Fabulous in Tights

by Hal Bodner

  Without warning, he abandoned all pretense and loomed forward. Bradley Harmon quailed before him.

  “The fifth-floor labs at the Greene Genes Special Projects Building were destroyed in an explosion this morning. Your senior staff isn’t fit for much except fertilizer.”

  “My God…”

  Bradley’s shoulders slumped in defeat. Every time he came up with a new straw to grab at, Thanatos seemed to have already wrenched it away. Unwilling to reveal to his captor how close he was to despair, the scientist straightened his back, summoned what little emotional strength he had left, and flung his next words with admirable defiance.

  “What about Peter Camry? Jackson’s protégée. If no one else finds a way to stop you, he will. Unless you’ve killed him too.”

  Thanatos’ laughter was even heartier than before. For an instant, Bradley thought the fiend was about to lift the mask to wipe tears from his eyes. He caught his mistake in time to avoid revealing his face.

  “No, Doctor. Peter Camry is quite safe. It may surprise you to learn that he fits into my plans very nicely.”

  “Bullshit! I know Peter. He’s the very soul of integrity and he shares Jackson’s vision as much as I do. If you think for one minute you can corrupt him…”

  “Corrupt him? Why would I want to do that?”

  Thanatos’ grin became a veritable leer.

  “Rest assured, I can handle young Camry. You just let me worry about him.”

  Chapter Seven

  According to Gretchen, who still thinks of me as somewhat of an overgrown twink, gushing about my husband is only one of my more irritating habits. According to Randy, who knows me mostly as The Boss, it’s one of my rare humanizing qualities. Travis, who rarely listens to anything I say anyway, seems to take it in stride.

  I guess it all depends on how you look at things.

  I ask myself, why shouldn’t I gush a little? Before I met Pete, my interpersonal relationships were always a little screwy. My parents were kind of shitty. Travis cares for me, but he always maintains a certain gruff distance. He has no problem with me being gay, but he’s never been entirely comfortable with it either. And Gretchen, notwithstanding that she’s my best friend, can’t resist the opportunity to take potshots at me.

  With Peter, things are completely different. He never leaves any doubt that I’m the most important thing in his life. Why that is baffles me. I certainly don’t think I deserve it. Even so, he proves it to me in dozens of different ways and, every time he does something sweet, I think I fall even more in love with him.

  For instance…

  Jackson Greene, who was like a father to Pete, was dying. He’d poured his heart into the Feed the World project for years, and now it was blown to smithereens with no hope of salvage. Powerful people at Greene Genes, people like Herman Starcke, hated Peter for his youth and ambition as much as they loathed him because he was married to another man. Still other executives resented Jackson’s humanitarian policies, and knew Peter would follow in the old man’s footsteps. For the sake of their own increased profits, they’d do whatever they could to see him out of a job, broke, and on the street. To top things off, a company building was a smoldering ruin and people had been killed. My husband was not only grieving the loss of friends and colleagues, but he now had the threat of lawsuits to look forward to.

  It had been a horrible day, one that would have driven many a lesser man to seek therapy.

  Yet, how did Peter handle it?

  He brought me flowers!

  We’re not talking about a single bouquet of gladiolas–which he knows are my favorites. We’re talking about three dozen gladiolas in a vase the size of a kiddie pool. A man with smaller biceps would have collapsed just trying to haul the thing up the stairs.

  At the last minute, Gretchen called to confirm she would, in fact, be coming over. But it was to be a working meal. In the wake of the disaster, she needed his help going over a bunch of Greene Genes-related stuff. It was also a great way for her to share information with the Whirlwind without compromising either of us. Peter had sparked a lot of gossip when he’d chosen to marry an ex-hooker but, eventually, it quieted down and people started thinking of him as an upstanding citizen once again. Centerport can be a really conservative town in a lot of ways. Gretchen might get away with being friendly with Peter, even with me as his “dirty secret” hiding in the background. Come election time though, some citizens would not be sanguine about their chief of police openly hanging out with a male madam. We could get away with having coffee in public from time to time, but I had to be careful about visiting her at the station too often. As for the Whirlwind, so long as everyone thought he and Gretchen were only casual colleagues, she was safe. But if any of the bad guys deduced that we were actually close friends, she could easily become a target.

  Since the roast was back in the freezer, I figured that, if we were reduced to having pizza, the least I could do was to make it from scratch. So, I stopped by the Farmer’s Market to pick up a bag of flour and some fresh ingredients for toppings. With an ulterior after-dinner motive in mind, I also set up the old massage table from my hooker/masseur days and positioned it strategically close to our bed. I changed the sheets and spritzed the fresh ones with a musk-scented linen spray that was advertised to be packed with pheromones – not that we’d need them!

  As soon as Gretchen had finished her after-dinner business with Peter, I planned on shoving her out the door and spending the rest of the evening with my husband splayed on the musk-impregnated sheets like a muscled side of beef while I attended to his every conceivable need. I had in mind a back massage, a foot massage, and some other kinds of massages which he’d enjoy even more. In between the massage and the under-the-cover gymnastics I planned for later, I intended for us to spend a good forty minutes relaxing in the over-sized spa tub we’d installed when we converted the nightclub’s former ladies’ room into our master bath.

  The process of converting the club into useable living space has been a long one. Often, it seems like Peter and I live in a perpetual construction zone. Even so, in retrospect, I’m happy that Travis convinced me to keep the place after my parents died. He’d argued that it was perfect; no one would suspect that the Whirlwind’s lair was hidden in an abandoned nightclub that was, in turn, located in an area of slowly gentrifying urban blight. He was right of course. But I sometimes suspect that his advice was motivated by selfishness. Years ago, he’d converted a storage space next to the basement boiler rooms into an apartment for himself. If I’d sold the club, he would have had to move, and Travis was far too lazy to want to pack.

  For as long as I could remember, Travis was simply around. Whether he was hauling beer kegs up from the cellar, repairing the deep fryers, or patching leaks in the roof, he was just there. Until he took up residence in the basement, he’d lumber off to some nebulous “home” at the end of the work day. I never found out where that was. From the slight fishy smell that used to cling to him in the mornings, I figure it was down by the docks. To this day, passing a fish market makes me feel sentimental.

  After my parents were killed, I moved back into the small apartment above Ale Mary’s where I’d spent my childhood. I always intended to update the living quarters, and maybe expand them, but with my attention absorbed by the Archer Agency, I never got around to it. A few months after Peter and I started dating, he asked me to move in with him. Though his apartment in the Greene Genes Corporate Complex was certainly one of the luxury units, it had a sterile, mass-produced, laminated feel to it. The vibe it gave off was far too sterile to imagine it ever feeling like a true home. It took a lot of coaxing on my part to convince Peter to move into the former nightclub. And he was a saint himself during the chaos of the first stages of the renovation. Now, though our surroundings were certainly odd, we couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

  Travis happily exchanged the role of eccentric handyman for that of an eccentric relative who lives in the basement. Gretchen, for
the first time since her husband died, found that she once again had a family to be part of, and effortlessly slipped into a role that lay somewhere between disapproving aunt and critical older sister. It was an odd, non-traditional set of relationships that seemed to work out quite well for all four of us.

  “You guys really need to keep the door locked. It’s a cesspool of crime out there, or hadn’t you heard?”

  Gretchen plopped two six-packs of beer onto the butcher-block counter without bothering to worry that the pizza recipe I was working on called for the garlic to be minced, not pulverized by beer cans.

  “Do you know how unsanitary that is? Do you have any idea where those beers have been?”

  “Put ’em in the fridge then. You can just wipe the counter if you’re so terrified of germs.”

  “I’m cooking,” I said, as if the cleaver in my hand and my KISS THE CHEF apron were not obvious enough.

  “We’re having pizza, right? How does that qualify as cooking? You just pop it into the oven.”

  “It needs stuff on it,” I informed her in my best haughty Julia Child voice. “Otherwise, it’s just cheesy tomato bread.”

  “Pizza is cheesy tomato bread, you nit.”

  I changed the subject.

  “I see you dressed in the dark tonight? Or do you still believe that when your clothes get to the bottom of the laundry pile, they’re magically clean again?”

  As usual, Gretchen was slightly disheveled. One elbow of her faded orange sweater had a small tear, and the collar of the T-shirt peeping out from beneath had seen better days. Other than that, and a few coffee stains, she didn’t look too bad until you looked down. She was wearing a pair of once-brown slacks that were now a color somewhere between rancid burgundy and medium cow patty.

  She saw what I was looking at and said, defensively, “I used too much bleach and they faded. I was trying to dye them back but… Heya Petey!”

  My husband entered the kitchen. Gretchen stood on tip toe to give him a peck on the cheek and I felt a flash of envy. Peter had just gotten out of the shower and was wearing nothing but a pair of towels, one loosely cinched around his trim waist and the other draped across his shoulders. Had we been alone, both towels would have been history and his cheek would not have been the first place I would have kissed.

  “Hiya Gretch.” Peter snagged a sliver of the green pepper I was slicing and, with a grin, popped it into his mouth. Neither my grunt of protest nor my swipe at his hand with the flat of the knife stopped him from grabbing a second piece.

  “Good way to lose a finger,” I grumbled.

  “I’d still have nine more.”

  He pressed his chest against my back and demonstrated what he could do with only nine fingers by letting five of them creep down past my waistband. I closed my eyes, leaned back against him and inhaled deeply.

  Something about the way Pete smells has always turned me on. I don’t know what it is. More pheromones, I suppose. It’s a grassy, heathery scent with just a hint of something very “male”. Even when he comes home after a heavy workout at the gym, when he should stink to high hell, he never does. His natural smell gets stronger and headier of course, but it never becomes rank or sour. Shortly after we moved in together, I stopped buying scented bath soaps and body sprays. Given the choice between Irish Clean, Cocoa Butter Blast or Sporty Fresh, my preference is for Eau de Pete Naturel.

  “Ohhh,” Gretchen leered. “D’you guys ever think about installing some webcams? You could make a fortune.” She rolled her eyes and waggled one finger at us. “Keep it away from the food prep area, if you please.”

  “Dinner may be late” I managed to mumble past a mouthful of Peter’s tongue.

  “It better not be. I’m starving.” She snatched up a supermarket circular from the counter, rolled it up and playfully whacked Peter on the head. “Put some ice on your ovaries, Petey. Let’s you and me head into the den and get some real work done while the Galloping Gourmet over here…”

  “I do not gallop!”

  “The Mincing Maestro,” she continued without breaking stride, “finishes his masterpiece. Go and put a shirt on first, will you? All that beefy male flesh is makin’ my female parts flutter.”

  “Your wish, fair lady, is my command.” Peter executed a deep bow and made for the bedroom. He paused in the doorway to call back, “Oh…Gretch?”

  “What?”

  He playfully dropped the lower towel and we were both treated to a brief, tantalizing glimpse of a naked, perfectly formed bubble-butt before the door swung closed behind him.

  “I know he’s your husband, Alec. But one of these days…” She sighed with heavy, heavy regret. “How come straight guys are never that good looking?”

  I shrugged with a self-satisfied smirk. She plopped herself onto a barstool and followed Pete’s lead by snatching up a few uncut black olives–from the bowl, not directly from atop the pizza or I would have nailed her with the chopper–and rested her head on her fists.

  “I’ll wait for you to join us before we get into the heavy stuff. You don’t need to be there for the background. I already know most of it but I gotta get it from Pete so it’s official. Actually,” she continued thoughtfully, “I’m kinda surprised at how well he’s handling this. It’s a disaster.”

  “He’s not. It’s just a mask he wears.”

  “Something you know about,” she quipped.

  I shot a pointed glance at the bedroom door.

  “Don’t worry. He can’t hear you.”

  “Still…”

  I violently eviscerated half a red onion to show my disapproval of her mentioning the Whirlwind when Pete was around.

  “He’s super upset but not showing it. Between the fire and Jackson being so sick, he has a lot of things he needs to take care of. I imagine that most people at Greene Genes are already taking their cues from Peter, even though Jackson’s not gone yet. Except Herman and his cronies, of course.”

  “Starcke?”

  “Yeah. Anyone with half a brain can see that he’s already started plotting to edge Pete out.”

  “Have you discussed it with him?”

  I waved my spatula as if it was a white flag of surrender.

  “We have a rule around here about staying out of each other’s work. Pete doesn’t tell me how to hire hookers. I don’t presume to know how the corporate world works. If he ever asked my advice, I’d give it. But he doesn’t. I used to push him to try and get him to dump on me when I saw he was stressed. He just pretends everything is under control until it gets too much for him. He gets short tempered and then he feels guilty if he takes it out on me. He vanishes into the study to brood. Trying to cheer him up only starts a fight. In the end, we always work it out. And the make-up sex is spectacular. But if you were me…” I pointed toward the doorway after Peter, “…would you risk not being able to spend even a single night next to that?”

  “You have a point.”

  She picked up a piece of parsley and began slowly and methodically stripping it down to the stem.

  “He does it purely for your benefit, you know.”

  “What?”

  “The whole strong and silent thing. I know you, Alec. I see through the masks you wear and I’m not talking about…” She lowered her voice, and the second onion half was saved from a fate as violent as the first half. “…about Whirlwind. I mean in general.”

  “Do tell, Madame Freud.”

  “I’m serious. I’ve seen you at the agency. Behind the scenes, you’re like a hostess at a dinner party, screaming at the kitchen staff to make sure everything’s perfect. The ultimate control queen in the midst of chaos. Then, when you step out front to greet your guests, you’re like a gay cross between Martha Stewart and James Bond. Cool. Smooth. Suave. No matter what the problem is, you handle it like it’s no big deal, smiling the whole time and making it look easy. I hate to tell you this but, you’re a lot like your mother was while she was running Mary’s.”

  She held up one
hand to stop me from interrupting.

  “With Peter though, you become this helpless waif. A love-struck puppy. And very ditsy, I might add. Oh, I’m not saying you fake it. Both sides of you are genuine. I can’t help noticing that the Whirlwind isn’t the only thing you hide from him. You conceal your strength as well. Even when he’s under tremendous stress, he shoulders the burden because he thinks you can’t handle it. If you want my opinion…”

  I didn’t. But I was going to have to hear it anyway.

  “…You need to let your feelings show more often. Not that you love him. God knows that’s obvious! Every once in a while, clue him in that he doesn’t have to be quite so protective. Let him see that you can stand on your own two feet. Maybe if he finds out he can lean on you for a change, he won’t be under so much pressure. Trust me on this.”

  The chopping knife paused in mid-chop, sparing a sprig of fresh basil this time. For all her needling, Gretchen usually knew what she was talking about.

  “I show my feelings,” I mumbled, barely loud enough for her to hear.

  She shook her head.

  “You repress them. Did you shed a tear when your folks drove off that bridge?”

  “Would you have gotten weepy if you had been raised by my parents?”

  “Maybe not,” she conceded. “All I’m saying is that you split all your strength between the agency and the Whirlwind. For a change, consider using it to help Pete get by.”

  “Better?”

  Peter came into the kitchen wearing a green sweater I’d bought him a while back that almost matched his eyes–except that his eyes were prettier. By mutual and silent consent, Gretchen and I abandoned our conversation.

  “It’s certainly less distracting,” she told him. “Come on. We adults have work to do. We can leave the child to make mud pies in the kitchen.”

  “Extra anchovies on your slice, you harridan!” I called after them. “Smelly, disgusting dead fishes! It’ll be like eating lesbians!”