by Tara Lain
“What?” Mal looked shocked.
Artie’s voice rose on its own. “Fuck you. I’m so sick of hearing all the shit you guys throw at gay people. Like you said to me, Mal, who the fuck died and made you king? You’ve got nothing about you that other people might put down or think is weird? Really, nothing? Fuck that. You want something to do with your wise mouths, go tell people who deny climate change that they’re idiots, and Christians who think it’s fine to shoot people and animals that they’re fucking hypocrites. What’s any fag ever done to you? Ever think that the fact that you rag on gay people so much might mean you’re scared you are one?”
“Fuck that!” Mal half rose, but the table stopped him. Good thing, because Artie didn’t want to get thrown out of the bar for good for taking Mal out.
Walt put a hand on Mal’s arm. “Come on, Artie, that’s bullshit.”
“Actually it’s not. But that’s how it feels to have people say you’re a piece of shit for just being born a certain way.”
Raoul said, “Yeah. I get that, but I’m Mexican. How the fuck would you know?”
The moment stood on tiptoe on the head of a pin being held up by a unicorn horn on the back of an elf. “Because I’m gay.”
Jimmy Ray laughed. Walt snorted. Mal made a disgusted face. But Raoul looked at Artie. “You’re serious?”
“As a heart attack. Have a nice life.” He turned and walked out of the bar into the midday sun that shone warmly on his face—but he still wanted to throw up.
ARTIE STARED through the windshield of the truck at the gate to the backyard of François’s house. Yes, François’s house. Full stop. François owned it. François was rich, and incredibly talented, and fantastically smart. What the hell was I thinking trying to take him to bed? Like some lizard gazing at the moon.
He didn’t want to go in, but if he didn’t he’d forfeit JT’s job, and he couldn’t do that. JT trusted Artie. Of course, the second Madame saw him in the yard, he’d get fired. If François saw him, he’d get fired. And when JT heard Artie’s revelation, he’d get fired. Artie sighed. I should just go home and go back to bed.
Shit, he’d spent enough time staring at the damned ceiling trying to figure out why the hell he’d decided to come out in the middle of the bar to four homophobic blue-collar dudes. Might have been good to practice a little—like on a stranger in the park.
But he’d done it and he needed to face the consequences. He pulled out his phone and dialed.
“JT.”
“Yeah, hi, JT. It’s Artie.”
“I know. How’s the job going?”
“I haven’t started yet today. I’m in the driveway. I need to tell you something first, and you may not want me to start.”
“That you’re gay, you mean?”
Artie sighed and didn’t even try to hide it. “Yeah. I hoped I’d get to tell you first, but I was slow on the trigger.”
“Mal could barely wait to call, I gathered. He phoned yesterday. Why’d you tell him?”
“Just too much shit over the dam. I finally got tired of listening to them pitch crap about fags and swallowing it without a word. I snapped. Sorry I did, because I really like working for you and wanted to make a success of this job. I’ll wait here until you arrive or send someone else so it doesn’t look like the job’s been abandoned.”
“Uh, why? Can’t you work today?”
“I figured you wouldn’t want me to.”
“Because you’re gay? Hey, man, haven’t you heard of antidiscrimination laws and equal opportunity and all that shit?”
“Yeah, sure. That and five bucks will buy me a latte.”
“Look, I don’t care if you fuck horned toads in your spare time. Just do a good job for me.”
“Really? You don’t care?” He closed his mouth.
“Not a particle.”
“Then you probably better know that Madame’s likely going to let me go as soon as she sees me.”
“Fuck, why?”
“It’s a really complicated story, but it involves her son.”
“The piano player?”
“Yeah. The word-famous pianist and composer. This is actually his house.” Artie wiped a hand over his face.
“No shit?”
“Anyway, I don’t want to get into it now, but you better line somebody up. I’ve got most of the complicated plumbing done, so you could probably use Raoul. He’s talented and reliable.”
“You’re sure this is going to happen?”
“Pretty sure.”
“I’ll see if Raoul can be on standby. If they let you go, I’ve got another job for you tomorrow.”
“You serious?”
“Artie, I mean it when I say I don’t care if you’re gay. I’m curious about why she might let you go, but I know her and I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’s for some dumbass reason, so hell yes, I’ve got another job. Until you flake on me, you’re my guy.”
It was a cloudy day, but Artie felt like a ray of sun just peeked out from a massive bank of gray. “Thanks, JT. I’ll try hard not to disappoint you.”
“So call me if you’re fired.”
“I give it an hour.” He chuckled even though he didn’t quite feel it. But shit, he was amazed that JT didn’t care. “I’ll call you.”
He hung up, slid out of the truck, and opened the gate to the huge backyard. When no shotgun blast greeted him, he hefted his tool bag and walked to the guesthouse. Weird. It felt like weeks since he’d been here instead of just a weekend. Of course, it’d been a life-changing weekend.
The guesthouse—aka François’s bachelor pad—waited for him exactly as he’d left it. Might as well go to work until someone noticed he was there.
He finished up a last few feet of copper piping he needed to do, wrapped it up and went to work on the last bit of framing, then worked on drywall. No one yelled for him to stop. In fact, the house was weirdly silent. No music, no practice, no composing.
That made Artie crazy!
Why isn’t François composing? He needs to be working. Damn.
Artie looked at his watch. Past lunchtime. Glancing out of the corner of his eye at the house, he walked to the truck and got his lunch, then returned to his favorite tree. He dropped it on the grass, then scurried toward the house, staying out of sight of the windows. When he got to the house, he scooted under the windows until he got to the music room, stood, and peered through the window. Nothing and nobody. No François. Madame wasn’t even in sight. Shit!
He flattened his back against the house. Maybe they both left for a trip to play music in Lithuania or something. Damn. Not my business. But I wonder if François’s scared.
With that thought pressing down on him, he walked back to his lunch and flopped on his butt under the tree. François scared. François scared. It hammered in his chest with his heartbeat. The tuna sandwich tasted like cardboard as he stared at the windows for a tiny hint of movement.
FRANÇOIS STRODE down one of the long halls of South Coast Plaza, trying to make himself look in the shops and ignore the people walking past him. He’d managed to get his breathing under control, but getting caught up in the beauty of clothing from Chanel and Balenciaga just wasn’t happening. Not when what he really wanted was to get lost in the beauty of Artie’s eyes. Stupid. Idiotic. True.
He stopped and sat on a bench in the fanciest hall of the mall. Of course they were all pretty fancy, since this was one of the most high-end shopping centers in the world. Artie doesn’t want me. He’s more worried about his status as a straight macho man.
Do I care? Yeah. He sighed. Do I care enough to not want him anymore? Shit, no.
His phone rang—again. He glanced at the screen and refused yet another call from his mother. No doubt she’d freaked when she discovered he’d gone on his own and not with Joseph. He should turn his phone off, but maybe a stupid piece of his brain kept hoping the next call would be from Artie.
Some people walked by and he glanced up—and froze. In the spaces
between bodies passing, he could see across the open space in the center of the second floor to the other side of the hall. The couple who lingered there for just a moment gave him a glance and rushed hurriedly away. George and Margie. Had to be.
Maybe that wasn’t odd. South Coast Plaza was just a few blocks from Sanderson Hall. The restaurant where they’d first accosted him was in Corona del Mar—not close but striking distance from Costa Mesa. Still, three times a charm? Or three strikes you’re out?
He shivered. Come on, don’t make up shit in your brain. They’re just fans. But if that was true, why didn’t Margie come squealing across the walkway to throw her arms around him? She probably felt embarrassed at seeing him yet again. But they’d looked a little—guilty. Hadn’t they?
The tips of his fingers grew cold, and he raised his head casually and looked to his right. No sign of a familiar face. Then he turned left. Nothing. He started to smile and stopped as a head popped around the corner of a store window across the hall. He was almost certain it was Margie’s face. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Chapter Fourteen
WITHOUT THINKING, François rose from the bench and strode into Tiffany, which stood in all its glittery glory catty-corner from where he was sitting. When he got inside, he stopped. Damn, he should have chosen a place with dressing rooms. Of course, being trapped in a dressing room with George didn’t sound fun.
“Can I help you, sir?”
Oh right. He’d been staring into a case of watches. Sadly, he’d purposely worn his grubbys to the mall so he’d be less likely to be recognized. In Tiffany’s, ratty sweats didn’t inspire instant confidence. But he did have one small calling card. He let his Patek Phillipe watch slip out from under his baggy sleeve. The salesman spotted it instantly, and a small smile crept across his lips.
“Are you looking for a replacement?”
François glanced at his watch as if he’d been unaware of its existence. “Oh no. It’s a favorite. Just looking.” He smiled.
“I can see where it would be hard to top that piece, but we can certainly try, Mr.—”
“Desmarais. François Desmarais.”
“The pianist.”
François nodded.
“Oh yes, I’ve heard you play. I’m honored.”
François pressed a hand to his chest. “Excuse my attire.”
“Incognito?”
“Exactly.” He leaned in. “I’m afraid it didn’t work and I’m being, uh, followed by some fans who’re difficult to shake. Forgive me if I just hide out at Tiffany.” He laughed as musically as he could manage.
“Oh my, hide out here anytime you choose.” The man fluttered his lashes one too many times. “Meanwhile, I’ll just tempt you with some goodies.” He started pulling diamond watches out of the case.
François tried to look attentive but his spine tingled, and not in a good way. After trying on a couple of watches, the antsiness overcame him. “Uh, do you see anyone outside the store watching me? It would be a man and a woman.”
The salesman looked conspiratorially out the window, brows drawn. François would have laughed if he’d been able to muster funny. “No. Don’t see anyone. They probably gave up.”
“Good. Thank you so much for letting me skulk.” He tried not to look furtive as he left the shop, walking steadily toward Nordstrom, but not running. Maybe he could find a cab outside the department store. Everything in him screamed to look over his shoulder, but he forced himself not to.
At the entrance to Nordstrom, they had a coffee shop. He stopped in the short line and pulled out his phone, glancing at the face of it as if checking his emails. With a stretch, he bobbed his head back and forth like he was favoring a sore neck. The angle gave him a quick view in both directions—and complete panic when he realized that George was staring in a shop window only a few yards away. Where the fuck is Margie?
His finger stabbed the phone all by itself. He heard it ringing though he hadn’t turned on the speaker.
“Hello? François? Is that you?” Artie’s voice was faint, but François heard the anxiety. He brought the phone closer as if to see an email. “At South Coast Plaza. George and Margie. Scared. Might be nothing.” Movement beside him made him look up, and George was walking toward him. Though he smiled, it didn’t reach his eyes and his expression looked nothing like an ardent fan.
“Get away from me.” People stared at him, but he didn’t want George any closer. He took off running into Nordstrom.
“Margie, get him,” George yelled from behind, and François acted on instinct and jogged to the side, just missing Margie’s hands as they grabbed for him.
“Damn!” She plastered a smile on her chubby cheeks and seemed to be trying to look as if they were just playing some fun game.
François dove behind a rack of clothing in the junior department until he was practically wearing a pink T-shirt that said Always be yourself. Unless you can be a unicorn, in which case you should always be a unicorn. He could use a fucking unicorn right then.
Heavy footsteps got closer. Staying low to the ground, he crept into the dressing room of the junior department. His own bad thoughts about being cornered by George flashed in his mind, but he sneaked into a dressing stall. Damn, no bench. And no teenage girls asking their girlfriends if the jeans made them look fat. Department stores just didn’t do the business they used to.
François pressed his ear against the door of the dressing room. From a distance away, George said, “I’ll bet he went in there.”
Margie replied, “Wait till nobody’s looking or you’ll be arrested for child endangerment. This is a girls’ dressing room.”
“I can make like Donald Trump at the beauty pageant.” George laughed nastily.
“Can it, asshole.” She sure didn’t sound like anybody’s loving wife anymore.
George said, “I’m going. Yell if you see him.”
Footsteps got closer. François stopped breathing, grabbed the top of the divider on both sides, and lifted his feet from the floor. Can’t stay this way long. Need to lift more weights. But he kept holding because he had a pretty good idea he wasn’t going to lift much of anything if George got ahold of him.
His arms shook and hands screamed with the pain of the metal on the top of the divider cutting into his palms.
The footsteps walked past his stall and kept going. There were probably six or even more individual dividers before George would get to the end of the row.
Shit! Can’t hold. He dropped to his feet as softly as he could manage, fell to his knees, then to his stomach, and slithered under the dividers toward the door.
“Fuck!” Heavy footfalls started toward him. “Margie, get ready.”
François leaped to his feet, slammed through the door of the stall, and kept running at top speed.
Margie stepped in front of him. “François, what a surprise!”
He didn’t even slow but rammed into her with as much force as he could muster, sending her flailing against the wall. She was such a sturdy woman, the impact almost knocked him over, but he kept his feet and, gasping for breath, ran, dodging displays and clothing racks.
No amount of zigzagging got rid of fucking George. Footsteps pounded after François, drawing closer and closer. People stared as he ran by, but no one looked like a savior he could ask for help. George must still be laughing and smiling, making himself appear like the benevolent one.
Dashing out of Nordstrom and into the mall, François could barely breathe, his chest hurt, and everything in him just wanted to fold into a ball on the floor and let the asshole take him. Not a chance. He’d told his mother he could take care of himself and he’d die trying—literally.
Dodging a mother with a stroller and two other little kids, he ran as fast as he could, but George just kept coming. Desperately, François turned right at a jog in the wall—and stopped. He was in a dead end. There had been a restaurant at the end of the little hallway, but it was closed. Locked tight. And between François and the rest of
the mall—he turned slowly. There stood George, grinning.
“Come on, baby. We’re not going to hurt you. Not as long as you do exactly what we want.”
François bounced a little on the balls of his feet, looking for an opening to run. “What would that be? Lots of money, I presume.”
“Aw, see? What a smart boy.”
“So you and your so-called wife have been stalking me all this time, waiting for a chance to kidnap me?” His pulse beat in his throat.
“And you sure as fuck haven’t made it easy. Man, you’re never alone.” George feinted toward François, who bounded to the side. But George recovered instantly and called over his shoulder, “Margie? Where the hell are you?”
No Margie. That, at least, was a gift.
“So how much do you want?”
“Not much. Five mil will do.”
François frowned. “I haven’t got that much money.” Do I?
“Of course you do. I researched you very carefully. Chickenshit little fag worth a ton of dough. A perfect target.”
“Fuck you.”
“Well, maybe not, but that mouth of yours sure is pretty, when you’re not blabbing out of it. I bet I could put it to good use before we collect our money.”
“And then you plan to let me go?”
“I suppose. Of course, we need to get away. Or at least I do. So you’ll be our ticket out of town.”
François burst forward and slammed his knee toward George’s balls. George moved, but caught just an edge of the flying patella. “Fuck! Enough.” He grabbed François by the arm, reached in his jacket pocket, and pulled out the handle of a revolver. “I’d rethink my position, piano man.”
François slowly released his pent-up breath. Okay. Maybe George got to win. Of course, he’s probably going to end up killing me anyway, but I suppose the longer I can stay alive, the more chance I can—
Wham. A flying body landed directly on George’s back. George flew toward the wall, releasing François and grabbing for his gun.
Fuck that! François dove on him, grabbed his hand, and managed to complete the move he’d failed at moments before. He thrust his knee into George’s crotch as hard as he could. He knew he’d succeeded when George’s hand loosed on the gun grip as his head fell back and he shrieked. Just about that time, Artie’s big fist connected with George’s jaw—twice—and the guy folded to the ground, moaning.