“Yes, I’m ready.” Brad walked over and picked up his suitcase to give himself a second to figure out how to introduce Michael. And Dave, for that matter.
Dave took the opportunity to assert his dominance. “Hey there. I’m Dave Garcia, one of the partners here. Like the hat.” He stuck out his hand, no doubt to deliver a bone-crushing grip. “And you are…?”
“Michael.”
Brad watched the handshake produce a wince on Michael’s face before he freed himself. “Michael’s a friend.” Michael had become much more than a friend to Brad by this time but Dave didn’t need to know about that. Brad needed to make Michael understand who Dave was, though. He was about to introduce Dave as a “friend” as well, but Dave started talking before Brad could continue.
“Ah. A friend. How nice.” Dave crossed the room and slung Brad’s golf bag over his shoulder. “Well, we need to get going, babe, so we can beat the traffic to Napa.” He directed a look at Michael. “It’s our holiday tradition, going golfing. We’ve been doing it for years now.”
Babe? Holiday tradition? That bastard. Brad turned to Michael, who was halfway to the door, wanting to explain. All he could come up with was, “Thanks for the cookies. I’ll talk to you soon,” while he hoped that his expression conveyed more than his words.
“Yeah. Merry Christmas.” Michael’s red face and hunched shoulders tore at Brad, but he was gone before Brad could think to do anything more positive.
“Well, well, well,” Dave said, one eyebrow raised. “Raiding the chicken coop, are we?”
“Shut up.” Brad glared at him, then noticed the CD sitting on the edge of the desk. “Damn.” He picked it up and flung open the door, but Michael had already disappeared. “Where’s Michael?” he asked Caren.
“The cutie in the Santa hat? He left—jogged out of here like someone was chasing him.”
Brad paused, considering pursuing Michael further, but decided he probably wouldn’t catch him at this point. He returned to his office, walking slowly, resenting the amused expression on Dave’s smug face.
“Did your little friend escape?”
“Screw you, Dave.”
“Aw, come on. I’m just having a little fun. He’s hot, so more power to you. Tell me more.”
“Yeah, you had your fun. Michael’s a lot more than hot, but I’m not saying another word about him.” Brad put the CD into his briefcase.
“Touchy, touchy. Let’s go.”
“Hold on.” Brad texted Michael. Sorry for the interruption. It’s not what it looked like and I’ll explain more later. Thanks for the cookies. You left your CD but I’ll get it to you in Santa Rosa. Merry Christmas. Talk to you soon. B.
He pocketed his phone. The text was inadequate at best but Brad needed more words than he could text to explain Dave and what must have looked to Michael like an ongoing relationship that Brad hadn’t let him in on. He hoped the few words he had sent had put Michael at ease.
“Ready?” Dave asked.
“We’re stopping by FedEx first.”
“Whatever.”
Michael booked it through the law firm, his eyes stinging. A few people who knew him from videoing the depositions hailed him, but he didn’t respond.
“Nice hat,” someone called.
He snatched it from his head and made a beeline for the exit. Stupid. So, so stupid. He should have known Brad had a boyfriend. Or lover or fuck buddy or whatever. A great guy like him wouldn’t be waiting around to be rescued from a lonely existence. And why in God’s name had Michael blurted out that invitation to the family Christmas?
Katrina came into his mind—just make sure you aren’t seeing Brad through your holiday-tinted glasses, wanting to make him into, like, your Christmas love object or something. Damn it. He’d forgotten. He’d forgotten and become all besotted with Brad.
“You are pathetic,” Michael muttered as he pushed through the revolving doors in the lobby. Then he realized he’d left the Kingston Trio CD behind. “Serves you right.” He stopped muttering when he caught an old lady staring at him. The San Francisco wind howled and stung his cheeks. He hunched his shoulders and headed for BART.
On the train, he pulled out his phone and saw the text from Brad. It’s not what it looked like and I’ll explain more later. That made Michael feel marginally better, but only marginally. The truth remained that Brad Halberstam had a whole other life. He didn’t need Michael. He was a successful lawyer with more important things to do than text with Michael and come home with him so Michael would have a plus-one for Christmas. He had a holiday tradition of his own, golfing with a law partner who looked like he’d stepped out of a GQ ad. Why Michael had thought there was even a chance with Brad was beyond him.
He slumped in his seat as the train lurched through the tunnel, and whispered, “No more holiday crushes.” Then he closed his eyes and tried not to think about Brad.
Chapter 6
“To holidays.” Chuck, one of the regulars on the Napa trip, held up his drink.
Everyone around the table raised their glass, the remains of their gourmet meal scattered in front of them.
“Fuck holidays. I’m drinking to holiday bonuses,” drawled Dave as he saluted Chuck with his bourbon.
“Damn straight. That’s why I’m toasting the holidays.” Chuck drained his glass and peered over his shoulder. “Where’s that waitress?”
Brad sat there, seeing them with new eyes. They were all lawyers. Of the five of them, four were gay, the reason they’d first bonded when they joined the firm. Brad had appreciated the camaraderie over the years. But now… had they always talked about the stock exchange so much? And law-firm gossip? And golf? Wasn’t there anything else to talk about?
“I went to a Messiah sing-along last week.”
They all stared at him as though he were speaking Greek.
“Huh?” asked Simon, squinting at him over his half glasses. “What’s that?”
Brad shifted in his seat, wishing he hadn’t brought it up. “It’s where an orchestra plays Handel’s Messiah and everyone sings along. It’s a Christmas tradition.” He looked around at their quizzical faces. “You’ve never heard of it? A lot of cities do it.”
After a beat of silence, Chuck said, “Okay. Sure, Brad. Sounds good.”
Dave raised an eyebrow, and Brad braced himself for what was coming. “Was this something you did with your little friend? The one I met today? Who looked about twenty-one?”
Larry put a playful hand on Brad’s. “Ooo, a chicken? Lucky you. Do tell.”
“I have nothing to say. He’s not a chicken, he’s a guy named Michael. He makes incredible Christmas cookies that I’m not gonna share with you guys, so don’t even ask.”
“Oooo, burn.” Chuck waved his hand at the waitress, then ordered another double Scotch. “C’mon, Bradley, spill the details. I know these guys wanna live vicariously through you.” Chuck was their token straight.
“No.”
“I think Brad’s sweet on this guy.” Dave smirked. “He made us stop at FedEx so he could overnight a little prezzie to him.”
“Awww,” chorused his friends in unison.
“Fuck you guys.”
They laughed.
Simon twirled the brandy in his snifter. “Talking about chickens, Roger’s up to his usual.”
“Oh no,” said Larry with avid interest. “Is he banging the interns again?”
“Well….” Simon had lowered his voice, and everyone but Brad leaned in to hear the gossip.
Brad tuned them out, preferring to think about Michael’s merry eyes and ridiculous Santa hat and the way he kissed. So what if he was twenty-one? Or… probably twenty-three. Was that really so bad? Sure, these guys could laugh and think it was pathetic—or enviable. But so fucking what? Brad realized he didn’t give two fucks what these guys thought. How liberating.
He fished out his phone and sent Michael a text. Miss you. The cookies are good but they aren’t you. Have fun with your family. B.
Anyway, Michael was going to restrain himself from continuing to run after Brad. Brad didn’t need to be made into Michael’s holiday love object. It was taking everything not to respond to Brad’s text, though, so Michael called Bao.
“What?”
“Hello to you too.”
“Jeez, bro, you know I’m at the restaurant. Wait. I’ll step outside.” A pause while Michael nibbled on a nail. “Okay. What’s up?”
“Um, do you want to come to Christmas at my house?”
Bao laughed. “You know we’re just friends, right?”
“Duh. And you’re straight, so shut up. I just thought it would be nice.” Michael cringed at himself. Pathetic about summed it up.
“Wait, what happened to Brad? Why not invite him?”
“I did.”
“Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise?”
“Eff off. Turns out he has some hot guy named Dave. One of the law partners. And they go to Napa every year for a golfing vacation. It’s their ‘holiday tradition.’” Michael swallowed, and his mouth tasted bitter.
“Say what? No way Brad’s serious with that guy. Not the way he was staring at you the other night.”
It was like an arrow to Michael’s heart. Not to be dramatic or anything. “Stop. Don’t feed my fantasies. Anyway, are you coming to Santa Rosa with me, or nah?”
“Nah, bruh. Have you forgotten Christmas is the busiest time for Chinese restaurants? We’re already slammed, and it’s gonna get busier the next two days.”
“Oh. Right.”
“The non-Gentiles gotta eat too, you know.”
Michael snorted a laugh. Bao always got him to lighten up. “Okay, okay. Mom is going to miss you.”
“I’ll miss her too. Package up some of her cornbread-sausage stuffing, mmkay?”
“Eh. Maybe.”
“You better, or no more Chinese food for you. Gotta go. Talk at ya later.”
“Later.”
Michael threw down his phone. After heaving one more dramatic sigh, he ended his pity party and went in search of his duffel bag. There was a ten p.m. bus to Santa Rosa. He usually waited till Christmas Eve, but he had nothing better to do.
Chapter 7
Brad wiped his brow after entering the hotel room. His round of golf with the others had proved uninspiring. In fact, he’d had another realization—he didn’t even like golf. He’d started playing it when he and Dave had fallen for each other, because Dave loved golf. Dave loved golf and making money. And sex. He was good-looking and could be charming when he wanted to be. But Dave had never had any interest in the things that Brad liked. Music, for example. Or reading. Or how the country was suffering under the current administration. The sex had been over between them for several years, except for a few stray encounters and their usual holiday screw here in Napa. But not this trip. Brad had no desire for sex with Dave, when Michael was who he wanted.
His phone buzzed, and he grabbed it, hoping Michael had finally responded to his texts. No luck—Mom’s name was on the display for her annual Christmas Eve call. Stifling a groan, he answered.
“Hi, Mom. Merry Christmas Eve.”
“Brad. Merry Christmas Eve, dear. How are you?”
“Good. And you?”
“We’re okay. The General’s gout has been acting up, and I keep trying to get him to go on that medicine—‘allo’ something or other. He refuses, of course. And the weather isn’t great. Last week it was in the sixties, and now it’s freezing, but next week it’s supposed to go back up to the fifties. I wish it would make up its mind…”
Brad stretched out on the bed, letting his mother’s familiar chatter lull him, putting in a few um-hms to let her know he was still there.
“…and I wish you’d relent and come home for Christmas one of these years. I miss you.”
Brad knew his cue. “Miss you too, Mom. But things are so busy around here. It was all I could do to squeeze in a few days at Napa with the guys.”
“You work too hard, honey. Napa—of course. I should’ve remembered. Are you there with your… um, your friend?”
“Dave? Yes. But that’s all we are now—friends.”
“Oh. Okay. Al and Joan are buying another house. I swear, that brother of yours thinks he’s some kind of real-estate mogul. And Sasha—you remember she got into that honors high school?—she’s also starring in the school play. These kids and their overscheduling these days. We didn’t make you two do so much….”
Brad drifted off for a moment as his mother sang the praises of Al and his model family, but he was brought back to the present at her next words.
“Well, let me get your father on the phone to say hello.”
“Oh, you don’t have to, if he’s busy.”
“Nonsense.” There was a noise as though she’d put her hand over the receiver. Then he heard her call “Bradford? Bradford, get on the extension. Your oldest son’s on the phone.”
Brad bit down on his lip and prepared to survive the next thirty seconds.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Dad.”
“What have you been up to lately? Law firm still treating you well?”
“The firm is doing fine. I’m getting a nice bonus this year.”
“Hmm. Good, good. Anything else to report?”
“Not really. I’m on my golfing trip with my friends. At the Silverado.”
“Nice course. Hit par?”
“Just about.”
“Well, I’ll let you go so your mother can have the last word. Come see us sometime.”
“Sure. Merry Christmas, Dad.”
He heard a click, and Mom said, “Merry Christmas, sweetheart. Let’s plan a visit soon.”
“Okay, Mom. Merry Christmas.”
Brad disconnected the call, disgusted by how he always acted with his father. He never said anything real. It was a report on the things the General would approve of—the firm, how much money he was making, sports. He used to long for the General’s approval, but because Brad was gay, he’d never quite measured up to his hetero brother, Al, the real-estate mogul. But he kept trying, if that inauthentic “report” he’d made to Dad was anything to go by.
What did it matter what his father thought of him? Why couldn’t he have said “I met a great guy who loves to sing as much as I do. He wears cute Santa hats and we went to a Messiah sing-along. And now I’m seeing that life can be something to enjoy and celebrate”? It would have been the truth.
He sat up, longing for Michael. Michael was too young. Maybe Brad was having his midlife crisis and only wanted Michael because he was shiny and new—the equivalent of a red sports car. Society, his law-firm buddies, his father would probably see it that way. But Michael was so much more than that. He was real. He was joy and activism and laughter and hot kisses and bells that jingled.
Brad called to the desk and requested a Lincoln town car with driver from the limo company, then stuffed his clothes in his bag. He sent Dave a text to say he was leaving and hoisted his golf clubs to his shoulder. On second thought, he left them behind. Dave could have them.
Two miles outside Santa Rosa, Brad’s phone buzzed with a call from Michael. Brad had been planning to surprise him, but maybe Michael had picked up on the vibes of an approaching Brad. He snorted at his own silliness as he connected to the call.
“Well, hello there.”
“Brad. I need your help.” Mic
hael sounded frantic.
Brad sat up. “Of course. What’s going on?”
“Bao—” Michael’s voice broke, and Brad heard him take a breath. “They got Bao. ICE. They came to the fucking restaurant and hauled him away.”
“When?”
“A few minutes ago. I just got the call from Mrs. Chen.”
“I’ll call my friend Linda. She works for the San Francisco ACLU. Let me get a hold of her, and I’ll call you right back.”
“Thank you. Brad, I… I wish you were here.”
“I am. I’ll be at your house in five minutes.”
“What?”
“Let me call Linda, and I’ll explain everything in person.”
Michael stared at his phone in wonder. Brad is here? Would he ever stop doing amazing things? His family hadn’t even met him yet, and they were ready to adopt him. The Kingston Trio CD had arrived by FedEx earlier in the day and had been playing on repeat ever since. Now Brad was going to help save Bao, please God, and apparently he’d ditched his golf trip with GQ Dave to come to Santa Rosa. Michael had tried not falling inappropriately for Brad, but a man could only withstand so much.
Five minutes later the doorbell rang. Michael sprinted for the door before his nosy family could get there. Millie the dog beat him and was parked in the front hall, barking happily. He scooted her aside and yanked the door open. Brad. Reaching out, Michael drew him inside and—screw being careful. He pulled him into his arms.
“How’re you doing?” Brad murmured into his ear as he held him tight.
“Better now.” So much better.
When they broke apart, Michael checked for spying siblings or parents and was surprised that they’d restrained themselves for once. Millie was not so subtle—she’d already put her paws on Brad’s legs and was panting lovingly at him.
“Who’s this?” Brad caressed her ears.
“Millie the mutt. What’s happening with the ACLU? Did you reach your friend?”
Happy and Merry: An M/M Holiday Romance Collection Page 8