The Coil

by Gilbert, L. A.

  Mattie watched as Andrew stripped off and headed to the bathroom.

  “W-wait, um….”

  Andrew turned, raised an eyebrow. “What?” He smirked. “Finally gonna let me fuck you?”

  Mattie shook his head. “You know I don’t do that.”

  The taller man continued to strip off and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know. For a prostitute, you’re not the most adventurous in the bedroom.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut a second. “The ticket? You said if I came over last thing I could have a ticket to the art exhibition tomorrow? I left work early so I could—”

  “Yeah, yeah. It’s on the table next to the cash. I wasn’t going to rip you off, kid.”

  Mattie stood and picked up his backpack, muttering his thanks. He kept walking as Andrew called after him.

  “If you see me talking to someone there tomorrow, probably best to act like you don’t know me unless I approach you.”

  Mattie rolled his eyes, counted the cash, and stashed the ticket in his back pocket. “Like I’d acknowledge you for free,” he muttered as he let himself out of the apartment.

  It was done. He’d be able to buy himself two new canvases, and he’d scored a ticket to an exhibition. He headed down the stairs, taking two at a time.

  He could feel it, the coil inside of him. It pulled tight, chafing and burning. He knew he could justify it to himself all he wanted, but the transaction was dirty, made him feel as if he weren’t quite a part of the human race like everyone else.

  He’d go home, do at least half an hour of his reading assignment, tune the radio into the jazz station he liked, and then paint for a few hours. Maybe then the coil would loosen its grip.

  Chapter Three

  IT’D been a while since Simon had actually given any thought to his appearance. Usually he’d just throw on what he had clean and pressed, run a hand through his hair, and he was done. Tonight, however, he was hoping would involve some adult conversation, and so he’d paid a little extra care to his appearance. He wore a simple outfit, nothing ostentatious. Just his good shoes, some khaki pants, a crisp button-down and tie, and a sports jacket. He’d even gone as far as to get his hair trimmed, and had picked up his new glasses.

  Not bad, Simon. Looking dapper.

  He rolled his eyes. Who says “dapper” anymore?

  Hearing a giggle coming from the kitchen, he gave himself a final glance in the mirror and followed the laughter into the room. Sarah stood leaning against the counter, smiling at Jamie as she stirred a bowl of pudding and listened to him chatter about something to do with class that day.

  He took a moment to reflect that, in another life, this would have been one of those Hallmark moments you hear about so often or see on those greeting cards. In another life he would walk over to Sarah and dip his finger in the pudding. She would swat at him and call him mischievous, but then turn her cheek to him for a kiss. Another life where he was straight and Jamie wasn’t autistic and everything was just easy.

  Jamie looked over his shoulder. Smiled at him.

  This life was just fine.

  “Are you off?” said Sarah.

  Simon patted his pockets, checking that he had his wallet and keys and ticket. He nodded and looked around the kitchen. Had he forgotten something? Surely there was something else that needed doing before he left for the evening.

  “Everything’s fine,” Sarah mollified him.

  He looked over Jamie’s shoulder and saw him coloring with a worn-down crayon. He’d pick some more up from the store soon, he decided. He proudly noted that the coloring was all within the lines—a perfect picture of a sailboat. That would be one for the fridge, or perhaps another for his briefcase. “What’s all the giggling about?”

  “Jamie?” Sarah urged.

  She never stopped working, he noticed. She was always subtly encouraging Jamie to offer the information himself. Simon looked down at Jamie and barely held in a chuckle at seeing the tip of the boy’s tongue peek out of the corner of his mouth as he finished his boat. Jamie looked up and brushed the hair off his forehead with the back of his hand. Damn, it was getting too long again; he’d need to trim his hair again soon. He didn’t like to cut Jamie’s hair himself—he was no good at it, obviously—but the one time he had attempted to take Jamie to the barber had been terrifying for his son and the poor hairdresser. He brushed the hair off Jamie’s brow, waiting for an answer.

  “I gave Tommy the gummy bears. He had the red and yellow ones, and I had the green and blue ones.” Barefoot and in his pajamas, he swung his feet happily. “He said we’re friends now.”

  Sarah had let him know that all was well with the boys, but apparently she’d been waiting for Jamie to share this little nugget of information. A delighted smile split Simon’s face. “That’s great.”

  “They sat together at recess,” Sarah said significantly.

  “I asked him if he wanted one of my grapes, but he doesn’t like grapes. He likes gummy bears, and so do I.”

  They may have their setbacks, but when the achievements came along, like Jamie making a friend, it was as eventful for Simon as if Jamie had just scored his first home run or passed his driving test.

  “I’m very proud of you, Jamie.” Oh damn, his voice was going to crack.

  “Shouldn’t you get going?” Sarah licked the pudding from her thumb. “We’ve got a movie to watch, don’t we?”

  “Yes!” Jamie nodded.

  “Okay then, come give me a hug.” Simon crouched, holding his arms out. He gathered Jamie to him, holding him gently and taking in the just-bathed scent of his son’s skin. “Be a good boy for Miss Protrakis. I’ll be home soon.”

  “Why don’t you go fetch the DVD for me, Jamie?”

  Jamie rushed out of the kitchen, cape flapping behind him.

  “Thank you again, Sarah. I really do appreciate you sitting for me.”

  “It’s fine, Simon, really.”

  “All the same, I owe you a bunch of flowers, or lunch or something.”

  “I like tulips.”

  “Excellent.” He winked. “And that’s wonderful, about Tommy.” He couldn’t help but smile proudly. “You know, I was terrified that he’d come home every day from school crying. I even considered homeschooling him, but I still hoped so much that he’d make some friends at Golden Acres.” He nodded. “I know I made the right decision now.”

  Sarah patted his arm and walked with him to the front door. “Yes, you did.” He offered her a smile, and thought again that it was a shame that such a sweet woman was unattached, and that he was not so inclined. He frowned, however, when he noticed her worrying her lip. “Everything all right?”

  Her eyes darted up at him, caught. She laughed quietly, suddenly sheepish. He opened the door but paused on the threshold.

  “I wanted to suggest something, but it might be overstepping my bounds.”

  “Sarah, there’s no such thing.” He laughed affectionately. “I trust you implicitly. Out with it.”

  “No, there is. I’m Jamie’s teacher and your friend, but I’m not his parent. That’s your role, and I don’t want you to think for a second that I—”

  “You’re waffling, you silly woman.”

  She inched closer and lowered her voice. “I was just going to suggest something.”

  “All right…,” he drew out. He should really get going.

  “It’s Jamie’s birthday soon.”

  “Yep, not long now. I was going to take him to the zoo. He seemed quite excited about it.”

  Sarah’s face lit up. “Oh, that’s lovely, Simon, he’ll really enjoy that. You know, one of the other kids brought a kitten in—well, his parents brought it in. It was show and tell…”

  Show and tell. Yes, he remembered that. Jamie had taken his hardback, vintage, and fully illustrated copy of The Hobbit.

  “…and Jamie loved it. Kept asking if he could hold it and pet it. Have you ever noticed how some autistic children have an affinity for animals? I think it�
��s because their natures are so sim—”

  “Sarah, you said you were going to suggest something?” He laughed.

  “Right! Sorry. Well….” She shrugged. “I was going to suggest that perhaps a small birthday party would be nice.” She smiled. “He could invite a few children from school—and their parents, obviously. I could be there to give you a hand if you like. I know how it can snowball if even one in a small group of children—particularly autistic children—becomes unhappy. But you know, a little cake, coloring, some harmless games, maybe a treasure hunt, that sort of thing. It’d be a wonderful way for him to interact with other children outside of the classroom.”

  Simon began to smile. He had to admit, he loved the idea of Jamie being the center of attention, but in a controlled environment so that he could enjoy it, rather than feel overwhelmed. He leaned against the doorjamb and waited for her to stop babbling.

  “And I only mention it because of how well he and Tommy got on today. I mean, Simon, he looked so happy to be just sitting with another child.” She touched her hand to her chest. “But of course, it’s just an idea. He would absolutely adore the zoo. I’m sure of it.”

  “I think he’d like both.” He smiled. “A party, just a small one. Jamie could make the invitations. He’d like that, and perhaps you could pass them on to the parents?”

  “Of course I will.” She all but clapped. “Would you like me to be there to lend a hand?”

  “Sarah, I seriously doubt that Jamie would be as happy as he is if it wasn’t for your help. You can talk yourself into the ground trying to define your role in his life, but whether you like it or not, you’re family to us. You’re important. So yes, please be there.”

  She blinked up at him, and he laughed softly as her face began to crumple, and she reached her arms up to give him a hug. She pulled back after a moment and patted his arm. “You should still take him to the zoo.”

  “Oh, I will, definitely, but another day.”

  “Well….” She discreetly wiped her cheek. “You should get going; you don’t want to be—”

  They were both silenced when Jamie impatiently called from the living room, ready to begin his adventure into Middle Earth.

  “Yeah, I should be going. I won’t be back late, or at least not late enough to turn into a pumpkin.”

  She smiled and crossed her fingers. “Fingers crossed that you meet Prince Charming.”

  Simon snorted. “You’ll have to cross more than your fingers. I have my phone if you need me.”

  “We won’t.” She gave him a gentle push. “Have a good time.”

  “OH, HEY.” Mattie flagged down one of the waiter guys walking by with a tray of wine or champagne or whatever. “Can I get one of those?” He offered the waiter a smile and took a glass, but felt his smile fall as the waiter none too discreetly looked him up and down with obvious condescension.

  “Dick,” Mattie muttered, digging one hand deeply into his pocket as he watched the asshole walk away. He was wearing a tie and sports jacket, wasn’t he? Wasn’t like he hadn’t made an effort to look smart. Okay, so he’d borrowed them off of Tyler, but his shirt was tucked into his jeans, and he’d thought that maybe he could pass for smart casual, at least.

  He strolled over to one of the paintings, away from the small groups of people talking about stuff he had no interest in and couldn’t follow anyway. Shit, half of them weren’t even looking at the work on the walls. They seemed to be there for the sake of it, all dressed up and looking down at him.

  Fuck ’em.

  He took a sip of his bubbly, decided he liked it, and took a few gulps and then discreetly wiped the corner of his mouth with the heel of his hand. He wished he had a friend here with him, someone who he could discuss what they were looking at without that uncomfortable feeling of not belonging. Just one friendly face would be nice, someone to share the evening with. He took a sip from his glass, glanced around the room, and nearly choked when spotting a certain someone across the way looking equally out of place.

  Having not been able to get his brief but actual—not imaginary, he reassured himself—meeting with Simon out of his mind, he felt suddenly caught off guard with finding himself once again and unexpectedly within his vicinity. He had to smile at how awkward Simon looked. He had the look of someone who was eager to mingle, but had been out of practice for far too long. He was looking fine, too. Tugging at his shirt collar nervously and sipping at his wine, tilting his head marginally to one side with a frown as he studied one of the pieces on display. He was absolutely gorgeous, but utterly oblivious to it. And wasn’t that just sexy as hell.

  Go talk to him. Go talk to him. You know stuff about art; go impress the pants off of him.

  He’d just about talked himself into going over to Simon, had a clever opening planned even, when Andrew Camp stepped up behind Simon. He watched unhappily as Andrew laid a slimy but familiar hand on Simon’s shoulder.

  Mattie swallowed as he watched Simon turn and offer Andrew a tight smile, and any clever words instantly fled him. He suddenly felt ill. Andrew Camp and Simon knew each other. His client and the uber adorable guy he fantasized about on a daily basis knew each other. The thought of Simon knowing, of him finding out and then looking at him the way others did, like Andrew did? Mattie shook his head and downed the rest of his drink. That simply could not happen. He quickly made his way through the crowd, away from Simon and Andrew and toward a thankfully deserted looking veranda. When the coast was clear, he’d make a quick exit. He could talk to Simon at the diner.

  HE TILTED his head to one side, trying to hazard a guess at what the painting in front of him was supposed to depict. He knew next to nothing about art, but he’d hoped he might strike up a conversation with someone who did. A warm hand on his shoulder startled him slightly and made the wine in his glass slosh a bit, and he turned to see his editor standing beside him.

  “Simon, decided to join the rest of the world after all, I see?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” He tugged at his shirt collar, unused to wearing a tie.

  “Well, it’s about time you got yourself out and about. Next thing you know, you’ll be blowing one of the waiters in the cloakroom.” He laughed.

  Jesus, always so crass.

  “And you never know, a little romance may even inspire you to finish that book of yours.”

  Simon offered an uncomfortable smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t—that is, I’m not really looking for… uh, I mean I’m not in a position to look for—”

  “All right, all right, don’t hurt yourself.” Andrew snorted, clapping him roughly on the shoulder again. He bit his lip briefly, glanced at the writer, and then laughed softly. He drew Simon close by the shoulder. “You know, all jokes aside, a good roll in the hay doesn’t have to involve dinner and dancing.”

  Simon’s eyes widened slightly in alarm before he could stop himself. He’d thought they’d put this behind them, that he’d made it clear he had no romantic interest in his editor. Was that why Andrew had insisted he come, to have one more shot at the prude?

  “You can take the look of horror off your face. I didn’t mean me.”

  “Oh.” He was flooded with relief, and quick on the heels of that was mortification. “I mean, it’s not that you’re not, ah….”

  “Relax. We’re like night and day, I get it. No, my awkward and strangely ineloquent writer friend, I was referring to something else. Someone else, actually.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know a twentysomething-year-old Adonis I could introduce you to.”

  Simon actually laughed. “Yes, because that’s my usual type, Andrew. Have them lining up around the corner for me.”

  “I’m serious. He’s here, actually, at the gallery.” He shrugged. “He’s into this sort of thing, apparently, and not to just rub shoulders with the right people like the rest of us, believe it or not.”

  “Wait, are you actually trying to pimp out your date? You want to int
roduce me to him with the intention of breaking my dry spell, my very long and painful dry spell?” Simon asked in utter confusion. This was without a doubt the oddest conversation he’d ever had with his editor.

  “Oh, good God, he’s not my date.” Andrew laughed. “But don’t get me wrong, he’s a nice enough guy, and very easy on the eyes, but I’m not dating him. No, I couldn’t get a guy like that the good old-fashioned way.”

  “Then what on earth makes you think that I could?”

  “Do you have any cash on you?”

  “Of course, why, do you need to borrow—” Simon automatically reached into his back pocket, but Andrew stilled his arm.

  “If you have fifty dollars on you, then he’s not out of your league.”

  Simon frowned, and then his eyes widened comically as understanding dawned on him. “Wait, he’s, he’s a….”

  “Yes. And a very good one, if you don’t mind boring.” Andrew leaned close to continue their already quiet conversation in a near whisper. “Oral only, I’m afraid. And always with a raincoat. I know that should be reassuring, but he’s not even into the occasional cream pie, if you follow me. Tried that once with him and he very nearly burst into tears, if you can believe it.” He shivered. “Made me feel like a complete bastard.”

  Simon had to fight to not let his lip curl in disgust. Andrew actually thought he was so desperate as to pay for it? Just the thought of sharing that kind of intimacy, and then paying? It made him shiver. Apparently his feelings were written all over his face, because that hand on his shoulder was squeezing.

  “Hey, don’t look like that. Kid’s hard up for cash and trying to make his way. Not everyone is as comfortable as us, you know.”

  His look of apparent disgust hadn’t been so much for the guy Andrew had been describing, but more for his editor and the idea that someone would choose to do that. Shame tugged at his conscience, however; perhaps choice didn’t come into it. All the same, he couldn’t be further from aroused now if his mother was pirouetting naked in front of him.