Marketing Beef

by Rick Bettencourt

  I raised an eyebrow.

  The fire crackled and popped. Ron leaned back and rubbed an ember into the dirt with his foot. “Gary and I have been seeing each other for a little over three months now.” He took a sip from his mug.

  Gary pointed a wavering finger at Dillon and me.

  I nodded and crossed my legs. “Yeah.” I looked over at Dillon. “We’ve been hitting it off pretty good. We work…worked together.”

  Dillon smiled, closed-mouthed, and went back to hang his head as he leaned into his haunches.

  Ron took a sip from his wine, swirling the metal mug in small circles—presumably a form of aeration. “I heard about your former CEO.” He shook his head. “Shame. You two alright?”

  Dillon sat back. “We are.” He looked over at me. “We’re thinking about opening our own agency.”

  Ron stiffened momentarily, but then let out a slow smile. “Really?”

  I picked at the sandal strap around my heel and nodded. “We’re…we’re looking into it.” We’d only talked a little about it during our hike, bandying about the idea of converting my boathouse into a little office, but nothing was set in stone. However, we were evidently both on the same wavelength.

  Dillon sipped the last of his wine and put his mug on the ground.

  Ron reached over and filled it. Gary fished into a pocket, took out a set of keys and clicked a button. The trunk of the car popped open. “Looks like we need another bottle.”

  “Gary, is that your car?” I asked.

  “It is.” He stood and started toward it.

  I looked over at Ron. “I thought that was yours.”

  “No, I have a Land Rover now, but it’s at home. Gary wanted to drive his new BMW.”

  Dillon leaned back against the log. He spread his legs and exhaled. His face flinched again. I looked down at his crotch. His junk was bunched up, and he pulled at the leg of his shorts. I could see a bit of a wet spot that had stained the crotch of his corduroys.

  I grimaced. Oh, God, he must have blue balls.

  Ron rolled the empty wine bottle next to the one Dillon and I had consumed earlier. “We get along well, Gary and I. I’m sorry if this is awkward.”

  “Oh, no problem,” I said, not taking my eyes off Dillon, whose pained expression grew on his face. “Gary and I are friends now. The past is the past.”

  “Looks like you may have pulled your back too,” Ron said to Dillon.

  Dillon chuckled and glanced my way. “Yeah, a little too much…working out.” He breathed slowly.

  I put my mug down. “I should get him to bed. We had a big hike today and tomorrow is surf kayaking.” I stood up.

  Gary stepped back into the light of the campfire. “You guys off to bed?”

  I nodded.

  Dillon stood gingerly, saying, “Yeah, I’m wiped and wined out.”

  Gary held out the new bottle he had retrieved to Ron. This one had a different label than the one we had just drunk. “Looks like it’s just you and me.”

  ****

  I could hear Gary and Ron chatting while Dillon and I lay atop our sleeping bags. We had tried to sleep but couldn’t. I heard what sounded like an empty bottle clink against another.

  “You okay?” I asked Dillon.

  He looked over at me and smiled. The whites of his teeth and eyes stood out against the dark of the tent. “I’m fine.” The outline of his tanned skin faded into the edges of the night.

  “Thank you for…for being you.” I reached over and brushed back his bangs. His hair had grown out a bit—the normal spikes starting to droop. “Thank you for being cool with being around my ex.”

  He put his arm behind his head. “What’s in the past is in the past. I’m cool with it. We all have exes.”

  I reached under the bag to touch him below and rubbed his inner thigh.

  He spread his legs, flinched and exhaled. “Uh, I’m sore.”

  “Man, you really tighten up.” I massaged his scrotum, moved a bit closer to him, and whispered in his ear, “You poor thing. I hate to see you hurting.”

  He bit his lip and moaned softly.

  I grazed my hand up, touched the tip of his penis and it started to pulse in my hand. “I’m sorry we got interrupted,” I said, still in a hushed tone. “I promise to make it up to you.” I started stroking him.

  He put his hand back down and closed his eyes.

  I kissed his lips.

  He leaned over and buried his face in my neck and bit tenderly on my ear lobe. He exhaled heavily. “Oh, God. That feels nice.”

  I continued to palm him while he thrust up into my hand. I kissed his neck and with my free hand, which was pinned behind him, I reached around and tweaked his nipple.

  Faster and faster my other hand went.

  He held his breath, as if trying to stifle any noise.

  I slowed my tempo and stopped. He bucked, forcing himself into my soft grip. I took my hand back, spit into my palm and returned to pleasuring him.

  He moaned something inaudible. His eyes rolled back, and he bit his lower lip. I loved seeing the look of ecstasy on his face. I felt myself seep a bit against his thigh.

  I gripped him harder, my pace quickened.

  His head slammed against the ground, and his hips thrust up. His face contorted and reddened. He was still holding his breath, and from the puff of his cheeks I thought his head might explode. His mouth finally fell open, and he let out a sigh that was quickly restrained with pursed lips as bits of his spunk hit him in the face, me in the ear and then more thumped onto the back of the tent.

  He tried to catch his breath in slow, soft blows and turned to me, still panting. He wiped the spunk from his abs and with it slobbered in his hand, grabbed the stiffness between my legs.

  I groaned quietly, and he kissed me. I writhed in joy as he brought me near completion. The excitement I had received from pleasuring him already had me on the brink, and his wet grip wasn’t helping to bring me down.

  But it was more than just his hand that made love to me. It felt like he stroked a cord deep inside me. I shivered and felt like a ball of yarn coming undone. I could taste his seed, which had splattered on his lips and now mine, as he muted my cries by covering my mouth with his.

  When I came, I felt like each cell in my body burst from every crevice inside. The force appeared to warp time. I don’t know if the intensity was from trying to hold back and be quiet or from having been pent up from our interrupted session—an unintended foreplay—or something else entirely. But it rippled out in wave upon wave of something more than just ecstasy. In it all, I felt the hum of a connection, an invisible tether between us. I could sense it. It was palpable. I could feel the power of something deep within him on the other end.

  “I love you,” Dillon whispered, as he continued to kiss and nibble my lips. I continued to thrash beneath his grip, unable to speak. “God, I love you,” he said.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Twelve

  We had just finished breakfast at Woody’s and were in the dirt parking lot, when Pike pulled in. He was driving a faded red Nissan with a plastic sheet over the driver’s side rear window.

  I had my door open. Dillon was walking over to the passenger side and stopped. Ron and Gary were already pulling out of the lot. We were all heading out on a short ride to the beach to meet up with the group for our surf kayaking adventure.

  Pike pulled into the empty spot beside us. A cloud of dust billowed behind his car. I went around to greet him. The door opened, and a loud rock song quickly silenced. “Dudes!” He was wearing a tank top and the same pair of cargo shorts from the day before, but was clean-shaven.

  “Look at you,” Dillon said. “You finally met up with a razor and some shave cream.”

  Pike rubbed his chin. “Once a week. Whether it needs it or not.” He shut his car door. “Where you guys off to? You just eat?”

  I clicked my keys to unlock the passenger side door. “Out for some surf kayaking.”

  P
ike nodded. “Nice. The surf’s rough today.” He leaned and looked over my left shoulder.

  “Great,” Dillon said. “The novice over here doesn’t need to be tipped into the cold Atlantic.”

  “Dude,” Pike said, and pulled at his ear, “Did you dive into your breakfast?”

  “Huh?”

  He wiped the tip of his ear. “Looks like you got dried up egg on the side of your face and in your hair.”

  I felt my face go red. I touched my hair and felt the crust around my ear. Oh, God. Dillon’s…

  Dillon cleared his throat. “Well, we should get going.” He put his arm around me and moved me back toward the truck. “We don’t want to be late!”

  ****

  “Oh my God. Do you think Gary and Ron saw it?” I asked, looking in the rearview mirror and wiping my ear with a napkin from the glove compartment.

  Dillon was laughing, with his head tipped back, and holding his stomach.

  “It’s not funny,” I said, put the napkin down and started picking the crust off my ear with the tip of my fingernails. “Jesus Christ, it’s like glue,” I chuckled. “What the hell do you eat? You shoot cement.”

  He laughed even more. “I’m sorry,” he said between spurts of snickering. “I promise. I didn’t see it…” He snorted. “Or I would have said something.”

  “Jesus, I must look like the whore of Maine.” I shook my head.

  Dillon took off his baseball cap and gave it to me. “You need it more than I do.”

  I put it on, backed out of the parking spot, and we left.

  ****

  The five hour kayak trip ended in Bath, Maine, where we had dinner at a camp site and then were to be bussed back, in an hour trip, to our cars.

  Gary and Ron sat in the rear of the bus. Since Dillon and I were late—we got talking during dinner—we had to sit in separate seats near the front.

  We were still a little wet after flipping the kayak a couple of times. The first time, Dillon panicked, as he told the group at dinner, but afterward we worked well together and righted it in no time.

  I was sitting next to a banker from Boston. His wife was sitting in the seat in front of us with a friend. Dillon was two seats behind me. Once I told the banker I had worked for Thoroughbred, he started in on me. I tried to tell him I was under order of the authorities not to reveal anything, but that didn’t seem to stop his inquiries.

  After several minutes of inquest, I turned around to look at Dillon, who was in the back, standing by the bathroom. Gary must’ve been inside, as Dillon was talking to Ron, who was sitting by himself. Ron caught my eye and went back to talking to Dillon.

  “Ponzi schemes,” said the banker, “in this day and age. You think they would have been a little smarter than that.”

  ****

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Dillon asked.

  We were on I-95 heading home. It was getting dark.

  “I didn’t think…it was just once. It wasn’t anything.”

  He looked out the passenger window. “What?”

  “You haven’t had one-night stands?”

  He let out a sigh. “I’m not talking about you messing around with him.” He let out another sigh. “Now I don’t know what to believe.”

  I put my head back. Oh, God. “I’m confused, Dillon. What did he tell you?” I was trying to think back to what I had told Ron that would have gotten Dillon so upset. “All right, I fucked him! We messed around, and then I fucked him! Does that make you feel any better?”

  He leaned his elbow on the door, put his hand to his mouth and shook his head. “Well, that is certainly a surprise. But not really any of my business.”

  Oh, God. What the hell is he getting at? “Dillon, I don’t…I don’t understand.”

  “Evan, I don’t care so much who you’ve fucked in the past. Though I thought you told me you had only done Gary.” He spread out his hands. “But let’s just let that go. We’ve all had relationships. I don’t know why you had to hide it.”

  “I didn’t mean to hide it.” I nearly swerved into the other lane, and the car beside me beeped. “I just didn’t think it was important?”

  He crossed his arms. “Evan, I understand our relationship is new. We’re still learning about each other. But we need to be upfront and honest. It’s not about you fucking Ron.” He took a moment then went on, “Are you hiding something from me?”

  The highway’s white lines flashed by at breakneck speed, while I tried to think up something encouraging to say but, instead, I laughed nervously.

  “You know, I’m scared about this just as much as you are.”

  I looked over at him. I felt a bit nauseous.

  He looked me straight in the eyes. I had to look away to avoid veering into the other lane again. “You knew about the Ponzi scheme, Evan. Didn’t you?”

  My mouth fell open. I took a quick glance at him and then went back to the road. Ponzi scheme? I shook my head.

  “Evan, Ron said that not only did you know about it, but that you’re practically a millionaire.”

  I swallowed. The truth was, I did have a decent net worth for my age—not quite a million. The Ogle stock helped me launch, literally, a small fortune. But I didn’t like people to know about it. I was afraid they might think differently of me. Like when I told Ron, after a few beers, that I was broaching the three-quarter-millionaire mark.

  Dillon went on, “He thought I knew about the scandal too…that I was reaping benefits from it…my affinity for a good suit, for instance.” He sighed. “Then he told me you liked to cry poor mouth, so people didn’t know about your money.”

  I jerked my head toward him. “What! I never said that.” I looked back at the road. “I’m not…I never took anything from Thoroughbred.” I slammed my hand down on the steering wheel. “I DIDN’T KNOW ABOUT IT!” My heart was racing.

  He was silent.

  “HE’S A FUCKING LIAR! I’m not that…wealthy.” I clenched my hair in a fist. I closed my eyes for a second but was afraid I’d get into an accident. I just wanted it all to go away. “I suspected the fund was…off…but never said anything.” I glanced over at him. “I had nothing to do with it.”

  He sighed, looking out the window then turned to me. “Did you not joke with him last year about which was growing faster, the fund or your stock holdings?”

  I pulled back into the lane I was veering out of, sighed and admitted, “I did.”

  He looked away again. “This is just…” I could sense him shaking his head—sense because I was avoiding looking at him. “It’s too much too…”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dear Journal,

  Being raised with hardly any money, I guess I feel guilty for having some. My parents worked so hard, for so little. While I know my mom would be proud of me, I can’t help but feel a bit of shame sometimes regarding my wealth.

  I downplayed my net worth to Dillon and as a result broke his trust.

  Everything had been going so well. We had a great time in Maine…until the end.

  He said he needed time to think about things, which ultimately means we’re on a hiatus.

  God, please. I love this man. I would never hurt him. I would never lie to him. I just…I just didn’t think it was necessary to tell him about Ron, for one. And then the other thing—well I can’t even write about it for fear the Feds will steal my journal. But I didn’t know about any wrong doing at the firm. I only suspected. I only had an inkling. Ugh!!!!

  I told this to Dillon.

  Now he’s not sure he can trust someone that lies about his wealth, knew about—or at the least suspected something was amiss. Maybe he’s right. Why should he?

  I took the page from my journal, ripped it out, tore it to shreds and threw it in the fireplace. I didn’t want any evidence of my suspicions left behind. I had reformatted my hard drive to get rid of the letter to Whitfield I had started. The one thing I couldn’t get rid of was the conversation I had had with R
on the previous summer—the one about unprecedented gains and my sneaking suspicions. “Friggin’ traitor.” He was so damn conniving. Someone once told me, “He could talk a dog off a meat wagon.”

  When I got home that night, after coming back from Maine, I called Ron, but he didn’t pick up.

  It had been five days since I had heard from Dillon. The roses he gave me were beginning to wilt.

  ****

  When I meandered into Mrs. Johnson’s backyard, her wine soiree and art show was in full swing. All five people were there.

  Mrs. Johnson’s art was definitely something she did out of love—they were sort of tacky. Her husband, who had passed away long before I had moved there, had left her well off, and her dabbling with paint was her new passion.

  “Oh, Evan!” she said, coming over to me in a white gauze-like gown with sleeves that flapped behind her. She gave me a hug. She smelled of lilacs and alcohol.

  A tall man, wearing a black vest, white shirt and pants that matched his vest, offered me a fluted drink of some bubbly-looking thing. I took it.

  “You’re just in time.” She grabbed me by the arm and led me toward the boathouse she had converted into her studio. She stopped midway and leaned into me. “Where’s your friend?”

  I shook my head with tightly pursed lips.

  She patted me on the shoulder. “Oh, dear.” She gave me a sideways hug.

  I took her arm, and we walked toward the studio.

  Mrs. Johnson’s studio was quite eclectic. It was painted yellow to match her house and the inside was stuffed with not only her paintings, but little tchotchkes she had picked up in her travels and couldn’t find a place for in her house. There were also painted placards with witty and inspirational sayings on them.

  I stepped inside. On the wall hung what looked like a roofing slate, painted with white and blue lettering.

  Men are like chips…you can’t have just one.

  I chuckled. I hadn’t seen that one before. Mrs. Johnson waved to someone nearby and went over to them. I headed to the window overlooking the lake. Another slate hung to the left of the window. This one was in purple letters, with a bottle of wine painted to the side.