Building Us: A Gay Romantic Comedy and Adventure (Marketing Beef Gay Romance Book 2)

by Rick Bettencourt

  Pike loved classic cars, and this was one of his babies. I recognized the gold Chevrolet emblem on the steering wheel. Other than that, I had no idea what model I sat in. I turned the engine. It whirred and sputtered—similar to how it had when I left Salem Hospital. I pumped the gas pedal like Pike had told me I should and tried again. Whir. Whir Whir.

  “C’mon.” I pumped again. The key nearly bent from my force. “Maybe it’s too cold out?” I tried again. Whir. Whir. Ffft. Ffft. “Almost!” Ffft. Ffft. I pushed the gas to the floor. Ffft. Ffft. Ffft.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” yelled a voice from outside. “You going to flood.” The man had a Hispanic accent and was bundled in a hooded parka. His eyes barely showed. “It no gonna start like that.” He knocked at the passenger window. “Pop de hood.”

  I did. Salem’s Point—not a terrible part of town but not the best—lay across the way, and while the man seemed friendly enough, I didn’t want to take my chances.

  He opened the hood.

  I rolled the window down a bit. “Want me to try again?”

  “No yet. No yet, amigo.” He fiddled with a few things while I worried about ruining Pike’s prized possession. “Okay! Try now!”

  I turned the key. The car whirred and backfired but soon turned over. “Thank you! Thank you!” I fed it more gas to keep it going.

  The man shut the hood with a loud slam and approached my window. He looked older than I’d originally clocked him for and his belly stretched the nylon fabric of his coat. “You gonna be okay,” he affirmed.

  “Thank you.” I fished out my wallet to give him some money.

  He waved me off. “No. No. You drive safe.” He walked off.

  I wrenched my head out the window. “Thank you again.”

  “No mention.” He crossed the street and entered a four-story brick apartment building.

  After wedging and rocking the truck out from its ice-encrusted spot, I banged a left at Lafayette to head home. I’d already checked on their place in Marblehead. Did I lock their door? “I think I did.” While the radio played Taylor Swift, I retraced my steps when leaving their place. “I don’t want to drive back…to double check. Did I lock…?”

  I sighed, took a right onto Derby, and at the parking garage looped onto Congress, heading back to Marblehead. “It’s only ten or fifteen minutes away.” I passed Pickering Wharf where Dillon and I had our first date at 62 on the Wharf. “We should go back there,” I muttered. We hadn’t been in years. I passed the former Grapevine, another of our date restaurants. It had changed hands. “Lots of new places.”

  A young boy ran across the street.

  I slammed on the brakes. The truck’s rear slid out and into a snowbank. “Son of a…!” I banged the steering wheel. “This is a sign. I need to go home and go to bed.” The Chevy readily broke free from the snow’s grip, and after a check for damage—luckily none—I continued onward to Marblehead to assuage my OCD self that I’d locked their place up.

  When I arrived, I found the house buttoned up securely. I hopped back in the truck and drove home.

  Chapter 50

  Dillon

  The Oak Moss’s maître d' approached our nook in back. “Mr. Strom, I feel obliged to inform you the paparazzi are out front.” The words rolled off his tongue with a French flair.

  Vilhelm’s mouth morphed into an angry slit. He nodded and looked at me. “We shall leave.”

  “I can escort you out the back,” the maître d' said, “through the kitchen.”

  “Where’s my driver?”

  “I shall send for him.” The French-accented man left.

  “Well.” I retrieved my suit coat from its place, hanging off the back of my chair. I’d taken it off somewhere around the second bottle. I checked for my phone. “Shit.” I patted my pants pockets. “I think I left my phone—”

  A scuffle rang out from the lobby. The maître d' shouted something. Next, clicks and flashes of lights filled our little cranny. Vilhelm had his arm around me, leading me out.

  “Is this your boyfriend, Vilhelm?” asked a man hidden behind a large lens.

  “No,” I said. The flashes blinded me as I stepped forward, and I held my arm to my face. “Get out of the way.” The man wouldn’t move, so I nudged him.

  “You can’t touch me!” he shouted.

  Another of his compadres to my left shot more pictures. Cachesh, cachesh, cachesh.

  “What the fuck do you guys want?” I asked.

  “Dillon”—Vilhelm pushed me forward—“let’s go.”

  “Vilhelm, rumor has it you’re gay. How do you think your former teenage fans would have felt knowing that—”

  “Shut up!” I shouted.

  The maître d' had a phone pressed to his ear, presumably calling security, and a hand covering his other. “They can’t just barge in here.”

  “And you are?” asked a woman with a strapped Canon.

  “Me?”

  She clicked my picture.

  “C’mon.” I grabbed Vilhelm’s arm. He tried to pull away, but I led him down the hall where I’d seen the waitress go.

  “Are you two dating?” the woman asked again.

  “Don’t answer!” Vilhelm shouted at me. “Keep mov—”

  A man jumped out in front of us and snapped a picture.

  “Jesus!” My eyes stung from the glare. “Get the fuck out the way!” I shoved him and he fell against a table. Wineglasses fell to the floor.

  “Stop! Get out!” yelled the maître d'. “Everyone out!”

  Our waitress popped out from the kitchen door and motioned us in. We heeded her call.

  “Down there.” She pointed past a stainless-steel rack of plates, cups, and other kitchen accoutrements, and we hustled toward an exit.

  In the alley, trash cans lined brick walls. A blue recycle bin tripped us up as we ran toward the street, where a black Suburban waited. The chauffeur held the rear door open for us.

  We jumped in. He slammed the door behind us, and Vilhelm locked it. We buckled and were sped away.

  When we rounded the bend, near the restaurant’s entrance, the same gaggle of photographers snapped photos and shouted.

  “My God!” My heart raced—more thrilled than scared.

  “Welcome to my life.” Vilhelm removed a nip from an array of strapped-in bottles in front of him. “Bottoms up.” He chugged.

  Chapter 51

  Evan

  Thursday morning, I hopped on the 8:13 train at Beverly Station for a trip, with a car full of commuters, into Boston. Javier insisted I meet Tim and him for lunch, and with Dillon away meeting Vilhelm on business, again, a conversation with someone other than the dog sounded appealing. Madeline’s family consumed much of Pike’s and her time, as she settled back home while the baby remained hospitalized. I didn’t want to interfere.

  The commuter rail stopped in Salem, and any empty seats filled with sourpusses angry they’d be missing out on a day of rare New England sun. The snowstorm was a distant memory.

  Somewhere around Salem State’s south campus, I broke out my Kindle to pick up on the Donna Tartt novel I’d started, but my mind raced with thoughts of Dillon and our taxing relationship. I couldn’t focus. Besides, the book was a monster—getting 25 percent in had taken me days. Plus the boy in the novel reminded me of Mikey, and I worried the kid suffered similar misfortunes to Tartt’s protagonist. Mikey had been texting me about being bullied, and I tried to send him encouragement by telling him how I suffered a similar fate as a kid—the gay kid nicknamed Winery because of the wine-stain birthmark marring my chest. “It gets better,” I’d reply.

  The train zipped by a marshy field.

  Javier had mentioned the possibility of bringing his daughter to our luncheon date. Did Tim worry our relationship was anything beyond a friendship, like Dillon did? The last Javier and I had talked, he wasn’t sure if he’d leave Carrie, their daughter, with a sitter in order to spend the night in Boston, catching up romantically with his husband before returnin
g to Maine.

  “Tickets!” yelled the conductor, a stunning man with a cleft chin. Wavy, dark hair curled at the base of his cap. “Tickets!” The door slid shut behind him. Slam!

  I flinched, nudging elbows with a young kid beside me. “Sorry.” I removed my iPhone and displayed my electronic ticket to the handsome conductor. He nodded at me and moved on. “Ticket, please.”

  Across from me, a woman fumbled through her purse, I glimpsed the conductor’s butt—his nylon slacks stretched perfectly across his glutes. Dillon and I hadn’t had sex since returning from Settlement, and my testosterone medication bolstered my libido.

  Beside me, a boy—a college kid?—caught my gaze, grinned, and nodded in approval of the conductor’s appearance. My face flushed. The kid’s neck craned some as the conductor moved on.

  I smirked nervously and turned my Kindle back on.

  To safely feed my fantasies, I considered launching a gay romance novel, but I didn’t need any more temptation—plus, tapping an erotic cover proved embarrassing. Tartt’s Pulitzer Prize winner sufficed.

  I’d caught the express train, and it sped through stops in Swampscott, Lynn, and the GE plant.

  In Chelsea, cars waited at the train crossing—lights flashing and bells dinging—as we zoomed by. I pressed my head to the Plexiglas window. In a burst, another train sped past on the opposite track, heading north, and startled me. My heart thumped.

  “Scares the shit out of me too,” said the college boy.

  “Yeah. I hate when that happens.” When Dillon and I traveled into town on the commuter rail, he’d take the window seat and would warn me of oncoming trains. “Heads up,” he’d say with a pat to my knee. I missed us.

  The conductor trudged up the aisle, holding on to the backs of the bench seats for balance. “North Station next! Next stop, Boston!”

  When we arrived, I disembarked and plodded my way along the concrete platform that led into the station. The mob slowly shuffled forward.

  Inside, I stopped at one of the Dunkin’ Donuts—there were two right next to each other; not sure why we needed so many—and ordered a coffee and cruller. I had time to kill. Javier wasn’t scheduled to come in until later on the Portland Express. We’d planned on meeting at North Station and walking together over to South Station—where Tim’s New York train would arrive.

  A plump woman with sharp teeth and a stooped neck threw my donut into a bag. As I waited for the coffee, the college kid stepped in line behind me.

  “Hi.” He smirked. “I got time before class, if you do,” he whispered.

  Stunned, I played dumb. “Time?” My palms sweated, and my heart raced. I took the waxy bag from the cashier and paid her through my phone’s app.

  He stepped up and placed his order—an iced mocha. I gathered napkins. I think I’ve been hit on. I was honored that I still had it with someone about ten years my junior.

  “Later?” he asked, assuming I didn’t have the time. “You on Grindr?”

  “Ah, no.” I hurried away but felt his stare linger.

  Commuters rushed past wooden benches and kiosks. They checked cell phones and sped around one another like an Alvin Ailey dance routine. I whisked the flirtation away. “I need a break on the hormone medication,” I muttered. Before my gonads got me in trouble.

  Meanwhile, the hustle and bustle of nine-to-five made me thankful for self-employment. I enjoyed the flexibility of taking a Thursday off to meet a friend, despite having to work on billing until midnight or balancing the budget on the weekend to make up the time.

  Rocket Marketing had pissed off a couple of their clients with a price increase. Because of it, we acquired more work. That plus Dillon’s income from NEFO more than paid the bills. In fact, we talked about rehiring Madeline in the fall, considering her aptitude and now the baby’s health.

  I munched on my cruller, a vice I hadn’t allowed myself in a while. After eating half, I placed the remainder in the bag and threw it away. I’d lost ten pounds since the whole fiasco in Settlement. I could see my abs again. With coffee in hand, I racked steps on my new Fitbit.

  For late March, anything north of 50 degrees in Boston warranted time spent outdoors. I killed an hour trekking through the North End—smelling baked bread and other Italian delights in preparation for lunch and dinner crowds. I waltzed by the Old North Church. Through wrought-iron gates, I admired bricked walkways and statues in the garden.

  Afterward, I stopped in a gift shop and bought matching T-shirts—Boston Strong—for Dillon and me to wear jogging.

  I checked my Fitbit—over 8,000 steps. “Nice.”

  An hour later back at the station, Javier joined me, and I added another mile or so to my workout as we meandered through the Financial District toward South Station.

  “I didn’t want to pull Carrie out of school,” he said near the pregnant building—called such because of its maternal stretch at its midsection. He pulled out his phone and showed me a picture. A cute towhead with curly hair held outstretched arms around Javier and Tim.

  “She’s three, right?” I handed his phone back to him.

  “Uh-huh. We have a good nursery school on the island. She loves it there. She’s brilliant, starting to read. She must get it from Tim.”

  “He’s a good influence. I’m sure you are too.”

  “I try. In my own way.”

  “You’re humble.” I pressed the Crosswalk button.

  “You’re kind.”

  The Walk sign illuminated, and we crossed Surface.

  Inside South Station, we found Tim waiting at a café table reading a book. He beamed when Javier approached him. They embraced, and Javier introduced me. Tim wore a sharp pair of jeans and a Carolyn Sohier leather jacket. The pictures in People magazine didn’t do him justice. He wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, but rather had down-to-earth handsome features that contrasted nicely with Javier’s classic good looks.

  “Finally,” Tim said, “I get to meet the imaginary Snuffleupagus.” He shook my hand. “I was beginning to think you were Javier’s imaginary friend.”

  “I’m real…flesh and blood.”

  “Well, it’s nice to finally meet you,” Tim said. “C’mon, let’s get lunch and chitchat. Javier tells me you’re a reader.” He placed his arm around me.

  “I am.”

  “And that you like Carolyn Sohier,” he added.

  “I do. Dillon…my husband…and I saw her in concert a few years ago.” Any nerves I had about Tim suspecting Jav and I were more than friends faded.

  Javier held the door open, and we headed outside.

  “Thank you, darling,” Tim said and pinched his ass.

  “Tim!” Javier smiled approvingly and shook his head at me. “He’s embarrassing.”

  “You guys are cute together.” I followed the couple, who were now holding hands.

  “So,” Tim said, “you saw Carolyn a few years ago…that would’ve been the Mid-Atlantic Tour. Was it at the Opera House?”

  “Yes.”

  “We played there and at a few other limited engagements along the East Coast. She doesn’t like to tour much, but she also doesn’t like to let her fans down.”

  “She was wonderful.”

  “So, boys,” Javier said, stopping at by the entrance to the Red Line. “I’m starved. What are we eating?”

  “Well,” Tim said, “what do our palates fancy?”

  “I’m not picky,” I said.

  “Should we take the T?” Javier asked.

  Tim shrugged. “I’ve been on a train all morning. I’d rather walk if that’s good with you two.”

  “Sure.” I didn’t mind racking up more steps on my Fitbit. We crossed Atlantic and made plans to find something in the Seaport.

  About a mile later, we neared the World Trade Center. Salvatore’s, across the way, was a full-service Italian restaurant that Dillon and I frequented.

  “Pizza?” Javier asked.

  “He always wants pizza,” Tim said to me. He fumbled throug
h his briefcase for a ringing phone.

  Javier pulled Tim’s luggage and carried a knapsack on his back that he’d brought from Maine. “Did I tell you we’re staying in Salem?” he said to me.

  “No, you hadn’t,” I said. “What about your romantic interlude in Boston?”

  Tim answered his phone. “Hey, Carolyn.”

  My attention diverted to Tim’s conversation. “Is he talking to Carolyn Sohier?”

  “Probably. They talk, like, ten times a day.”

  After sharing a plate of decadent meatballs, we moved on to salads. Tim informed me he grew up on the North Shore—hence their trip to Salem—and that he was also a Salem State alum.

  “I went to Salem State too! I thought you were from New York.”

  “We met in New York,” Tim said, “but I was born and raised in Peabody. I moved to New York years ago—met Jav and Carolyn, and then off to Maine, which is where we now live.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  During our meal, the couple exchanged innocent elbow touches, warm smiles, and shared food from each other’s plate. I longed for Dillon and remembered when he would steal food off my plate jokingly. “You two remind me of Dillon and me, when we first met.”

  Javier pulled away from Tim. “We didn’t mean to—”

  “No, no. Don’t stop. It’s nice to see.” I chuckled. “Dill used to play footsie with me under the table. He doesn’t do that anymore.” I stared vacantly out the window. “It’s the simple things that matter.”

  Tim broke me from my reverie. “If it’s any consolation, we have our troubles too,” he said. “Everyone does.” He glanced at Javier lovingly. “I’ve been traveling. There’s truth to the proverbial statement about absence and love. But we shouldn’t need that to remind us of what’s important.”

  “Indeed,” I said.

  After lunch, we sauntered outside to enjoy the rare March sunshine.

  We caught a pre-rush-hour train with all stops to Rockport. It was much less crowded than the morning express. Interestingly enough, the college kid, from earlier, sat in our car and read from his anatomy textbook.