by Kilby Blades
Adam had been tight-lipped about why he and Leila had broken up, about who’d done the breaking and whether there had been some catalyst to their demise. Even after Levi and Cy had paid the check, after the waiter brought his to-go order, after Levi promised to bring Adam over for dinner one night, and after Levi finally got a chance to hold Erykah, Levi thought about what Cy had said—and what Adam hadn’t—about what had happened in Iran.
The truth was, Levi had never liked any of Adam’s partners, but he’d had to try particularly hard not to openly dislike Leila, who represented everything that Levi never could be to Adam. She’d been born in Iran, of Persian Jewish heritage like Adam, and came from an old family. She worked for Kerr Hospitality and was shrewd in business. If Ben Kerr had been granted the ability to cherry-pick a partner for Adam, said partner would have been a wife, and Leila would have been it.
But Adam’s tendency to butt heads with his father was legendary. That was exactly what made him and Leila unlikely bedfellows: doing anything that would have pleased his father was out of character for Adam.
Then something changed. Adam became more responsible and backed off from fighting his father. They weren’t twenty anymore, and the excesses of a prodigal son didn’t look so hot on a thirty-year-old. Ben Kerr had always lectured Adam that there would come a point—a point at which it would be his duty to let go the last vestiges of youth and step into his role as CEO.
Leila was all rolled up in that, however much Levi disliked the idea of Adam taking on a trophy wife. But had she been a trophy? Levi had never seen the chemistry between her and Adam. Then again, he’d never wanted to see the chemistry between Adam and anybody. He’d always tried not to look.
LEVI had grown fond of nearing his front door and hearing canine claws—sometimes trotting, but more often running and sliding on hardwood to reach her master. Baxter was the half-shepherd, half-husky mix he’d had for the better part of a year—a breed he’d learned was called the Gerberian Shapsky. That name alone might have caused him to reject the dog on principle, if she hadn’t been so cute.
She’d originally been the puppy of Maisy, the six-year-old girl who lived next door, daughter of his adorable neighbor couple, David and David. They’d come across Levi the day he’d moved in—helped him unload the truck and brought him a homemade welcome frittata the following morning. By the end of the week, they’d had him over for dinner twice and introduced him to everyone on the street. It hadn’t taken Levi long to realize he’d happened upon a great block.
A month after he moved in, he’d found Maisy crying on her stoop, exiled to fresh air long enough for her dads to vacuum away all traces of Baxter. The girl was allergic to her new dog.
What happened next happened quickly. None of the no-kill shelters had space. So Levi had offered to foster Baxter until they could find her a better home. There hadn’t been a better home, of course, than right there with Levi—friend to the little girl who loved her, and Levi himself a boy far away from home.
He might not have survived those first few months in San Francisco if not for Bax. Being alone in a new city scared him worse than he’d ever let on. He might have holed away in his darkroom or in his office at the museum if having a dog to walk hadn’t given him reason to roam. Having a dog meant going to the dog run and to the vet and being chatted up by friendly strangers on the street who wanted to meet Bax. Levi’s new friends fell into only two categories: people in the art world and people with dogs.
Yet even as he opened his front door, a first glance gave him no sign of his dog. Inside, the light of overcast midmorning filtered in through sheer drapes, which only softened the light more. It was the feature that Levi loved most about his apartment: good light in a house didn’t mean direct sun. It meant casting the spaces in your home with an appealing glow.
Levi loved his open floor plan—would be sad to say goodbye—would have bought it in a heartbeat if he could’ve afforded it and if it were for sale. The apartment belonged to a benefactor to the museum who loaned it to a new fellow each year in support of the artist-in-residence program. With his program coming to an end, Levi had to find a new place. Whatever house he bought, he wanted it to be no more than a few blocks away.
Setting his keys down on the counter—a beauty of finished bamboo—he kept his fingers twined in the plastic handle of the to-go bag that held Adam’s breakfast. Levi was duly surprised that Bax hadn’t come out to have a sniff. Maybe Adam had taken her for a run. Levi made his way upstairs and toward the back of the loft to check the final space—his room.
The Japanese-style bed sat low. When the bed was made, the pillow tops sat inches below the exposed brick double window. But the bed was not made. It was all fine white sheets, white pillowcases, and even a white duvet, with the subtlest of herringbone pattern within the grain.
And there both of them were, below the window, all splayed out in bed. Baxter simply looked lazy—half-asleep at best, but content to lounge. He couldn’t blame her for wanting to stay in bed and cuddle with Adam. One bent arm was thrown above Adam’s head, which lay in profile, his dimpled cheek buried pillow deep. His dark hair was a disorganized mess, though it held its usual luster. Unlike Levi’s, it had a hint of gray. Even that was utterly flattering, however new. It telegraphed another undeniable truth: that Adam, who had already been thoroughly smiled-down-upon by the gods of smoking hotness, would be beautiful at any age.
If his camera had been on his hip, which it nearly always was, Levi knew just how he would shoot this moment: with wide aperture, 800 ISO, and his Sigma lens. Levi knew exactly where he would stand to get the shot to cast the light just so on Adam’s face. Adam was Levi’s most-photographed subject, even if Adam didn’t know it.
“Whuss for breakfast?” came Adam’s groggy voice.
Levi’s gaze slid upward, traversing Adam’s toned chest and lightly-stubbled chin until they reached freshly awakening eyes.
“Chilaquiles,” Levi replied, all composure and calm.
“Good choice.” Adam swiped a hand over his face, yawned loudly, and propped himself up on one elbow. “I knew I smelled something good.”
And that was exactly why Levi didn’t photograph Adam when he was sleeping. A few close calls in years past had proven Adam could be more wakeful than he looked.
Though Baxter hadn’t risen for Levi—you know, the one who brought her food and loved her every day of her life—Adam climbing out of bed prompted her to do the same.
“Hey, pretty girl,” Levi tried, bending and patting his leg in an attempt to summon his dog. She did come over then, but if Levi wasn’t mistaken, her kiss was a bit perfunctory. Seconds later she returned to Adam.
“Traidora,” Levi muttered in Spanish under his breath as he turned around and headed to the kitchen. But if Baxter was a traitor for this morning’s antics, she certainly wasn’t the first. That was the way it was any time someone important to Levi got a whiff of Adam: instant infatuation, unflinching curiosity, and spellbound bliss.
“So what are we up to today?” Adam followed Levi into the kitchen, not bothering to put on a shirt. He had only two modes: “do absolutely nothing” and “paint the town red.” If jet lag still dogged him after fourteen hours of sleep, he’d have been all over the former. But anticipation shone in his eyes.
“I figured we’d eat all weekend—didn’t you complain the whole time you were away about how you couldn’t get a decent slice?”
Adam, by then, had dug into the bag, pulled out a container, and opened it, not bothering to sit down or wait for a fork. “I’m not eating pizza in San Francisco,” he said between bites of chilaquiles.
Levi himself had spent his first six months grumbling that he couldn’t find a decent slice anywhere in San Francisco. He’d since changed his mind, but there would be no convincing Adam.
“Whatever we do, there’d better be drinking,” Adam proclaimed, a hint of desperation in his voice. “You have no idea what it’s like living in a country that dry.�
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Levi picked up his phone. “I’ll get us reservations to a few places.”
“I’ll call Elise.” Adam meant the concierge at the San Francisco hotel—also called the Kerr, just like the one in New York.
“Don’t bother her,” Levi murmured distractedly, already beginning to tap out a couple of texts. “I can get us into wherever we want to go.”
“Oh yeah?” A grin bloomed on Adam’s face. “Nine months in San Fran and you’re already hot shit?”
“Something like that.” Levi shrugged, still trying on this new part of himself. His photo series on homelessness in the queer community had made him a local celebrity, and he’d made plenty of connections as an artist in residence at SFMOMA. Add to both of those the fact that he was still very much in demand for private session portrait work, and… yeah. Anyone who understood the art scene knew just how hot Levi’s shit was.
“So get us into Sanctum,” Adam challenged lightly. “That place is supposed to be the hottest club in town.”
“It’s not a club,” Levi misdirected, grabbing the idle fork out of Adam’s hand and quickly shoveling in a large bite.
“Fine. The hottest bar in town,” Adam corrected, not flinching at the steal, grabbing a tortilla chip and popping it into his mouth.
“It’s not a bar either,” Levi continued after he’d swallowed a spicy bite, huffing out a breath from the heat.
Adam was already pushing a small plastic container of sour cream in Levi’s direction.
“Holy hell,” Levi cursed, using the fork to place a dollop of sour cream directly in his mouth. He said it at the very same instant Adam shook his head and said, “Lightweight.” They’d always done that—uttered reactions to the same thing in the very same moment. Growing up, it had gotten to the point that Elle would never watch movies with them. They always had opposite outbursts at the exact same part.
“Then what the hell is it?” Adam wanted to know, seeming more than a little curious.
“It’s a totally overrated literary salon that happens to sell alcohol and play music sometimes, but everybody sits.”
Adam wasn’t even done with his first breakfast when he began to open the lid for the second. “So, a lounge.”
“Trust me,” Levi coaxed around another mouthful of sour cream, “Sanctum’s a literary salon. People do readings. Other people sit in quiet judgment. It’s artsy as hell and pretentious as shit.”
“Then why’s it so hot?”
Levi blinked over at Adam as if he were slow. “Because it’s artsy as hell and pretentious as shit.”
Levi grabbed a napkin at the same moment he handed Adam back his fork. “Besides,” he continued, “with all of the readings, it would make it so we couldn’t talk. Don’t you want to have some fun? It’ll be one of the last times before you officially take on your new job.”
At the mention of his new job, Adam’s chewing faltered for a beat and he stared a second too long at his food. Something was bothering him. Levi would have to get to the bottom of that. Yes, Levi decided. They were making the right decision to skip Sanctum.
“Besides. I have a better idea.” Levi knew just the thing. “It’s been a while since we played the game.”
Chapter Four: The Game
“HOW do I look?” Adam hollered the question from the outer area of the dressing room—one that had been empty when they had walked in. That was a good thing given their ridiculous conversation. It was all part of the game: the two of them wandering separately and creating different looks, then trying to outdo one another for the big reveal.
Adam had thought of today’s dress-up theme: tech dudes from Silicon Valley. Levi was impressed—it was one they’d never done before. They’d started the tradition in college, the same time it had become clear that Adam introducing himself at parties—last name Kerr, in school for business and hotel management—piqued unwelcome interest. In certain New York circles, people liked to know who was who.
Adam had remedied all of that in two ways: by avoiding people in certain New York circles, and by throwing a red herring on his identity. The game was their longest-standing tradition: balls-to-the-wall commitment to crafting fabulous disguises, then going out on the town.
Levi smiled in anticipation, forgotten giddiness taking hold. Levi stuck his head out of his dressing room door and craned his neck to find Adam standing on the platform at the end of the hall. When Adam turned around and Levi got a load of his T-shirt, Levi barked out a laugh. The hopeful smile on Adam’s lips grew as he turned back toward the mirror and looked at himself again.
“Convincing, right?” Adam brought his hands up to finger the strings of his deep blue hoodie before pulling apart the zippered edges to reveal more of his shirt. The shirt had a pencil sketch of an octopus, its legs thrown out and framing its body in artful tendrils. The line drawn to form the uppermost part of its body was on the pinker side of brick; the colors of its tendrils faded to purple, then green, then blue. Down bottom, Adam wore jeans the color of green olives and dark blue Allbirds with white laces hewn from their signature wool.
Levi had never seen an outfit like this on Adam. It was all part of the excitement of being his friend. Even after more than twenty years, with most of that spent joined at the hip, time with Adam never failed to bring something new.
“Number one,” Levi said only after he’d stopped laughing, “you watch too many episodes of Silicon Valley—either that, or Mark Zuckerberg videos from 2012. Number two….” As Levi spoke, Adam’s grin became wider, and he stepped down from the platform and crossed his arms.
“Come on… give it to me,” Adam prodded, because the smack-talk was Adam’s favorite part. He sometimes dropped over-the-top elements into his outfits, just to see what Levi would say. Adam’s eyes sparkled in that way they did when he and Levi were in their flow. By then he’d crossed the distance between the platform and the door to Levi’s dressing room and leaned his shoulder against the wall. All the better to spar with his friend.
“I’m guessing this cost a pretty penny.”
Levi reached out to touch Adam’s hoodie, which was even softer than it looked, light and breathable but made of some expensive natural fabric. Levi cocked his head to look at Adam’s face as his fingers followed the line of the garment. The tag, which hung just below Adam’s hip, had been Levi’s destination all along, though Levi’s eyes widened as he turned it over.
“You’d have to be Mark Zuckerberg to be able to spend $2,500 on a hoodie,” Levi muttered, half-disgusted, half-impressed by the audacity.
“You haven’t even seen my accent pieces.” Adam pushed himself up and reentered the dressing room he’d been using across the hall.
Levi shook his head as he waited for Adam to reemerge. Shuffling could be heard, paper of some kind, though Levi couldn’t imagine what.
“Check me out,” Adam said as he burst back into the hallway. Levi laughed again. This version of tech bro Adam had a messenger bag slung over his shoulder and wore a calculator watch. Just as Levi ’s gaze traveled from down to up, Adam slid a pair of Warby Parkers on.
“Well played, sir,” Levi praised.
“All right, hot shot….” Adam looked at Levi with a raised eyebrow. “Show me what you got.”
It wasn’t big, but it was a reveal. In contrast to Adam’s hoodie and jeans, Levi wore a fitted knit shirt in so-dark-it-was-nearly-black gray with a tasteful white band woven in to circle the cuff. The shirt had three buttons at the top and was worn below a sectioned down vest in a graphite color that held the same subtle shimmer as the stone. The rise of his dark-wash jeans was low on Levi’s hips, a style that flattered him. If he stretched his arms over his head, it would have exposed olive skin and a treasure trail the same sun-kissed brown hue as his top hair, bisecting his muscular V. The grayish-black buckle of his belt was fashioned to look like a circuit board.
Adam let out a whistle. “I thought we were supposed to be brogrammers. You’re a straight-up tech company CEO.”
Levi rarely dressed this way; he wondered whether Adam liked him better when he did. His standard uniform was performance outerwear: rugged pants that could survive demanding shoots, and wicking collared shirts with give. His sleeves were perpetually rolled up his forearms, ending just below his elbow. His pants—because he needed places to store the tiny tools of his trade—always had many pockets. Dressing like an office worker, with his snug shirt, nonutilitarian vest, and utterly impractical shoes, made him feel exactly like Adam.
Levi kept a straight face as he delivered his response. “CEOs look way more douchey than this.”
But Adam gave as good as he got. “Tell that to Jeff Bezos when he asks why you broke into his closet.”
Levi shook his head, biting back a smile. It didn’t work. Seconds later he broke into a laugh. Then Adam laughed and they were laughing like idiots, and the random shopper who wandered in to try something on looked at both of them like they were crazy. Levi had missed all of this—he’d missed the game, missed doing something outlandish. Most of all, he’d missed feeling as close to anyone as he felt to Adam.
Chapter Five: The Con
“WHAT company did you guys say you worked for again?” A twentysomething guy who had introduced himself as Eric looked between Adam and Levi after diving into a new beer. Said beer had been purchased by Adam, or Javid, as Adam had introduced himself earlier—his brogrammer name. The table was crowded and the roar of voices was loud. Sound carried strangely on rooftop decks. This rooftop deck was home to a beer garden in Mission Bay. The tables were fancier versions of picnic tables—longer and probably made from some sort of reclaimed wood. Buying a round of drinks for their table the second they’d sat down tied into their cover: they were celebrating a new round of funding for their start-up, or so their story would go.
