by P D Singer
“If Davis and I….” This morning, the world had made sense. “He was never an option, back when you were so blithely beating the tar out of me.” Might as well return the nonsense. “You’ve given me ten years to get over the family feeling, and he’s a great guy….”
“He is, and if you two, well, if… you have my blessing.” Spencer lifted one corner of his mouth. “For what it’s worth in your eyes. But I trust you to do right by my brother, and I should have trusted you before.”
“This is all slightly unreal, you know?” So much so that Jon honestly wondered if he’d taken LSD instead of vitamins this morning.
“Tell me about it. I only had to readjust my entire worldview.” A soft snort escaped. “But it did occur to me there’s one concrete way of telling the world I was wrong without dragging your name through the mud again. I can trust you publicly. So—” Reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket, Spencer produced some paperwork, unfolding it to show handwriting on a printed form, and a smaller paper, blue with wavy lines. “I’ve filled out the forms, written the check, and I certainly qualify as someone who understands the risks of hedge funds and can afford to get involved. I’m going to let it be known that Gorman Hogenboom is handling a chunk of my investments.”
Jon took the proffered papers, noting zeros on the check. “This is a lot of trust.”
“It’s money. Trust is what I should have had all along. Money is the best I can do now.” Rising to his feet, Spencer held out his hand. “Please say you’ll think about forgiving me someday.”
“I’ll think about it.” Jon rose and took the offered hand. “It’s a lot to think about.”
“It’s all I can really ask. But you are welcome in our home, with or without Davis.” Spencer squeezed briefly and let go. “I’ve missed you, Jon.”
“I’ve missed you too.” Like an amputated limb, and this phantom pain would take a lot to work through. Jon let his hand fall and wanted to sit down again in a hurry—his knees weren’t very stable. Before Spencer was quite out the door, he’d dropped back into the chair. Jon stared blindly at ten million dollars’ worth of trust and retraced the path from then to now.
THE door was ajar, and that stranger who had sucked the joy right out of Jon had left. Ricky stepped through the door to see Jon slumped over, eyes closed.
“What happened?” Any thoughts Ricky’d had of coaxing kisses evaporated. “Jon?”
“Everything,” came back in a dry, dead voice. “Everything in my entire life. Changed because of him. Everything.”
“Do I need to hunt him down and hurt him?” Ricky thought he could take the guy without problems; his reach was longer, his right hook not too shabby, and his motivation high. He whipped around the desk to inspect for damages.
“Too late for that,” Jon mumbled. “Ten years too late. He came to apologize.”
Sounded familiar. “Is this the ‘it’s complicated’ guy? Related to Davis?” Every hackle Ricky had went up. He wouldn’t find physical marks, but that didn’t keep him from leaning over Jon, a hand on his shoulder and the other cupping his cheek.
“Davis’s brother.” A long, rattling sigh. “My ex-best friend.” Jon didn’t lean into Ricky’s hand, nor did he pull away. His eyes were closed, as if the fluorescent ceiling lights were interrogation lamps.
No one else needed to find Jon so vulnerable—Ricky got the door closed, the light flicked off, and back to Jon’s side in a few heartbeats. “Rough conversation, huh.” He laid a comforting hand on Jon’s shoulder, squeezing gently, the sunlight through the window showing the subtle pinstripe undulating under Ricky’s massage. Jon looked up, his face bleak.
“He changed everything, Ricky.” Disbelief, a small shaking of his head, but that could have been because he was too stunned to maintain posture, and Jon tipped forward, his forehead against Ricky’s belly.
Jon wasn’t going to be pleased with the memory of that position later, and to have him thinking Ricky was taking advantage—no. Pulling Jon to his feet, Ricky would offer the sort of comfort that didn’t have such a loaded contact. Unresisting in Ricky’s arms, Jon let his head fall onto Ricky’s shoulder and wrapped his arms around Ricky’s waist, giving the impression of one who was ready to fall. Ricky wouldn’t let that happen.
He tilted his cheek to rest against Jon’s hair and held him close, but not groin-to-groin close. “I can’t believe he’s so powerful he affected every single thing.”
“He did.” The words were a dry tickle at Ricky’s throat. “Lover, career, home: everything. Where I celebrate holidays. What alumni functions I go to. Who talks to me. You.”
“Me?” Like this Spencer character had one bit of control over him. Not wanting to challenge Jon’s pain too openly, Ricky settled for a one word rebuttal—“How?”—and rocked Jon gently.
“He told Cam I’d been unfaithful in a really ugly way, and I hadn’t. I didn’t. I wouldn’t, ever.” The words came in little gasps, the anguish chopping them.
“No, you wouldn’t,” Ricky murmured against Jon’s head. “That’s not who you are.” In two years, he’d never thought for a minute that Jon was with another man, until Davis showed up, and now…. Ricky felt a certain kinship with the mysterious Cam.
“And, there were some other things….” Jon trailed off. “So I ended up here. Met you. Stayed with you, even though you—”
Ricky could fill in that blank. Even though he screwed everything in sight.
“Why, Jon?” He swayed gently, his own steadiness that much less for what he was afraid he’d hear, and Jon moved with him, warm against his chest.
“Didn’t figure it out for a long time.” One of Jon’s thumbs started stroking against Ricky’s spine. “Someone who wasn’t faithful didn’t dare accuse me of anything, rightly or wrongly.”
“But you said—”
“And you accused me anyway. Funny, isn’t it?” He hadn’t lifted his head from Ricky’s shoulder. “Over the same man, that’s even funnier.”
Bitter laughter rose in Ricky’s throat, choked back into one chuff of air. “The same… I had no right to say anything at all if I wasn’t exclusive with you. And even if I was, you’d already left me.” His arms tightened, pulling Jon closer, though there was distance that might never be bridged now, about the width of Davis’s shoulders. “I wish you’d come back.”
“How, Ricky? Why?” Jon pulled away, leaving Ricky’s cheek, chest, and heart to grow cold. “To watch you head to the clubs again? Putting up with that didn’t even get me what I thought it would, and I didn’t know how much it was going to hurt.”
He knew now. I’m different now, it won’t be like that, I won’t hurt you again…. Under Jon’s hard stare, the words couldn’t push out of Ricky’s mouth, not against the weight of disbelief. He offered the truth he thought Jon could hear. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Jon took another step back. “You won’t. Please turn the light back on as you leave; we still have money to manage.”
No, he wouldn’t, Ricky agreed silently, flicking on the switch and stepping out into the brightness of the trading floor, but not for the reasons Jon thought.
Chapter Thirty-Three
A SIX-PACK of good beer, a bag of salty, puffy, trendy veggie snacks, and a wave to the doorman got Ricky to the elevator in Jon’s building. He expected to find Jon here after getting a halfhearted, “Think I’ll stay home and watch the game tonight,” when he’d asked to be remembered to Jon’s parents at Monday-night dinner.
Ricky’d checked the sports news; okay, St. Louis had given the Tigers a thrashing in front of their hometown audience, 7-2, and maybe Jon wouldn’t press for more details, because hell if he could remember any, World Series or no.
“Am I in time for the opening pitch?” Ricky asked when the door opened.
“Uh, yeah, sure.” Was Jon stunned because of the question or because Ricky was there at all? He did a quick scan for stray architects—it was entirely possible that Davis had similar ideas. No D
avis. Good.
Popping a bottle and declining a glass, Ricky settled on one end of the couch. He’d ask questions, learn something (this couldn’t possibly be worse than Statistics 401), and make no passes. “Who are we rooting for?”
Jon parked on the other end of the couch, his beer in a glass, and turned up the volume. “Cardinals.” Jon took a derisive sip. “Tigers beat the Yankees; they deserve to go down.”
Oops. A detail he probably should have remembered. They watched four batters come and go, one walking to first and Ricky learning what a “strikeout looking” was. “A way to look silly; the batter’s been fooled by the pitcher.” That felt suddenly applicable—Ricky swiveled around to the knock on the door. Jon let the opposing team in.
“Hey, Jon, thought I’d catch the game with you.”
Ricky’s cool “Hello, Davis. Didn’t expect to see you here,” was slightly warmer than Davis’s greeting, but he wouldn’t do anything to open hostilities, although giving the man a quick escort down the nearest elevator shaft, with or without elevator, sounded really attractive. Jon handed Davis a beer and a glass. Oh crap—three-cushion couch—if Davis got the middle, Ricky’d be really ticked. “I’ll take the floor, guys.” He slid to the center of the couch and onto the lime green rug that Jon had to have been tripping to buy, but that left his back against the middle cushion and the ends free for the others. If Davis wanted to cuddle during the game, he’d have to either sprawl or ask Ricky to move, and Jon, with his buttoned-down heart, wouldn’t be happy with him either way. Ricky stretched his legs out and figured he’d be the most comfortable of the three.
Davis had probably figured that out as well, pointedly stepping over Ricky to the far end of the couch. “Did I miss anything?”
“Not much—Whoa!” All heads snapped to the television, where a sharp crack started everyone screaming, and a batter rounded the bases. Ricky sorted out cheer/don’t cheer by noting the big ornate “D” on the runner’s uniform and groaned instead, and a few minutes later, groaned again for the next score. The only reason to groan or cheer for many innings after that was the conversation behind him.
“I’d be acting as my own general contractor except for this big project, but the GC’s been making it march—the second floor is curing now, and subflooring is down on the first floor….”
Fine, talk about the love nest you’re building for my lover. “I shorted NovaFin and Corax today. NovaFin’s making their dividend announcement next week.” Ricky offered his tidbit. Jon didn’t respond to either of them, and Ricky imagined his eyes glued to the screen. “They won’t be able to maintain it.”
“I was able to get that jetted tub you liked; it should be there by Thursday.” That drilling sensation was probably Davis’s eyes on the back of his head. Ricky wouldn’t turn around.
The Detroit pitcher retired a batter. “With a stop-loss, just like the boss wanted.” The pitcher retired two more batters in quick succession, and Ricky hoped the crowd noise had covered up Jon’s response.
“The surround will be the same stone as the floor, since I could put an access hatch for the plumbing and motor in the master bedroom closet. It will look really good with the floating vanity.” Sounded like Jon had won the battle of the pedestal sinks and would have some place for his toothbrush and razor.
Ricky quietly seethed. He had let Jon leave that much at his place, and now regretted every time he’d refused to give up some closet, because Davis wasn’t just giving him pole—he was giving Jon walk-in, drawers, and choice of finish. Ricky couldn’t let it rest. “Maple or cherry?”
“Medium cherry,” Davis said, his satisfaction evident, and Ricky had to poke it.
“Jon’s always liked black walnut.” He forced himself not to turn around from the screen, where a player brandished his bat toward the pitcher.
“You didn’t say that, Jon!” Imagining Davis’s brain frying circuits didn’t compensate for the out-and-out declaration that he was building for a lover, nor did the hit to the pocketbook and peace of mind. “Black walnut’s going to add at least a grand to each cabinet, if I can find someone who can mill it, and the stone won’t look good next to it, too yellow….”
“Cherry’s fine, and will you both shut up?” Jon did a one-two smack with his couch cushion off the top of Ricky’s head and somewhere across Davis. Ricky didn’t mind getting hit first because it sounded like Davis got hit harder. “I am trying to watch the game here.”
Like anything was happening. St. Louis wasn’t hitting, let alone scoring, and the Tiger batter who got hit with the ball got to first base without hobbling. If he had to watch the game in silence, marginally more fun than watching paint dry, Ricky could use a pencil, paper, and another beer. He hadn’t gotten up in case Davis decided to rearrange the seating, but Jon’s irritation with them both should keep him in place. Ricky made sure to pass between Davis and the television, rather than in front of Jon, and glanced to the small pile of shells that Jon had collected on Fire Island, but they weren’t there. He stopped to look more closely, but no sand dollars rested before any of the books on the wall.
“You’re blocking me,” Davis prodded, but Ricky was no longer so sure that was true. He continued to the kitchen.
Ricky really needed that beer now that he knew Jon had discarded their mementos, and taking a glass now would only slow him. He popped the cap and found a small legal pad and a pencil with an adequate tip in the kitchen drawer. Davis hadn’t scooted over on the couch, nor had Jon; Ricky returned to the space between them and wished he dared lean on Jon’s knees.
“Sacrifice bunt!” from both the fans made Ricky lift his head from his sketch of the pitcher.
“What’s that?”
“Guaranteed out for the batter, but it advances the runners,” Jon explained before lapsing into the gibberish that Davis spoke and Ricky did not. No matter, Ricky got the concept just fine—wasn’t that exactly what he was doing here? That and avoiding the fumes from the fixative he’d sprayed over the charcoal mural of Jon that he’d finally decided was complete.
Before he’d come over, Ricky’d admired his work, the desire he’d put on Jon’s face as he’d seen it so often, the light and shadow on Jon’s trimly muscled torso, and his own knees, spread and welcoming, with Jon’s hard-to-draw hands both disguised and active, spreading them. Ricky’d layered even shots of fixative over the gray-black portrait and run, knowing he’d lie on his couch later with his cock erect and stroke himself, waiting for the day Jon would touch him again for real. And he’d show Jon what he’d done with his time, because a man who’d been drawing a thousand small details was certainly not out dancing or anything else. Ricky started another sheet, this time of the umpire, his hand raised to call a strike.
Ricky sketched his way through innings where he looked up only to catch a glimpse of what he’d draw next: an outstretched arm with gloved hand, a face with bat raised beside it, once, a runner in the black and white of Detroit heading to first base. Turning so Davis couldn’t look over his shoulder, though Jon could, Ricky started what would be the most fleshed-out picture on the last page of the pad, ceasing his drawing only when the pencil could no longer make a mark on the page.
Cheering from behind him alerted Ricky to St. Louis finally scoring, and then the game was over. “Good game—Rogers pitched eight shutout innings for twenty-three straight,” Davis exulted.
Ricky refused to be impressed with the knowledge. The announcer had mentioned it several times, every time the players swapped batting for fielding. “Even if it helped the wrong team win.” He climbed off the floor, pad in hand.
“Why were you rooting for a National League team, Jon?” Davis got to his feet and stretched.
“Because Detroit beat the Yankees, dumbass.” Ricky smiled at Davis’s discomfiture. “Why are you rooting for a team that beat the Yankees?” He could think of a couple other ways to torment Davis, given a chance. “Want to share a cab?”
“No.” Davis fixed Ricky with a �
�what makes you think I’m leaving?” glare.
“You’re going cross-town, Davis’s heading uptown.” Jon ushered him to the door. “See you tomorrow, Ricky.”
At least Jon sounded like Davis was going to have to leave too. Ricky dropped the makeshift sketchpad on the couch. One of them, maybe both, would be overcome with curiosity and have to look at his baseball players, all the way to the last sheet, where he’d left baseball behind. Two men’s heads, one light-haired, the other dark, faces tilted to bring parted lips together. Ricky’d used the last of the pencil’s lead to make sure the hair was too dark and wavy to be taken, even wishfully, for Davis’s.
All the way home, Ricky frothed—what if Davis hadn’t left? What if Jon had only waited until they were alone to slide into his arms? Would Jon have some dreadful announcement tomorrow? “Cherry’s fine,” Jon had said, like he knew how much it mattered to Davis that he was pleased. And Ricky had so little to offer—only what he hadn’t done, and the portrait on his living room wall to show what he had.
He wanted to throw himself on the couch, jeans down around his ankles, to see Jon gaze down on him in charcoal lechery, hoping against the evidence that Davis wasn’t seeing the same thing in the flesh. Bursting through his door, one hand already at his fly, Ricky stopped short at the black suitcase in the middle of the living room.
“Hello, Ricky,” said Edgar.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” The grotesque figure sitting on the couch like he owned the place should never have darkened his door, his life, or even his nightmares. Ricky wrenched the door open again. “Get out.”
Edgar didn’t shift on the couch or even put down the sketchbook. “I don’t think so.” He turned a page. Ricky jerked it from Edgar’s hands, snarling when the page ripped.
“Che cazzo è?” The damage and the refusal shocked Ricky back into the pungent terms his nonno and father had used. “I don’t know why the super let you in, or why you’re here, but get out before I throw you out.” Ricky would give him twenty seconds to move before soiling his hands, but no more.