by Tara Lain
“Great.”
George turned to Wingman. “And who can sing the lyrics?”
He shrugged. “Easy, man. For that we need Peter.”
Wen tried very hard not to smile.
Peter scowled at Samu and backed up against the sink he’d just cleaned—for the third time. Having all his best friends gone made for a very dull day. “I already said I didn’t want to get involved.”
Samu leaned against the doorjamb. “This is different. It could be a real opportunity for the Lost Boys. You don’t have to be in the pictures and video if you don’t want to. But that song needs your voice.”
“Come on, I’m no great singer. Get someone else.”
Samu scrunched his mouth to the left—probably trying not to laugh. “Okay, you’re no Christina Aguilera, but like with the rest of your crazy-ass self, your voice is unique, and the song was written for you to sing. We need you. Nobody else.”
“Oh hell, Samu.” More than half of him wanted to run out the door and go anywhere Wen was. The other part hated the idea.
“Please, Peter.”
Jesus, Samu never asked anybody for anything. “Okay, yes. I’ll do it for you.”
“Thanks, man.”
“I’m gonna change. I’ve been cleaning.”
Samu snorted. “Hell, you clean this place five times a week. I think you’re more like Wendell than you let on.”
Peter’s eyes flashed to Samu’s face, and he held up his hands in surrender, but he didn’t stop laughing.
A half hour later, dressed in his black jeans and a green long-sleeved T-shirt, Peter followed Samu into a street-level office that said JayWell Studios on a sign outside. From the small reception area, he could hear Wingman playing and Map holding forth on something. Then Wen’s soft voice answered, though Peter couldn’t make out the words. It didn’t matter to his dick. It still got real attentive.
When they walked into the studio, Wingman came bounding over. “Thanks, Peter. Sure do appreciate you doing this.”
He shrugged and glanced quickly at Wen, who was gazing at him with a small smile. “Let’s just get it done, okay?”
“Sure. Yeah. Let’s start.” Wingman turned toward some older dude, who came forward with his hand extended.
“You must be Peter. I’m George Morewell. I’m directing the shoot for Wendell.”
Peter shook his hand.
Wingman called, “Here, PP.” He pointed to a microphone set up beside a big curved wall.
Samu ran his fingers over the keys of an electronic keyboard that wasn’t his own, Wingman picked up his guitar, and the others grabbed their instruments. Tink walked over beside Peter carrying her tambourine. “Youokaywiththis?”
“Yeah. I don’t want to queer the deal for anybody.”
She frowned at Wen so hard her eyebrows touched in the middle. “He’ssuckingusin.”
“Just go with the program, Tink. The Boys want to do it. Even Samu asked me.”
She kept grimacing, but she nodded once.
Wingman gave a nod, and Samu started flowing his fingers over the keyboard, producing an almost melancholic refrain. Yeah, Peter had kind of forgotten how much he liked this song.
After a short intro, Dudish came in on a drum set that also wasn’t his, and Wingman picked up the beat and transformed the sound from almost sad to a little happy. At Wingman’s nod, Peter began to sing, and Map and Tink provided backup. The lyrics sang of happiness, how it comes from within and you have to own it. Happiness is a choice, an attitude, Peter sang.
His eyes drifted up and crawled across the room on their own to meet Wen’s.
“Happiness is a choice—but it still looks a lot like you.”
The music soared under him, and his gaze locked and held. Map and Tink crooned through the words “a lot like you” again and again.
Samu and Dudish took over, and the beat picked up to a full-on joyful theme.
Peter couldn’t help it. He started to smile. “It may be dumb, but I know it’s true, happiness looks a lot like you.”
Wen smiled back. Map picked up second guitar. Tink’s tambourine added that touch of gospel, and the music filled the room…and oozed into Peter’s heart.
George grabbed his handheld camera and started shooting as the Lost Boys got lost in their own music, bopping and bouncing to their anthem.
Peter felt like someone plugged him into the universe; cosmic energy fizzed through his veins. He let his voice roam and reach like it never had before. “I know I’m crazy and you’ll leave me blue, but happiness still looks a lot like you.”
The upbeat softened into that gentle, flowing theme, and the song came to an end as Peter’s voice faded out. “—yooooou.”
As if they’d planned it, Samu stepped forward and picked up Peter, holding him in his flying position above his head, and flew him in a circle around the studio, then returned him to his feet and silence.
For a moment the whole studio stayed quiet. Then George said, “Wow. That was incredible. You’re great. I need all your contact information, because I’ll bet I can use you in other gigs that come up and recommend you to clients.”
Wingman beamed. “No shit? We’d love that, man.”
Wen looked toward Peter, then turned to George. “Did you get it, or do we need to do it again?”
“I got it. I know one take is unusual, but that run-through had a special quality I don’t think we’re going to duplicate. Plus, if the commercial goes into production, we’ll have to redo the number in a sound studio. So we’re done with that.” He turned to Peter. “I really appreciate you doing this, Peter. It was special and memorable.”
Peter gave a half smile. “I’ve got a voice that rocks peanut butter.”
George barked a laugh. “I’m sure it would rock a lot of things, but in this case, yes.” George looked around at the Boys, then back at Peter. “You want to stay and watch the rest of the shoot?”
“Uh, no. I better go.”
Samu said, “Thanks for doing this, Peter.”
He tapped two fingers against his forehead in a brief salute. “See ya.” He walked out of the studio and down the short hall toward the door.
“Peter.”
Until he heard it, he didn’t realize how much he wanted Wen to stop him. He turned.
Wen paused a few feet away from Peter. “Thank you. You were amazing.” Wen swallowed noticeably. “I mean, you sounded great.”
“Thanks.” With an effort, he stepped toward the door.
“Want to go to the movies or something?”
“Now?” He couldn’t help the grin.
“Uh, no. I have to get this ad done and ready to present, but I sure would like to take you on a date, you know?”
“Maybe I’d say yes and then wouldn’t show up, being so irresponsible and all.”
Wen sighed really loudly. “I’m sorry, Peter. I don’t know how else to say it. Even the kids say you remind us of our mother—the good parts of her. Her creativity, laughter, and fun. But sometimes I get confused.”
“How are the kids?”
“Sad you left. Angry with me for making you go.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep.”
“Smart kids you’ve got there.”
“Yeah, well, they don’t take after their brother.”
Peter felt the smile tugging at his heart. “Okay, we can talk about a movie. Get your fucking peanut butter done. You know how to call me, right?”
“Uh, no.”
Peter waggled his fingers, and Wen plopped his phone into Peter’s palm. He keyed in the digits. “Now you do.” On that perfect line, he sailed out the door.
Two days—otherwise known as close to forty-eight working hours—later, Wen half dragged, half soared his way up the apartment stairs. Yes, he qualified as beat to a splendiferous pulp, but oh my God, that ad was going to be great. He hoped Henderson liked it—no, loved it—but even if he didn’t, the ad was some of the best work done by any agency that y
ear. Of course, if Henderson hated it, that and five bucks would buy him a cup of coffee.
He stuck his key in the door and had it half open when the smell of Mexican food assailed him and the sound of laughter floated down the stairs. Wait, is that—
Pushing the door open, he stepped inside to find John and Michaela rolling on the rug in laughter as Peter pranced across the room doing some imitation.
They all looked up, spied Wen, and laughed even harder.
“Uh, hello.”
Peter waved. “Hi. We got dinner and almost waited for you.” He licked his fingers that shone with suspiciously taco-like oil.
John wiped his eyes. “Peter was just showing us the guy in your office who spied him there and was chasing Peter down the aisles. He calls him Turtle Man.” John hunched his shoulders, and Michaela and Peter mimicked him so all three had no visible necks.
Wen held out a hand. “Wait. You mean Arnie, right? The guy who wears turtlenecks and has no neck for the turtle?”
John fell back on the rug laughing. “That’s the one. Must be.”
Wen gazed at Peter’s pretty face. “I never quite knew why you came to the office that day.”
He smiled. “I was interested in someone who would go to the trouble to wait in a subway station all night to find me.”
“How did you know where to find Allworth?”
Peter glanced at the rug. “Uh, I looked it up.”
“And how do you happen to be here now?” Wen smiled so it didn’t sound like a rebuke.
“I came to tell John and Michaela not to be mad at you. We’re so different, we’re bound to misunderstand each other.”
Wen could feel his face fall.
Peter grinned. “But sometimes opposites attract.”
Wen cocked his head and stared at that impish expression. “Yeah, sometimes they do.”
Despite being supertired, the evening was just the medicine Wen needed. They ate the Mexican food, which Peter seemed to have bought in quantities appropriate to feeding the nation, and then watched an old movie on TV—Bringing Up Baby, the one about the leopard—which was so plain funny and stupid, they all just howled and pounded on the couch arms.
After the film was over, Michaela started cleaning up the dishes, and John actually helped her without being threatened or bribed. As she carried plates to the kitchen, she asked Wen, “Are you ready for your presentation?”
Wen nodded. “As ready as I can be. It’s actually pretty amazing, but that doesn’t mean the client will like it. Clients are as dumb as the next guy.”
John said, “Bet he’ll love it.”
Wen wiped a hand over his neck, too tired to pretend. “If he doesn’t, at least I know I gave it everything I’ve got.” He smiled. “Maybe I should say everything Peter’s got.” He gave Peter as big a smile as he could justify in front of the kids. “Even if the client doesn’t buy it, I’ll bring the demo home so you can see it.”
John’s eyes got big. “I sure hope he likes it.”
Peter reached out and grabbed John in a big hug. “Doesn’t matter. Your brother’s so talented that every agency in New York’s going to be lining up to hire him, so his company better hold on tight.”
John beamed, and Wen wanted to kiss Peter on the spot. That was really nice.
Wen said, “And trust him. Peter’s a real expert on advertising.” He laughed, but for a second Peter glanced at him with wide eyes. Then he laughed too.
Michaela stood. “Come on, John, we’ve got school, and we have to get Wen off to the office early so he can wow the client, so let’s get to bed.”
“Aww. Can’t I play a game with Peter?”
Michaela glanced up at Wen, and suddenly those eyes looked very old. “How about you come in with me and we’ll play a game. Wen can put you in your bed later, okay?”
“Wow.” John stared at his sister in open amazement. Michaela didn’t offer her space very often, so this was a rare honor, and one she clearly intended for Wen’s benefit.
Jesus, if he said nothing, he was as good as admitting to his kid sister that he planned to have sex with Peter in the living room. Not the best plan. If he said no, he gave up the option of having sex with Peter.
Before he could get himself out from between the rock and the hard place, she bustled John off with a tiny smile on her face.
Chapter Thirteen
Wen looked away from the backs of the retreating kids to Peter. They both burst out laughing.
Wen said, “Would you like a beer or some wine?”
“Sure. But we need to get you to bed. You do have a big day tomorrow.”
“I’m interested in the ‘we’ part of that statement.” He walked to the kitchen, grabbed a half-full bottle of white wine he’d had for a week, poured two glasses, and carried one to Peter, who’d sprawled on the couch.
Peter extended his glass for a clink. “Wishing you a successful presentation to peanut-butter man.”
“From your lips to God’s ears.” He sipped and sat next to Peter. “So you decided not to wait until our movie date?” He glanced sideways and grinned.
“Life’s short. Eat dessert first.”
Wen snorted and sucked some wine up his nose, which made him cough and laugh at once. “Define dessert.”
Peter glanced toward the bedroom. “I’m assuming I shouldn’t do some show-and-tell, right?”
Wen nodded. “Michaela may think she’s being very sophisticated, but I suspect she’d be uncomfortable with the idea. She’s a teenager, after all.”
“Yeah, I remember. Fascinated and repelled at the same time. Especially since you qualify as a parent.”
“You probably don’t have to remember back very far.”
Peter grinned. “A ways.” He picked up the remote. “How about a movie?”
“Oh, okay.” Not nearly as much fun as what they were giving up, but necessary sacrifices.
Peter hunted until he found an old romantic suspense called The Saint.
Wen nodded. “I love that movie.”
“Cool.” He set down the clicker, pulled an afghan from the back of the couch, and wrapped it around both their laps.
Wen started to protest that it was too warm for covers when a hand closed over his crotch. “Oh, you tricky devil.”
He whispered, “Teenage trick. Fight fire with fire.”
Peter glued his eyes to the screen, picked up his wineglass with his right hand, and dragged down Wen’s fly zipper with his left.
“Ambidextrous, are we?” Wen adjusted his hips to give Peter better access.
“Multitalented.” He insinuated his hand into Wen’s briefs, grabbed his cock, and began a slow milking action.
“Oh man.”
Peter set down his wine on the end table and turned up the volume a little more. The purpose of the movie became clear. At the same time, Val Kilmer was damned sexy, so watching while getting jerked off was no hardship.
Wen edged closer so he could return the favor. He slid a hand to the fly of Peter’s jeans, pulled the zipper down, and quickly discovered that no underwear hampered his access. “Oh boy.” He grabbed himself a handful of warm Peter and started to pump.
Their mixed breathing got so loud it swamped the sound from the movie, so Peter grabbed the remote and turned it even louder. Wen’s head fell back against the couch and his hips bobbed, but he kept jerking Peter because the idea of what was happening under the covers totally did it for him.
Peter leaned over and murmured against Wen’s ear. “You’re so sexy. I love watching your serious façade fall off and your passion seep out.”
Something about that idea rubbed Wen’s fur the wrong way, but his body didn’t give a damn if Peter thought he was pretending to be someone he wasn’t. He hissed, “Oh, oh, oh God.”
Peter’s hand tightened and got more frantic until his head fell back beside Wen’s, and a lightning bolt shot up his spine like an arrow, exploding the top of his head. “Holy—uh, moley.”
“
Second the motion.”
They both gasped for breath while Val and his ladylove ran from the Russians. Or somebody.
“Hey, Wen.” John’s voice came from the hall.
Wen froze, and Peter popped up his head and stared at the TV.
Wen said, “Yeah, John?”
“I’m going back to my bed now. Uh, I sure do like that movie.”
Peter chuckled, and Wen smiled. “We’ll watch it together soon, okay? Peter’s just leaving because I need to get some sleep.”
Peter pulled his sticky hand from under the covers.
“Okay.” John seemed to yawn. “Come back soon, Peter.”
“I will, John.” Peter lifted his hips, apparently to close his pants, then slid out from under the afghan and walked to the kitchen and washed his hands.
Wen called, “Get in bed, John. I’ll be in soon.”
He heard footsteps move down the hall. If they’d decided to get more involved, which Wen had been more than willing to do, what the hell would John have seen? He tossed off the afghan and came face-to-head with his relaxed cock. Frowning, he tucked in and zipped, then took his own messy hand to the sink beside Peter. “I’ve got to be more careful. I don’t have any right to behave like a dog in heat around the kids.”
Peter leaned against the sink while Wen washed. “Lighten up. Nothing happened.”
“But it could have.”
“But it didn’t.”
“Jesus, Peter, I’m not some closet Bohemian masquerading as a responsible person. I’m the one who has to feed and clothe these kids, plus maybe give them some tiny bit of happiness. I can’t afford to act like an idiot.”
Peter’s reddish brows dove toward his slim nose. “Is having a few moments of happiness for you idiotic? Crap, you’re such an—” He threw his hands in the air. “—old man!”
For a second, Wen just stared as if he’d been hit.
Peter pushed off from the counter. “I better go. I hope the presentation gives you everything you want.” And with that he walked into the living room, grabbed his jacket from the edge of the couch, and fled out the door.
Wen frowned. He must be fleeing from the old man behind him.