by Hayes, Lane
“So sarcastic, Mr. Conrad. It’s the truth,” I singsonged. I swiped his cocktail from his hand again and took a sip. I started to give it back, but then decided it would be more fun to bug him. I shook the ice loose before continuing in a mischievous tone. “I’m more of a second-date ho.”
Wes barked a quick laugh then gave me a cocky grin that made my toes curl and my heart skip a beat. “And this happens to be our second ‘date.’ Or at least the second time we’ve met. What are you suggesting, Nicky?”
“Uh…”
Wes’s cheerful laughter lit every corner of his face, especially his eyes. They twinkled with easy humor that made me grin like a fool. When he sobered, he plucked the glass from my hand with a smirk. “Relax. And if possible, get your mind out of the gutter. This isn’t a sex party…per se.”
“What does ‘per se’ mean?”
“It means everyone here is a grown adult. If one thing leads to another…c’est la vie. Who invited you?”
“Finn Gallagher. Do you know him?”
“I’ve met him a couple of times. He’s a friend of a friend.”
“The friend who owns this place?”
“No, Inspector Clouseau. I don’t think Geordie has ever met Finn. I certainly would have heard about it.”
“Geordie owns this house? The guy decked in black velvet I met last weekend…that Geordie?”
“There’s only one. Thank God. And yes, this is his place.”
“Why isn’t he here? This is a big party to be hosting from afar.”
Wes’s smile dimmed. He inclined his head and sipped his cocktail before replying. “He’s having a hard time adjusting to Mike being gone. He hasn’t been to San Francisco, let alone a party, in months.”
“Geordie and Mike were lovers?”
Wes nodded. “They were together for ten years.”
I was surprised, which made zero sense. I didn’t know either man. I met them each once, a year apart. I’d met Mike while surrounded by a group of fellow wine enthusiasts-slash-tourists and my then-girlfriend. Like Geordie, he made an impression. But for completely different reasons. I remembered thinking he was a guy’s guy. He was big and masculine, and I distinctly recalled having a lengthy discussion about the World Series. Never in a million years would I associate him with the ultra-fabulous Geordie. They didn’t go together. Did they?
A burly man with a dark bushy beard came up behind Wes and laid a hand on his shoulder before pulling him into a hug.
“Hey there, Wes. How are you holding up?”
“I’m good. Thank you,” Wes replied, waving absently to another couple who greeted him by name while he continued his conversation in a lower tone.
I watched the exchange with growing curiosity. For the second time in a week, I’d gone into a simple situation that should have led to a certain outcome, only to find myself getting an intimate peek into Wes’s life. Last Saturday should have been an easy jaunt to wine country to unload my unwanted purchase. Instead, I ended up driving home well after dark in a rental car wearing his clothes. And unfortunately, not because of some big sex-capade. The odds of running into Wes a week later in my neighborhood seemed pretty damn low. Maybe this was a setup. Maybe Wes’s appearance here had something to do with the Byzantine deal. Maybe—
“You look like a kid with a dollar in a candy store. You know you can’t have everything, but you sure as hell want something.” Wes’s throaty chuckle ripped me from my thoughts.
“You’re right. I’m dying to know what the fuck is really going on here.”
“Ah. I remember you have a superstitious nature. Cause and effect, karma, clean slates. You don’t allow for chance, do you?”
“Sure. But not wild coincidence. If you think—”
“There are too many people here. Come with me.”
Wes inclined his head toward the sweeping staircase and stepped away, leaving me to follow.
Chapter 4
I didn’t hesitate. I took the stairs two at a time to catch up to him. He stood at the top of the landing, leaning on the semi-circular railing overlooking the marble entry. The light from the grand crystal chandelier overhead glittered like diamonds on the high ceiling. The soft illumination lent an ethereal glow to the space, reminiscent of a pivotal scene in a romantic movie. I shook the fanciful thought as I followed Wes down the short hallway to what looked like a master suite.
The bedroom was decorated in deep shades of blue. A giant four-poster bed was positioned opposite the French doors to take advantage of the impressive view of the Bay. Wes opened the doors with a flourish, revealing a balcony. He turned with a mischievous grin and motioned for me to join him.
“Views like this one make me miss the city,” he said conversationally. “I’ll grant you three questions. Make ’em good.”
I gave a cursory glance toward the twinkling lights on the Golden Gate Bridge but I was infinitely more curious about him.
“Why did you move?” I stood close to him for body warmth.
“Is that one of your questions?”
“No, you’re right. That wasn’t a good one. I need to put some thought into this if I only get three,” I replied through chattering teeth. Fuck, it was cold out here.
Wes wrapped his arms around me and rubbed my biceps. The maneuver seemed unconscious rather than calculated. And it made me feel oddly…safe.
“Hold this. I’ll grab a blanket from the bedroom.” He pushed his half-empty cocktail into my hands then moved into the adjacent room.
I leaned on the iron railing and took a sip without thinking. The ice overpowered the soothing effects of the liquor. I shivered in earnest then turned to find a place to leave the drink. Wes saw my intent when he stepped back onto the balcony. He snatched the glass from my hand and set it on a side table mostly hidden in shadow. Then he draped a thick wool blanket over my shoulder and stepped closer to secure the other end over his. The need for warmth overrode the implied intimacy in the gesture and made it seem perfectly normal to be swaddled with a man I hardly knew in the moonlight.
“This is nice,” I said without thinking. “Even though it feels like you’ve brought me to your secret lair.”
“Your virtue is safe with me.” Wes smiled slyly as he slipped his arm around my waist before adding, “Unless of course, you don’t want it to be.”
“I’m not worried about my virtue. It’s you I don’t get. I know just enough about you to be wary, which is a good thing.”
“How so?”
“I’m attracted to you. And if I hadn’t met you last week, I’d be much more likely to offer you a blowjob after sharing a cocktail.”
Wes gave me a wide-eyed comical look. “Hang on. I think I was given an early Christmas gift and had it taken away already. I don’t get it.”
I laughed at his teasing tone. “The less you know about someone, the easier it is to have meaningless intimate contact. But I think I’m being punked now, and I can’t figure out the source or the reason. If you weren’t so hot, I would have told Josh to abort the mission and hightailed it to the Castro.”
Wes gave a humorous huff. “Let me get this straight…you’d be more likely to have sex with me if you didn’t know me, but you’re suspicious now because we have a history of one meeting—”
“In which you stuck your tongue down my throat,” I reminded him casually.
“Right. So even though your instinct is to avoid me, you’re an opportunistic, horny asshole who can’t decide if my presence works in your favor or not.” Wes tightened his hold around my waist and sighed. “At least you said I’m hot. That’s something.”
I burst into laughter and impulsively leaned into his side. “You twisted my words to make me sound like an asshole.”
“No, I offered another translation. I don’t think you’re an asshole, but you don’t mind if everyone thinks you are. You do careless and aloof well, but…I don’t buy the act. I’m not sure who you are or what you need, Nick, but I have a feeling it’ll take more
than a stolen hour on a random night to figure you out.”
I preened like a cat at his astute observation and then immediately wondered if I’d had more to drink than I’d thought. Twittering like a teenager who’d sucked down too many contraband wine coolers at a high school football game was not me. I coughed to hide my embarrassment.
“Why don’t we start out with my three questions? Number one, how are you and Geordie connected with tonight? This house, these people. I don’t get it.”
“Mike.”
I waited a beat for him to explain himself. When he remained stubbornly silent, I pinched his side. He yelped in surprise and then squeezed my hand and held it still until I got the message to keep my arm where it was, cradling his hip.
“Monosyllabic answers don’t count. Talk, Conrad,” I said, slipping my thumb under the denim at his waist. I tugged at his belt loop and gave him a sideways once-over. It was impossible not to admire his aristocratic profile and proud posture. It made him seem taller than me and infinitely more sophisticated. I swallowed hard and refocused. “Go on.”
“Mike bought this place in the late nineties. He stayed here when he was in the city until we were up and running at the winery. In the beginning, we were hands-on twenty-four-seven. Commuting into San Francisco for a good time on a whim wasn’t feasible. He didn’t like leaving it unoccupied, so he let friends stay and occasionally used it for gatherings like tonight.”
“Sex gatherings.”
Wes snorted. “No. Are you sure you aren’t an undercover cop working a bad lead? This is just what it looks like. Nothing covert or scandalous. The people here tonight are his friends. They’re here to support Mike’s LGBT charity but more importantly…they’re mourning their comrade.”
“Oh.” Okay, now I felt like a total schmuck. It didn’t explain why Finn was here or why he invited me without telling me it was a charity event. But I had my doubts Wes would know the answers to those questions. “I’m sorry. Why isn’t Geordie here then?”
“It’s only been three months since Mike passed. He’s a little fragile, still.” It was difficult to gauge his expression in the dark, but I could hear his sadness clearly.
“Ten years is a long time,” I replied sympathetically. I wanted to know more about his friends, but if he was going to cut my questions off, I had to switch my focus back to him. “Are you from the Bay area originally?”
“No. You?”
I sighed. “No, but this isn’t about me.”
“My bad. Next question.”
“Um…I’m assuming you’re not married, attached or have kids but—”
“That’s a statement, Nicky. Not a question. But I’m feeling generous. The answer to all three in one is no.”
“What happened to complete sentences with the maximum amount of information? You know…like a conversation. Tell me where you’re from originally, when you moved here and why you stayed. Get it?”
“Got it, but that’s all boring stuff you can probably google.”
“Really?” I wrestled my cell from my pocket and held it up triumphantly. I grimaced when I noted the low battery signal. Whatever. This was worth it.
I typed Wes Conrad in Google and was immediately rewarded with a deluge of information. There were multiple entries about his winery and the various charities he was involved with, including a local shelter for homeless LGBT youth. I shot him a quick sideways glance he met with a raised brow.
“Find anything interesting?”
“Well, let’s see if this is correct. Your full name is Wesley Conrad Culberth. You’re forty-five and you hail from Utah. Your surname is in parentheses. Does that mean you don’t use it or—”
“It means I dropped it,” he said in a sharp tone.
“Okay. It’s a little flimsy here until…no fucking way.” I gaped at my screen and then at him. “You founded Westell Tech? Holy crap! You didn’t just work in my field, you’re a fucking pioneer. How old were you when you founded your company?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Really? Don’t answer. I’ll keep reading.” I looked down at the screen again. “This doesn’t mention financial backing. There’s no way you started something that big on your own at the beginning of the dot-com revolution.”
“I had investors. Mike and I owned majority shares and sold out just before the recession hit.”
“I’m in awe. I mean…this is like finding out you’ve been talking to your rock-and-roll hero who you find out has been incognito all night.”
“Are you going to ask for my autograph?”
“I just might. I’m a big fan. I might not wear glasses and carry a pocket protector, but I’m a geek. A serious nerd. I must be losing it. I should have recognized your name, but I’ve associated it with wine for a while now. I’m surprised Eric didn’t know,” I mumbled.
“Technology has changed considerably in the past nine years. I’ve kept in contact with some people but we don’t talk business anymore and—”
“I don’t get it. You’re a tech god. How can someone like you be happy farming grapes? Forty-five is young. Ish,” I added, hoping to get a response. I gave myself a mental high five when he rolled his eyes. “Why are you wasting away in the country?”
“Napa isn’t exactly the boondocks,” Wes scoffed. “And while I’m flattered by the high praise, I’m not a rock god or—”
“You are,” I insisted. “You’re the Paul McCartney of Silicon Valley.”
“That’s a slight exaggeration. But if I was, I’d rather be an eighties rock god.”
“Okay. Who? Um…Morrissey? Or wait. How about Prince?”
“Robert Smith from The Cure,” he said as though he’d given the matter some thought.
“Why?”
“The eighties was my era. I was a new-wave punk before it was cool. I dyed my hair black and spiked it ’til it was razor sharp at the ends. And I wore so much eyeliner it was hard to tell the actual shape of my eyes some days.”
“So you were a cool kid,” I said.
“Not really. I was lucky to grow up in an era where the guys in the hottest bands had big hair and wore more cosmetics than most of the women. It gave me an excuse to act out without actually outing myself.”
“So everyone thought you were uber cool instead of uber gay?”
“Yup. I fooled ’em all. Until I got caught kissing my neighbor’s cousin. That wasn’t something I could say I saw on MTV. The gig was up.”
“What happened?” I turned to study his face in the shadows.
He furrowed his brow and spoke in a dull tone. “I got kicked out. I was fifteen.”
I didn’t say anything for a moment. His words were due a measure of solemnity. I laid my head on his shoulder and shared something I usually never did. “I was eighteen.”
“You’re a Stanford grad. How’d you manage without family to help?”
“How’d you know I graduated from Stanford?”
“I told you when you started giving me a hard time about the wine you ordered—I did some research of my own.”
“Oh. I was already in school when I told them. I’m from a super-conservative town in Idaho. I probably wouldn’t have spoken up, but I had a crush on a guy in my dorm and after we had sex for the first time, I thought I’d gotten it wrong. I wasn’t straight; I was gay. Turns out I’m bi, and trust me…for a guy who thinks in blacks and whites, bisexuality was a foreign concept,” I said with a half laugh. “Not that it would have mattered. My parents made it clear they wouldn’t tolerate so-called deviant behavior, and they stayed true to their word. My excommunication took place over the phone with my dad telling me he never wanted to see my face again. I went to school on scholarships, grants, and a hefty student loan. I finished in four years with four patents under my belt. I couldn’t wait to build something of my own from scratch. Something unlike anything my father could have ever dreamed.”
“Have you ever reached out to them?”
“Fuck no. No one gets second chan
ces like that with me. But that’s not me being an asshole. They never reached out either. I haven’t seen my family in thirteen years. That’s the way it will stay. What about you? Do you talk to yours?”
“My dad almost killed me. There was no way I was going back so he could finish the job. I escaped and ran away with a duffle full of clothes and the money I’d saved from my paper route. In 1986 there was no social media to check in on loved ones or commiserate with cyber buddies about your fucked-up life. I knew I was gay. I thought I knew how to hide in the open. It’s what gay men and women did. When the gig was up, I ran as fast as I could before some righteous religious freak decided they knew what God did with fags. The police in my town turned a blind eye to gay bashing…and parents who punished their kids so severely they could barely walk. I hopped a Greyhound to Salt Lake City where I was treated for broken ribs and a ruptured spleen. When the nice folks there got the foster family paperwork ready, I ran again. To San Francisco.”
“At fifteen? That’s criminal.”
“It still happens all the time. That’s the criminal part.”
“What did you do when you got here?”
“I lived on the streets near the Mission. It was ugly sometimes, but then I met Mike and finally got the guidance I needed to pull myself together and start over.”
“How much older was he?”
“Twelve years.”
“Was he a father-figure to you?”
Wes pulled the blanket around us and turned to face me, so we stood chest to chest. He kissed my cold lips and brushed his nose against mine.
“God, no. I had a dad and he was bad enough; I never wanted another one. Mike was a mentor at the LGBT center who’d been through the same family nightmare I had. He knew the city and how to stay safe, which wasn’t an easy feat at the height of the AIDS scare. But we survived. In fact…we did better than that. We thrived. He encouraged me to take my education seriously, and he was over the moon when I got into Berkeley. He was all about following your dreams. His was to own a winery one day. Mine was…undetermined. I just wanted him to be proud. He took the place of everything my family gave up—” Wes’s voice caught with emotion when he continued. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”