paolo Lind in Laguna would so not happen if Robin saw him first. The man’s an arrogant asshole. How perverse was it that this arrogant asshole made his cock hard?

  PAOLO STEPPED off the elevator into his offices on the seventeenth floor.

  “Have a good lunch?” Angie, the superefficient admin who insisted she sit at a receptionist’s desk since “people like to be greeted by humans,” met him with a smile.

  “Uh, yes. Thanks.” He barely remembered lunch. Too much contact with one cute-assed, floppy-haired artist. Funny. He usually didn’t like bright and sunny guys, but this one seemed to have hidden shadows.

  “Hyer Anson came by.”

  Paolo frowned. “I just left him.”

  “He said he forgot to tell you something. He’ll call. Also, Mr. Osterlitz called.”

  Paolo shook his head. “The man refuses to leave a damned message on my voicemail.”

  She widened her arms. “He says he’d much rather speak with me than a machine.”

  “I think it’s a case of old dogs and new tricks.”

  “Aw, he’s not old.” She didn’t say that convincingly.

  He snorted. “If you’re going to succeed in business, my dear, you must learn to lie.”

  “He’s not!” she shrugged. “Maybe a tad old for you, but not old.”

  He gave her a raised eyebrow and walked toward his office, sharing a few nods with his staff. Wonder what Angie would think of Bobby McMillan?

  Truthfully, he had to get over his fucking attraction to that twink. He could so imagine showing up at the club with Bobby on his arm. Not in this lifetime. Paolo might be gay, but he spent a lot of time proving that Real Men Suck Cock. Trouble was, his dates bored the living shit out of him.

  Case in point. He sighed, pulled out his phone, and dialed.

  Joseph’s deep voice answered. “Osterlitz.”

  “When are you ever going to set up your contacts so you know it’s me calling?”

  “I keep meaning to ask my secretary.”

  “You really want her pawing through your love life?”

  “And your point is?”

  “Nothing. You rang?” He chuckled. He’d loved The Addams Family reruns when he was a little kid.

  “There’s a big reception for the Festival of the Arts on Friday night. Want to go?”

  “Yes, I got an invitation as well.”

  “So I can’t make you my plus one?” He chuckled.

  “Nope. The festival beat you to it.” Did he want to go with Joseph? It never hurt. As the CEO of a large healthcare firm, Joseph was richer and more powerful than Paolo. Joseph escorted him to parties and events he couldn’t yet muster the invitations to on his own, and those invites could be measured in money. Paolo met people who helped his business and kept him moving in the direction he wanted to go—up. “Maybe we can go together. Can I let you know?”

  “Okay. If you can come, do you want to go early and dine after or vice versa?”

  “Whatever assures we can drink a lot of cheap champagne without sloshing it on the art.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Joseph sighed.

  “You don’t really love art. Why do you go?” Rhetorical question.

  “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that everyone in Laguna will be there.”

  “More like the art of the deal, right?”

  “So right.”

  “I’ll let you know. I’m not sure where I’ll be on Friday.”

  “Okay, call Agatha and tell her.”

  “I could text you.” He grinned even though Joseph couldn’t see it.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I hope I see you Friday.” He hung up.

  Joseph was probably semipissed that Paolo hadn’t said yes right away. He knew his power and wanted it appreciated. Sadly, at forty-five, Joseph was eleven years older than Paolo. Forty-five might be the new thirty, but on Joseph it was the new sixty. Not that he looked old. Medium height, handsome, with sleek brown hair and a fit body, he attracted attention in any room from women and men. But, man, Joseph refused to master technology, made the bed five minutes after they got out of it, and didn’t recognize a song written after 1940—when he hadn’t even been born. Sometimes Paolo just wanted to yawn. More than sometimes.

  There was a tap on the door. “Come in, Alonzo.” His VP of operations either listened at his door or had ESP, but he always knew when Paolo was free. Of course, Alonzo had known him for thirty freaking years.

  The door opened. Short, wiry Ramirez, who always wore high collars to cover his gang tattoos, stuck his head in the door. “We’ve got TechZel in the conference room in ten.”

  “Trust me, I remember.” Paolo smiled at his oldest friend.

  “This could be a big one.”

  “Yep. Prestige and money. Hard combo to find.” Usually when they got to design big-style buildings, they lost their shirt trying to make an impact and win awards. This one had such a big budget, they might get recognition and still have some profit leftover. Of course, they didn’t have it yet.

  Paolo stood and pulled on his linen sports coat. He was doing tech casual in honor of their soon-to-be client—he hoped. A few checks on social media suggested Moses Zeltan, CEO of TechZel, did California style to the max, and Paolo was nothing if not client oriented. “Showtime.”

  He and Alonzo strode into the conference room where Moses Zeltan and two of his cohorts, both female, sat sipping something that looked suspiciously like kombucha, probably acquired by the omniscient Angie.

  Paolo stepped forward, hand outstretched, “Mr. Zeltan, I’m Paolo Lind. Welcome.”

  “Call me Mo. And this is Viveca and Dolly, my chief technical officer and my head of manufacturing, but you know they’re also really smart and have great taste and I hardly ever make a decision without them.”

  Interesting. “This is my VP of operations, Alonzo Ramirez.”

  “Well, now, hell. Are we diverse or what?”

  For a second, Paolo froze. Did he mean Alonzo?

  Zeltan laughed. “Two females, one of whom is black, a Hispanic, a gay Jew, and—” He cocked his head at Paolo. “I think you’ve got the map of the world in you, son.”

  “I’m what you might call a gay mixing pot.” Paolo raised a brow.

  “A regular Rainbow Coalition. So let’s get to work. How do you see my building?” He leaned forward, folded his hands in front of his bulldog chin like he was waiting for a story, and stared at Paolo and Alonzo as they sat.

  “More importantly, Mo, how do you see your building? When someone walks inside, what do you want them to feel or know about TechZel and the people who work there?”

  “Well, now, that’s a damned good question.” He glanced at the women, who stared back at him. “We’re a bunch of smart, honest people who design shit for other people smart enough to recognize the quality and superiority of our products and honest enough to pay us on time.”

  Paolo sat back. “People for people, then.”

  Zeltan looked at him with a quizzical expression. He glanced at the women. “Did you see how he did that? Dove right in on the heart.”

  They both nodded and smiled.

  “I like tha
t. Yes, we create stuff that makes people’s lives better, and we try to make the lives of the people who work for us better too. Like you said, people for people.”

  Paolo smiled. “So a ‘people building’ isn’t pure high tech. It’s got a human dimension.”

  Dolly, the manufacturing person, who was probably sixty though a very fit and attractive woman, said, “Yes, a friendly space. Like in our assembly plants, I like to have something pretty for people to see. Something to inspire them and remind them what they’re working for.”

  Paolo nodded. “I get that. Like the Japanese aesthetic of putting something living and beautiful in sight of every person.”

  “Exactly.”

  They plunged into more in-depth discussion. Mo never mentioned another architect or competition. Finally, as Mo and his team were gathering their stuff to leave, the suspense got to be too much. Paolo smiled. “So when will you be making a decision?”

  “Decision?” Mo cocked his head.

  “As to which firm you’ll go with.”

  “We decided before we came here. We’re going with you—unless you fuck it up!” He laughed. “Hell, my pal Joseph tells me I’d be crazy to select anybody else. He’s usually right, so you’re in.”

  Paolo caught his breath. “I’m delighted. We’re so excited to be working with you.”

  “I can tell that, and it matters a hell of a lot.”

  “You mentioned Joseph. You mean Joseph Osterlitz?”

  “Of course. Old school buddy. He says you’re his boyfriend, right?”

  Shit, this is how the corner feels. “We do date, yes. No engagement or anything.”

  Mo winked. “Joseph and I go way back. So what happens next?”

  For a second Paolo thought Mo was exploring his social life before he caught up. “Oh, we’d like to come over, tour your plant, interview the people you feel we should talk with, and get everything we need to provide an informed—no, let me say inspired design.”

  “Sounds great. The girls and I will line up the people and coordinate with you on meeting times.”

  Paolo glanced at “the girls,” who didn’t seem to bristle at being called that. Apparently no amount of sexist language could offset the power of being a VP.

  Chapter Ten

  PAOLO AND Alonzo saw Mo, Viveca, and Dolly to the door. After they left, Alonzo turned to Paolo. “Shit, boss, that’s one badassed new account.”

  Angie, never known to fade into the background, shrieked, “Did we get it?”

  Paolo nodded. “Yep. Looks like it.”

  Angie pumped a fist into the air. “Yes!”

  “You’re gonna have to thank your friend big-time for his vote of confidence. It sounds like that added a big plus in our column.” Alonzo fell in beside Paolo as they walked back to his office.

  “Yeah, I guess I am.” He didn’t sigh loud enough for Alonzo to hear it.

  “Want me to gather the staff for a celebration?”

  “Wait until the contract is signed. Then we can load up the champagne.”

  “Deal.” Alonzo walked into his office as they passed, and Paolo went on to his. He closed the door. Ecstatic—but he still felt like some tentacle reached out and wrapped around his ankle. Hissing breath between his teeth, he grabbed his phone and pressed a button.

  “Mr. Osterlitz’s office.”

  “Hi, Agatha, it’s Paolo Lind.”

  “Hello, Mr. Lind.”

  “Yes, please tell Joseph I cleared my schedule for Friday, and he can pick me up at six thirty or seven, whichever is best.”

  “I’ll tell him, sir.” She giggled very softly. “I’m sure he’ll be delighted to hear it.”

  Agatha. Ever the romantic. “Thanks.” He clicked off and leaned back in his chair. A lot of business was about the exchange of favors and influence. Sadly, he didn’t always like the favors he had to exchange.

  He toggled his space bar and went back to the drawings on his desktop he needed to review before signing. His cell buzzed on the corner of his desk. Probably Joseph. Still staring at his screen, he grabbed the phone. “Hi. Look forward to seeing you.”

  “Ish you seeing me, honey?” The familiar hoarse, husky voice scratched through the phone.

  Damn. His fist tightened and his stomach clenched. “Hi, Mom.” He glanced to be sure he’d closed his office door. “What’s happening?” No, I really don’t want the answer.

  “Couldja send me some more money, honey?” She giggled.

  “You already had your allowance this month. Why do you need more?” Shit. Not again.

  “I used it all up, honey. Need shom more.”

  “I won’t give you money for booze, Mom. You know that.”

  “Noooo, honey. I jusht needs more food and shit.”

  “No, you don’t.” He sighed loudly. “Where’s Ida?”

  “She went to get somefing.”

  “I’m not sending more money, Mom. Get over it.”

  “Dammit, Paul, I need it. You gotta send me more dough.”

  He clicked the red End button. Fuck it! He searched for the number of the woman he paid to look after his mother, then dialed. It rang twice.

  “Hello?”

  “Ida, this is Paul Lindero. What’s going on with my mother?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Lindero. She’s drinking again. I tried to find it all, but she hides it everywhere.”

  “Where are you right now? She just called me.”

  “She’s in her room. I’m in the kitchen.”

  “Okay. I told her I’m not sending more money. I assume you have enough.”

  “Yes, sir. But I can’t be here every minute. You know how she is when she’s not sober.”

  “Yes. Do the best you can.”

  “Shall I try to get her back in the rehab facility?”

  He gripped the bridge of his nose with two fingers and squeezed. “You know they won’t take her unless there’s an actual chance that she’ll comply with their program. They aren’t a jail.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “So she probably has to get worse before she gets better.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Damn, she was doing so well. Okay, Ida. Thanks. Call me.” He clicked off and rested his head on the desk. His stomach knotted, then relaxed so much it gurgled, then back to a knot. Old familiar feelings. He wanted to kill her. He wanted to hide his head in her lap. Love and hatred flowed through him in equal measures, with a huge coating of resentment that he had to take care of her when she had never taken care of him. He sighed. And then came the fucking guilt for feeling that way.

  Just when he was most excited to move ahead, he got reminded how totally he was chained to his past.

  “BOBBY, I shouldn’t even be here.” Robin crossed his arms and hissed through his teeth, while trying not to snarl at the passersby in the aisles.

  Bobby fussed with positioning one of the smaller canvases on the display wall. “You have to be. You know that. This reception is one of our biggest nights of business. I can’t manage it alone.”

  “What about our client, who thinks I’m working? I mean, you’re working?”

  “They’ll never know, and besides, you can’t work for a single client every minute.”

  “Now you say that. What about when making that client happy was akin to the achievement of world peace?”

  “Robin McMillan, you’re about to achieve world war. Stop grousing, dammit.”

  Robin sighed. He was perched on the stool installed in the back corner of the display—actually just an open space with a back wall for art. While at the Sawdust Festival—the casual arts-and-crafts fair on the opposite side of Laguna Canyon Road from where they stood now—they had a full-on structure they’d built themselves, here at the upscale, juried Festival of the Arts, where they sold their big pieces, the setup was giant identical display walls. The festival also housed the famous living art show, the Pageant of the Masters, which attracted people from all over the world, even non-art lovers.
r />   Since they were good enough and connected enough to make it into the festival, showing up for this kickoff reception for VIPs was de rigueur according to Bobby. For Robin, of course, that was French for nightmare. A whole evening of trying to smile. Usually his dark, goth style put off the very important people and he could just hide in the corner, but since he and Bobby were now sporting the same do, he had to listen to—

  “Oh my God, look at you two. Your own mother couldn’t tell you apart.” That came from a seventyish lady with brilliant lavender hair who he knew he’d met before, but—he mentally shrugged.

  Bobby rushed forward. “Mrs. Packington, how wonderful to see you.”

  Oh right.

  She broke out in smiles. “Well, aren’t you the sweet one to remember me.”

  Bobby put a hand on his hip. “Mrs. P., you own our crimson landscape. How could I ever forget someone with such amazing taste?”

  Or someone who’d paid their rent for three months.

  “Bobby, you must come and see it in place. It’s truly extraordinary.”

  “I can’t wait.” Bobby looked up with his bright eyes. “Darling, come and say hello to Mrs. Packington.”

  Oh God. He slid off the stool and crossed the booth. “Hi, Mrs. P.”

  “Robin, dear, what has ever possessed you two to style yourselves identically? Have you no mercy on our poor hearts?”

  He flashed his most rakish grin. She really was a cool lady. Plus she loved their art. “They don’t call us Double Trouble for nothing.” In an excess of showmanship, he took Bobby’s hand and they both twirled in a fashionable dance, showing off Bobby’s trim gray suit and pink shirt and Robin’s black suit and purple shirt.

  “You wicked boys.” She looked at the walls. “Now, what have you brought for me today?”

  Bobby fluttered his lashes and turned pink in the cheeks. Mrs. Packington had bought one very expensive painting from them, but that was a year ago. “Is there a particular space you’re buying for?” He glanced at Robin as if telling him not to grimace. That was an interior decorator question and one Robin would never have asked, as Bobby well knew. Art wasn’t to match the drapes.