It wasn’t me. I know who stole your wallets.
Mikey
Chapter 28
Dillon
In one of the guest bedrooms—on the third floor of a Victorian worth far more than what Evan and I could afford—ice pinged at the windows. Exhausted, I crept under the covers.
Vilhelm had loaned me a pair of his flannel pajamas before he retired to his room. The large oak limb blocking the driveway kept us housebound.
I attempted to call Evan one more time. The spotty reception was useless. I huffed, popped one of the pain pills the medic had given me to sleep, and swallowed it dry. I couldn’t be bothered with getting back up to grab a glass of water from the adjoining bath.
Twenty minutes in, sleep wouldn’t come over me. My heart raced and my mind flipped through the day—or yesterday? I didn’t have the time. My phone’s battery had dwindled. Flushed, I removed the flannel pajamas. My foot ached, so I took another pill.
About an hour later I awoke from a dream in which I’d plowed Evan. He wore a pair of boots similar to Adam’s. I humped the mattress. I couldn’t hold back. I’d been at it too long. I bit the pillow and feverishly creamed in the sheets.
“Oh my God.” I mounted up on my elbows, catching my breath with my head drooped. “What the…?” I flopped onto my back. Paranoid that others would discover my teenage-worthy incident, I went to the bathroom for a towel.
Chapter 29
Evan
Lying on the front seat of his Camaro, Madeline’s husband Pike had his pants around his thighs. His belt buckle jangled as I jacked him off with fervor. He moaned. From zero to sixty in record time, the man began to orgasm.
“Evan”—Pike’s pale blue eyes rolled back in his head—“I’ve always wanted you!”
I bolted up and out of my sleep. It took a moment to ground myself at the Settlement Inn. “What the…?”
Deet snored by the still-roaring fireplace.
Dillon’s side of the bed looked odd made up. I fumbled for my phone, but its glow never shined with the battery power out. A smattering of daylight crept through the shades.
With the covers thrown back, an erection tented my briefs. I hadn’t woken with a hard-on in months. My dream flashed in my mind. Pike. “No! It’s got to be the testosterone medication.”
Deet’s paw twitched in slumber.
I rose and opened the blinds. My eyes creased in the glare. The early morning sun shed light on the ice storm’s devastation. “Holy shit.” I sat on the couch. Over the armrest, my pants lay with Mikey’s note sticking out from the back pocket. I removed the letter and read it again. I wanted to believe the kid. Maybe he’d left the scene because he was embarrassed. “Of what?” I turned the note over. The back was blank. Something about Mikey had seemed so genuine. Sure he needed the money, but would he have stolen from us? My gut reaction told me no.
Deet rustled near me and rubbed against my leg.
“Morning, boy.”
Chapter 30
Dillon
A layer of ice coated the outside of Vilhelm’s on-location home, a stunning Victorian cast in crystal. Cars, buildings, and trees shimmered like a scene out of Doctor Zhivago. Icicles hung on branches and bowed wires. In other areas, electric lines lay on the ground.
Peering out the window, I leaned forward toward where I thought the inn and Evan might be, but frosted panes restricted my view. In my travels with Adam the night before, I’d lost my bearings. “Where the hell am—ouch!” My ankle reminded me it still needed TLC, and I flopped onto the window seat. A draft seeped through the lattice windows.
Although I was groggy, I’d slept well after my little toss in the sheets. I reached for my cell, but the battery wouldn’t come to life. “Damn.” I threw it back on the nightstand, a rather grand, expensive-looking thing with clawed feet and a pink marble top.
“I should shower.” I rose, adjusted the erection that was always present this time of day, and headed to the private bath off my room.
Lukewarm water dribbled from the showerhead. I quickened the process with a less-than-five-minute ablution I’d learned in Scouts. The water cooled any plans to release another nut down the drain. I squeaked the tap to a close and stepped onto the bathmat.
A folded blue towel lay on the vanity. I hadn’t left it there and stopped short. A robe hung on the back of the door I’d left open.
“Good morning.” Adam’s voice startled me, and I spun around.
“What are you doing in here?” I grabbed the robe.
He wore black jeans and a white thermal shirt. “I heard the shower and thought I’d surprise you with fresh linens.”
“You?” My wet hair flopped into my face, and I swept it away with the back of my hand. “I thought you’d gone to check on the dogs.”
“Dogs?” Adam threw me the towel, and I dried off. “Don’t worry,” Adam said, “I’ve seen naked men before.”
“I’m sure you have.” I put my back to him.
“I see you did well last night.”
“See?”
“Heard,” he said.
“I see.”
He placed the robe on my shoulders, and I worked my way into it. I remembered the NEFO contract and all he and Vilhelm had done to get Conant Marketing the work. I pushed aside the awkwardness of him catching me in the nude. Maybe it was a Hollywood thing.
“Vilhelm is here.”
“In my room?”
Adam stepped aside, and behind him Vilhelm stood in the bedroom.
“Good morning,” the actor said.
An older woman, wearing a black-and-white uniform and sporting shoulder-length gray hair, rolled in a cart with a silver pot of coffee along with cups and pastries.
“Thank you, Darlene,” Vilhelm said to her.
I tightened my robe and stepped into the bedroom. “Good God. Not much for privacy around here,” I muttered.
“I would have baked them”—Darlene’s voice was scratchy and low—“but with the lights out, I was lucky to get the gas burners lit with a match.” The old woman removed a glass tray from the cart and placed it onto the table.
Adam headed for the room’s exit. “Vilhelm, I’ll check on the tree blocking the road.”
Darlene clasped her hands behind her back and gave Vilhelm a brown-toothed grin. “I’ll be nearby if you need me.” Her eyes grazed me, and she followed Adam.
Vilhelm eased into a chair near the table by the window and poured coffee. “Dreadful out today. It’d be a nice day to stay in and watch movies, but I’m afraid that’s not an option.”
“No, it’s not. I need to see my husband.”
“I’ve sent Adam for him.”
“To bring him here?”
“We’re having the tree removed from the road.” He motioned for me to join him, and I did with a cross to my legs and a tuck of the terrycloth under my thighs to avoid exposure.
I reached for the coffee he’d poured for me. “Is there filming today?”
“Of course. We have generators to keep production going. Plus, the icicles will film nicely.”
“Great.”
“A lump?”
“Huh?” I stopped from checking my crotch to make sure nothing was hanging.
“A lump…of sugar.”
“Oh, no. I drink it black.”
“Me too.” He blew into his cup, then inhaled. “Smells lovely.” The angle of his nose, his pouty lips, and cleft chin made me wonder if he’d had plastic surgery. Everything about him looked perfect.
I drank up. “Damn, this coffee’s hot.”
“It supposed to be.” He returned his cup to the saucer and pointed to the pastry tray. “A scone? Biscuit? American muffin?”
I held up a hand. “Watching my weight.”
“Ordinarily, we’d have tea, but I know you’re a coffee drinker.”
“How do you know I’m a coffee drinker?”
He stopped with the blueberry muffin suspended midair. He sighed, placed it on a saucer, and cut
it in two. “I think you should have half. Let’s share.”
His knowledge of how I took my coffee unsettled me. “Vilhelm? How did you know I like coffee?”
“That day in the park…with Detritus…you stopped at a Dunkin’ Donuts and ordered a medium black coffee.”
“I did?” My mind raced back to the first time I’d been acquainted with the studio, playing Frisbee on the Common. It’d been the afternoon, and I only drank coffee in the morning. “Are you sure?” I switched legs and crossed the other. “There’s not even a Dunks on the Common.”
“Must’ve been another time.”
“Must have been.” I sipped. “You were watching me?”
Unfazed by my query, he removed the wrapper from a muffin.
I set my cup down. “If you know how I like coffee, then why did you just ask me about a lump?”
“Ah, you’re on top of your game, Mr. Deiss.” He sliced his portion of the pastry with a fork and knife. “You see, Dillon, the studio’s been watching you.”
A cold wave raked my core. “What? Watching how? Why?”
Vilhelm’s right dimple creased. “From what I hear, the breed is in great demand.”
“My dog?”
“So they say.” He stabbed an eighth-sized cut of the muffin with his fork and ate it.
“And you’re watching me because…?”
“They needed a good dog. Relax.”
“I don’t like being watched.” I tightened the robe’s belt.
“Relax. We’re having American muffins and coffee.”
“American—who the hell cuts a muffin?” I grabbed another from the tray and took a big bite off the top. “You just eat ’em.” Crumbs flew out from my mouth.
Vilhelm raised an eyebrow. “You American men are so rough.” He leaned back.
I rose, looking for my clothes. “You know, Vilhelm. I was grateful for the marketing gig. But I’m a faithful man. And now I’ve been watched? Me and my dog?” I located Evan’s corduroys I’d worn last night and stepped into them under my robe. “And you’re not getting Detritus, if that’s what you think.” I spun around, surprised to find Darlene, the old maid, beside me.
We stared at each other.
“Vilhelm,” she said, keeping an eye on me, “let’s rehearse the role.”
“Rehearse the role?” I asked, but she didn’t respond, smiling eerily.
Vilhelm wandered over and glanced at Darlene, then me. “Would you like to share a bed?”
“Bed? With you?” I struggled to maintain my composure. I couldn’t recall a bed scene in the script. It appeared the maid wanted him to go to bed with me. “I don’t get it.”
“Vilhelm’s a little nervous,” she said, “playing the part of a man who loves men.”
Vilhelm shook his head. “It’s not really part of the—”
“Shush.”
“I didn’t know your character was gay,” I said.
“It’s not clear,” he said. “One could interpret it either way.”
“I see.”
“I don’t think he does,” Darlene quipped with a twitch in her eye.
“Who the hell are you?” My face scrunched with disdain and confusion.
“He ain’t gonna go easy.” Quickly, she recoiled backward, buried her face into the crook of her arm, and sprayed something in my face.
Whoosh! A sweet liquid splattered into my mouth, and I coughed as I inhaled. I landed on the bed. The room spun. I struggled to keep my eyes open as I wiped away the stinging liquid.
“Darlene!” Vilhelm shouted.
Darkness washed over me.
I nestled into the warm, cozy sheets. Evan’s arm wrapped tight around my waist and I pressed into him—behind me—as we cuddled. Like we do. Comfortable. I feel deep into slumber.
Evan and I donned long fur coats and matching hats. We sat on the pier, across from our house, on Conant Lake. From maple trees nearby, ice crystals clung, like frozen tears. Our house, now a miniature Russian fortress with onion domes, lay in thick blankets of windswept snow cresting the roof.
A horse-drawn sled whisked us across the lake. “Somewhere My Love” echoed through the air.
I cracked open the door to our house. Inside more ice. Snow. The dining room’s chandelier glistened alongside icicles hanging from the ceiling. Our feet scrunched upon a crusted floor. Our breath clouded the air.
“Evan?” I flipped onto my other side, hugged him, and he eased back into me. Like he always does. “Evan.” I fell back asleep.
Our house didn’t have a fireplace, but Pike and Madeline’s did. Water dripped from snowcapped furniture and pooled at our feet as we huddled, covered in a blanket as the fire snapped and crackled. “Did we win Pike and Madeline’s new house?”
Evan didn’t answer, yet continued reading, like he used to years ago.
I swallowed a lump in my throat. “Evan, I lo—”
He sneezed. “I’m sick.”
“No, not again!” I felt his forehead. “You’re burning up.” I felt my own. Sweat poured down my face. A dream? Through a hole in the roof, a cloud swept by and a fighter jet thundered overhead.
“Evan!” I shot up. My room at Vilhelm’s place spun into recognition.
In what would be Evan’s spot beside me, Vilhelm turned.
“What?” I wanted to clock him and raised my fist.
“No!” he shouted. “Nothing happened.”
I stumbled off the bed. My robe hung half-open at my waist, and the corduroys I’d jumped into clung to my skin with sweat. “What happened? What did you give me?” I recalled the spritz of something sweet. My face stung.
Chapter 31
Evan
Hampshire Restaurant—tucked in the western corner of the Settlement Inn—bustled with energy. Throngs of extras, soaking up time from a delayed shoot, enjoyed brunch on the studio. Mimosas, Blood Marys, and endless cups of coffee, like I was having, made the rounds from one patient waitress.
A round man dressed in overalls—whose life story I now knew—chatted loudly to a much thinner version of himself—same duds and balding head—sitting across from him. “Did you hear the one about the deaf maple-syrup farmer?” said Fatty to Thin.
Thin Man blinked, mouth agape.
“Neither did he.” The fat one belted out a whiskey laugh. “Get it? Hear about…? Deaf?” He waved Thin off. “Forget it.”
The waitress placed burned toast in front of me. “Sorry, sugar. It got a little overdone in the fireplace.”
“That’s okay.” I picked it up. “I don’t mind it well-done.” She’d explained they were using the hearth for cooking.
“More coffee?” She poured without my reply.
“Nothing like coffee made from a fire pit.”
She winked and left.
The light above me flickered on and the whir of all those things you block out when the electricity works hummed again.
“Ah, crap!” Fatty said. “Does this mean we have to work now?”
Thin Man looked to the heavens. The lights faded, and silence fell back upon us, save Fatty hollering for more food.
Mornings and I never got along. Adding an annoying patron yucking it up made it worse. I took my burned toast and fresh cup of coffee into the lobby, where I found the space quieter and brighter with sunlight. Crew from the kitchen cooked by the hearth with a setup that would make a scoutmaster proud—kettles, fry pans, and all the accouterments of a good camping trip.
I sat on the sofa beside an elegant woman, coiffed hair and sharp gray suit. “You look too nice to be an extra for the nineteenth century,” I said.
She looked up from her magazine, Boston. “I’m waiting for Adam. No extra.”
“Everybody knows Adam.” I crunched my toast. While I hadn’t met the infamous one, I felt like I knew him.
“They do indeed. But he’s late.” She looked at her watch, a Fendi with a gold-and-silver band. “And of course this”—she held up her iPhone—“doesn’t work.”
&nb
sp; “Mine either,” I said after swallowing. “I left it upstairs plugged in, in case the electricity comes on.”
“Good idea. I keep checking mine senselessly. It’s a bad habit.”
We chuckled.
She eyed her watch again. “Vilhelm said he’d be here.”
“With the ice storm and all, he probably can’t get through.” I placed my toast and plate onto the table in front of us—a little too well-done for my liking. I recalled Dillon telling me during our phone argument that he’d been trapped inside due to a downed tree. I swelled with guilt for chiding him about blowing somebody to get the contract with the New England Film Office. He had been working hard. Perhaps my jealousy over flirtatious texts from this Adam dude was hypersensitivity—remnants from my situational, post-cancer depression.
When Dillon and I first met, the glow of love consumed our every moment. I still love him. As the years pass and the normalcy of life—including its trials and tribulations—advances, love becomes expected. Taken for granted. I didn’t want to end up like my parents, arguing over trivial things. I thought of Mikey’s comment about us arguing like the main couple from Mad Men.
Why did marriage have to become ordinary? How do couples keep the spark and not take one another for granted? I knew Dillon loved me. And I hoped he knew I did too. The words I love you had become so common and empty of meaning. Just said because that’s what we were supposed to do.
Fatty exited the Hampshire with Thin Man in tow. Boisterous nonsense emanated from the large one. I tuned him out.
“You don’t look like an extra, either,” the woman beside me said. “I’m Patty”—she extended a hand—“from the New England Film Office.”
“Oh.” I shook it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Evan. Evan McCormick-Deiss.” I remembered the contact Dillon had mentioned. Was her name Patty?
“Ah, a hyphenated name. Not too many men have hyphenated names.”
Building Us: A Gay Romantic Comedy and Adventure (Marketing Beef Gay Romance Book 2) Page 12
