Marketing Beef

by Rick Bettencourt

  The master bath door slid open.

  I rubbed the steam off the glass shower door. “Morning.”

  He scratched at the crotch of his Andrew Christian underwear. “Were you going to let me sleep all day?”

  “You needed the rest,” I said, my voice echoing.

  He held a finger up to me—as if to wait a minute—went back out to where the sink was and closed the sliding door. After a few seconds, he opened it and came back in.

  “What was that all about?” I asked. He went to the toilet.

  “I had a little gas. I didn’t want you to hear.”

  I laughed. “You are the cutest damn thing.”

  He stood over the toilet and started to pee. His underwear was down around his thighs, and he held his hands on his hips. He yawned. “You should be the one that overslept. You need your rest, Mr. Concussion-Man.”

  “I’m fine.” I turned slightly toward the wall. Even though the glass was foggy, I didn’t want him to see the rise he was giving me.

  He flushed. “You got any mouthwash?”

  “Under the sink.”

  He left and went back out to the sink area.

  I shut the shower off, slid open the door and grabbed a towel.

  He gargled and then came to me. He kissed the crook of my neck as I wrapped the towel around my waist.

  “Dillon.”

  “What?” he husked and pressed his crotch against mine.

  The towel didn’t stay wrapped around me long.

  We didn’t even make it to the bed. We started toward it, with our lips locked and hands groping against hardened muscle, but only got to the sink before we had to do something about it.

  We wound up making love on the granite countertop with a towel ripped from the wall and placed under me. I leaned back on it while he penetrated me. He didn’t even get to pull his underwear all the way down. I watched him thrust into me—his reflection in the full-length mirror on the opposite wall. His butt flexed over the strap of his blue Andrew Christian underwear. I clawed at his glutes and pushed him deeper into me.

  We came together—our lips locked and my legs wrapped around his waist.

  I was so sweaty, I needed another shower. We took one together. I washed the semen from his penis. The condom—hanging over the edge of the waste bucket—held the rest.

  It didn’t take long for him to get worked up again. I pushed him up against the wall, then down into the bamboo shower seat and took him in my mouth.

  When he shot, he screamed so loud I thought I felt the sliding glass doors vibrate. And I came without touching myself.

  ****

  We were ravenous afterward.

  I made us blueberry quesadillas with fresh berries I had picked along the lake the day before. The blueberries sat on a thin layer of cream cheese that I spread on top of the quesadilla. I seared it all in a frying pan. Dillon ate three. I had one, and cheated on my non-dairy diet.

  After breakfast, we went for a walk along the lake. Halfway around, we stopped at the dock that Mrs. Johnson had painted with us on it. I told him of her portrayal of us. He wanted to see it, so we went through her little white gate and into her backyard to visit.

  Detritus was happy to see me. Mrs. Johnson was out watering her flowers. She was wearing a green robe and her hair was up in a bandana. I thought about what Jacob, the waiter, had told me about her illness. She did look thin and frail, but I wasn’t sure if that was just me reading into something that wasn’t there, or Jacob’s gossip actually being true.

  “Oh I’d love for you to see it, Dillon,” she said. Dillon helped her down the short path to the rear of the cottage.

  The picture still leaned against the easel that held its debut; the canvas draped behind, with its edges resting on the floor.

  Dillon put a hand to his heart and told Mrs. Johnson how much he loved it. I thought I heard his voice crack when he mentioned the kicking of the calf.

  Mrs. Johnson tried to give it to us, but I couldn’t take it. I told her I’d prefer to see it there. And she elbowed me in the side and made me promise to visit more often.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Sixteen

  A few months had passed and fall fell over New England. I pulled up to the house. I loved autumn in Massachusetts. For some reason, it didn’t seem as dreary and cold as Michigan was this time of year—or perhaps the reason I felt better was because the situation with Thoroughbred was no longer lingering. The news had finally died down about the Ponzi scheme. My boss was indicted, along with Ron, and both were serving fifteen year prison sentences for fraud and illegal banking. Apparently, Ron’s brother had turned them in to the authorities. Ron purportedly confessed to him, in private, that the fund was really “one big scheme.”

  Dillon’s car was parked out front. The hood was up. “Will wonders ever cease? Mr. Marketer is taking a crack at changing his own oil.” My penny-pinching efforts were beginning to rub off on him. Before I had left for the market, he told me he was going to “look into” changing it himself, instead of paying the dealer. I offered him a coupon from the SpeedyOil down the street, but he refused. “Honestly, doing it yourself is a waste of time. You could make more from writing ads…” I started, but he put up a hand saying it was good for him to learn.

  I took the groceries from the back of the Explorer and walked toward his car. He was practically inside the engine. I admired his butt sticking out. He had a foot up on the bumper. “Look at you, being all manly and butch,” I said and threw the bag on my hip to free my hand. I looked around and then squeezed his crotch.

  “HOLY SHIT!” He jumped and slammed on something inside the engine.

  “What’s going on?” Dillon asked. He was standing on the front porch.

  I looked back over to the car. Pike was holding his head, blood dripping from the top.

  I dropped my bag of groceries.

  ****

  I stood over the kitchen sink. The eggs I had bought for Mrs. Johnson were smashed. I pulled them from the bag to get at the loaf of wet bread.

  Pike sat on the living room couch with an ice pack on his head. Madeline—the busty, woman from the office—sat next to him. Since Pike had gotten us the Blow Family account, Madeline and he had been seeing each other.

  “Pike, I’m really sorry,” I said, again.

  “Don’t mention it.” He dabbed a couple fingers to his forehead and looked at them. “It’s stopped.”

  Madeline’s shoulders quivered. “I just hope his grip wasn’t as good as mine, otherwise I might be out a boyfriend.”

  Pike laughed. “Hmm. Now that you mention it.”

  Madeline slapped him playfully.

  Dillon brought the trash barrel over to the sink. “I’m sure he could teach you a thing or two.”

  “Dillon!”

  ****

  Just before Christmas, Dillon moved in. The lease for his apartment in Danvers was about to expire. He had been spending most of his time at my place anyway.

  I looked down at Dillon’s credit card statement and sighed. “You owe five thousand dollars to Brooks Brothers?”

  “Four-thousand nine hundred…” He peered over the edge of the statement I still held.

  I pulled it back. “Seventy-eight dollars and sixty-three cents,” I added and walked toward my computer. I looked down at the bottom of the statement. “At twenty-one percent interest!” I turned and glowered at him. His eyes were reminiscent of Detritus when he wanted a cookie. I sighed and dropped the statement to my side. “I’ll pay it.”

  “You’re so good with money, Evan.”

  I sat down at my computer. “I’m an accountant, remember?”

  He was leaning against my chair.

  “You know how much credit card debt I have?” I started to hold up my hand to make a zero but stopped. I knew I needed to restrain from criticism. I knew I could be a little too extreme when it came to saving. I turned around in my chair. “It’s not that you can’t afford it, Dillon. You make excel
lent money.”

  “We…”

  I chuckled. “We. We make good money.”

  He tousled my hair. “You better be careful, or I might just give you another shot of hair gel.”

  I patted my hair back down. “Don’t get me going again.”

  The back door opened and in walked Madeline. “Oh, hey, boys. I’ve got to use the little girl’s room.” She walked down the hall and into the bathroom.

  “No problem,” I said. The phone rang, and I picked it up. “Conant Marketing. This is Evan.” Dillon sat down, spread eagle, on the chair next to me. “Oh, hi, Mr. Blow.” I leaned on Dillon’s knee. He was wearing a gray suit and looked very handsome. “Oh, yes, the team will be out next week.” I hit my keyboard so the screen would unfreeze and looked at the spreadsheet I had been working on. “We’re just running the numbers now.”

  The other line rang. Dillon got up. “Madeline!”

  “I’M IN THE BATHROOM!”

  I covered the phone and mouthed, “Dillon.”

  He shook his head and picked up the other line. He didn’t like answering calls.

  I talked to Joe Blow—the founder of the portable toilet outfit in Maine—about the team’s plans for the following week, wrapped up our conversation, and hung up.

  Dillon was walking with the phone crimped between his ear and shoulder. He grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl and started to peel it.

  Madeline burst out from the bathroom. “I’ll be glad when you get the cottage plumbed.”

  “I know,” I said, clicking at the computer. “In the spring, I promise.” The phone rang again.

  Dillon shot Madeline a glare.

  I waved a hand at him dismissively, to which she laughed. “Don’t let him boss you around,” I said.

  “You kidding me?” She blew Dillon a kiss as she opened the door. “He ain’t gonna get my panties bundled,” she said and left.

  “Conant Marketing.” Through the window I watched Detritus gallop beside Madeline. He loved playing in the backyard. “She is. Hold on for one second, and I’ll transfer you.”

  Using only her finger and thumb, Madeline tried to grab the tennis ball out from Detritus’ mouth. His slobber no doubt encased it. He wouldn’t let go. She wiped her hands together gingerly and started to walk away. He finally dropped it in front of her and ran away. He looked back, as if to make sure he still had her attention. Madeline picked up the ball delicately and threw it toward the shore. Detritus went after it.

  I banged on the window. She looked up. I pointed to the receiver I had in my hand, and she went inside.

  “That was the hospital,” Dillon said behind me.

  I spun around in my chair.

  “Chemo treatment is done. She’ll be ready at two.”

  I nodded.

  ****

  Mrs. Johnson died on a surprisingly warm afternoon in late January. Her sister had flown up from Florida and had spent the holidays with her.

  She didn’t want a service. Her request was to have her ashes mixed with her husband’s—which she had kept in an urn on top of the mantle—and sprinkled into the Conant Lake.

  Despite our January thaw, the lake was frozen. We promised Mrs. Johnson’s sister that we’d keep the ashes until she returned in the spring.

  I took Awakening at Conant Lake out from her bedroom. I had put it in there so she could see it from her bed. She made me promise her I would take it when she passed.

  Dillon locked up her house and we drove the short distance to the end of the street. We had just come back from dropping Millie, her sister, off at the airport.

  Peter and Madeline’s cars were parked at the end of the road. Dillon needed to get in to join them on the conference call with Yankee Beef. It wasn’t necessary for me.

  Detritus greeted us at the door.

  ****

  A year and a half after we sprinkled Mr. and Mrs. Johnson’s ashes in the lake, Dillon began acting a little funny. One afternoon he decided we needed to go shopping at the grocery store, near the old Thoroughbred office.

  We were driving in his new Audi—new to him, anyway. The lease on his Volkswagen had expired, and I refused to go into debt for the Jaguar he was eyeing. I suggested a Ford Hybrid that I had read about in The Environmental Consumer. We settled on a year-old Audi Diesel.

  “Dillon, why are we going here? You know I like Henry’s Market much better.”

  “They have a sale on…on the granola you like.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Granola? Since when are you a penny pincher?”

  He glanced at me. “Since you taught me.” He pulled into the parking lot. “Now that we have a new car, I guess we should be saving more.”

  “Mm hmm.”

  We got out of the car, but instead of going in, he started toward the street.

  “Dillon.” There was a small group of people gathered with their backs to me. “What are you up to?” I followed after him.

  He turned and waved me on. “C’mon, slow poke.”

  I noticed Madeline first, then Pike and Peter. “This isn’t making any sense,” I said to myself.

  They looked up at the billboard—the same one where I had seen the first Yankee ad—then back at me.

  Dillon walked back and grabbed my hand.

  As the billboard came into view, I put my hand to my mouth and choked back the lump in my throat.

  This just keeps on getting better. Marry me, Evan?

  I looked back at the ad. The words were cast over a larger-than-life replica of Mrs. Johnson’s painting.

  Madeline was wiping her eyes.

  Dillon got down on one knee.

  I could hardly see him through the tears in my eyes. “Yes, Dillon. Of course.”

  * * * * *

  Epilogue

  The beach’s water was cool for Florida. I strolled along the shore. The Gulf’s waves crashed at our feet. Dillon walked beside me. He had his shirt off, mine was still on.

  “The weather is perfect this time of year,” he said.

  “It is, isn’t it?”

  We walked further. There were throngs of people, seemingly enjoying the escape from the North’s brutal winter.

  I bent down to pick up a beach rock. “Look how smooth—” I felt a dribble of cool water slide down my neck. I arched an eyebrow at him.

  Dillon shrugged a shoulder. “What happened?”

  “Mmm. Hmm.”

  “Hey, look at that one.” Dillon bent and picked up a shell.

  “It’s alive. Let it be.”

  He whipped it back into the ocean. A group of kids played in the distance.

  We happened upon a sandcastle being destroyed by the incoming tide.

  “God, I used to love making sand—”

  I kicked a little water at him as he bent down to inspect it.

  “Mr. Evan Capri McCormick-Deiss.”

  I shrugged a shoulder. “What?”

  He shook his head.

  We got back to our spot. The tide had come in and was threatening to wet the hotel’s oversized towel we had been using to lie on. I moved it out of the way while Dillon re-staked the umbrella. From the couples’ boom box behind us, The Pretenders’ “I’ll Stand By You” started. I smiled and kicked off my sandals.

  Dillon chatted with them, something about living in New England and being glad to be out of the snow.

  I sat under the shade of the umbrella, hugging my knees.

  As the song moved into its final chorus, Dillon walked over, pointed with his head to the water, and waded in.

  I followed after him. We stood with the water slapping at our shins.

  A group of kids frolicked on a raft, and Dillon started toward them, in exaggerated kicks, that sent water my way.

  I flinched slightly as the spray wet my T-shirt. “Hey, hey!”

  “Hey, what?” He splashed me again, with a grin.

  “You’re asking for it.” I placed my hands on my hips.

  He came a little closer, and I kicked
water at him, hitting him in the face. “Ah! Bull’s-eye!” I laughed.

  He bent down and with his cupped hands he drenched me.

  Suddenly we were in an all-out water brawl. We must’ve looked like we were having fun, because the next thing I knew the group of kids on their raft joined in.

  “Mr. Deiss, you’re in for it,” I said. The kids took my place soaking him while I stepped back, peeled off my wet and clinging T-shirt, heaped it onto the sand, and ran back to join them.

  No one seemed to notice the birthmark on my chest. Why should I?

  The End

  * * * * *

  About the Author

  Rick Bettencourt hails from Boston’s North Shore where he learned to speak without pronouncing the letter “r”—and say things like “tonic” when he wanted a Coke, or “bubbler” when getting a drink from the park’s water fountain. A few years ago, Rick was adopted by a Cairn Terrier named Bandit. Recently, Bandit moved Rick, and his husband of several years, to Florida to escape the New England winters and avoid being engulfed by snow drifts when going about their business. When Rick is not being walked around the block by Bandit, he might be found working on a story about gay men or some underdog character triumphing over adversity. Or you might catch Rick watching The Walking Dead or Once Upon a Time, reading something like Running with Scissors or some personal development book, or writing to a group of folks—he likes to call them fans—from his mailing list. In addition, Rick enjoys theater, art, old postcards, and amusement parks. He also loves to hear from his readers.

  ****

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  * * * * *

  Also by Rick Bettencourt

  Tim on Broadway

  If you enjoyed Marketing Beef, you’ll love Rick’s full-length novel, Tim on Broadway.

  An excerpt from Tim on Broadway:

  Now’s your fucking chance.

  I jumped out of bed, threw open my door and went to the bathroom and banged on the door.