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

by Rick Bettencourt

  Tim, Javier, and I chatted about nothing and everything at the same time.

  Somewhere around Lynn, a train on the opposite track heading into Boston rounded the bend.

  “Incoming,” Javier said to Tim and placed a warning hand on his knee.

  The college kid swept a stare my way. My heart ached for Dillon.

  Chapter 52

  Dillon

  Traffic in LA sucked on any day, but a Friday threw it over the edge. I fumed. I considered ditching the BMW and traveling by foot, but I’d probably get arrested, not for leaving a vehicle on the side of the road, but for walking in LA.

  An hour later, I returned the BMW to the car rental.

  Luckily my TSA precheck clearance allowed me to zip through security, and I boarded the nonstop to Boston.

  While waiting for the remaining passengers to board, I took advantage of first class’s free cocktails and sank back a Scotch. My nerves settled some. I didn’t do well with takeoffs and landings. Typically, Evan held my hand during them. This time as the 777 rumbled down the runway, I muddled through by clutching the armrest.

  Once airborne, I relaxed my white-knuckled grip. When we leveled off, I lounged my seat back and ordered another drink from the cheery steward—an effeminate man of Philippine or Taiwanese origin.

  I was grateful to be returning home. I hadn’t seen Evan and Deet in more than a week and longed for familial routines. Even the banality of grocery shopping, tending to the yard, and reviewing finances appeared glorious.

  “Good afternoon, folks,” the captain spoke over the speakers. “First, I’d like to welcome everyone—”

  I plugged in my earbuds, and Maroon 5 played. I loosened my necktie—a green-striped silk one that Evan gave me for Christmas a few years ago. “It matches your eyes,” he’d said, tugging on it after we made love with my wearing it and nothing else. I thought back fondly on the time and traced the edges of the tie where he’d thumbed. I sighed and closed my eyes. Adam Levine serenaded me about a phone booth. I changed the song. Adele. No, that reminded me of Ev. Pretenders. No! After several clicks through my playlist, I settled on Mozart—unsure how that had landed on my phone—and napped.

  I awoke to the jet rumbling. When I removed my earbuds from the Carolyn Sohier song now playing, the captain informed us of “approaching weather” and called for us to fasten our seat belts.

  “It’s going to be a bumpy ride,” said the woman beside me.

  I grinned.

  She wore her blonde hair up, and sprigs stuck out from a golden barrette at her neck. She peered out the window. “It looks ominous.”

  “Great.” I clutched the armrest as the plane shook.

  “Travel much?” she asked.

  “Unfortunately, yes. Lately.”

  “What do you do?” She crossed her legs, smoothed out the fold of her black skirt, and rested a hand on her exposed knee.

  “I run a marketing company in Boston.” I shut my eyes when the plane pitched some.

  “Really. What brought you to California?”

  “One of my clients is the New England Film Office.”

  “Oh, NEFO,” she said. “They’re one of the first regional film offices in the country. I’m a casting agent for Biloxi.” A small studio out of Anaheim.

  I hitched an eyebrow in interest of a new deal. “Really.” I removed a business card from my wallet and handed it to her. I informed her of Patty’s influence in bringing the six New England states together to form NEFO. “It’s never been done. She pulled together differing agencies in a remarkable way.”

  “She should run for office.” The woman tapped my card to her tray.

  “She should.” My salesman hat donned its rightful place, having a casting agent near. “What brings you to Boston?”

  “Family. My daughter is a lawyer at one of those big firms in town—Mints and…Mints and Kreploch…I can never remember the name of it. All I know, the marque doesn’t read her name. Yet.”

  I chuckled. “While you’re visiting, you should consider the opportunities New England offers for Biloxi. We’ve got extraordinary locations to film…from mountains to seascapes. We’ve got the big cities and quaint small towns.”

  “True.”

  “We recently filmed a period piece called Tapped in New England, about a maple-syrup farmer—”

  “Oh, the new Vilhelm Strom picture. I heard about that.”

  The steward arrived with bottled water and glasses of ice, and we took them.

  I unscrewed my cap. Work never ended. “NEFO understands what it takes to get a picture up and running—anything from dramas set in the 1600s to modern-day thrillers.”

  She poured her water over her ice. “I’m casting for Mega Troopers 2. You know those sequels. America loves them.”

  “Sequels are the big thing.” I hadn’t heard of the first Mega Troopers, let alone another.

  “You’d make a great police officer. Nice sharp looks.” She studied my face. “Have you considered acting?”

  “Well….” I didn’t want mention the debut of my derrière in TiNE as we know called it. “I’m not really an actor.”

  She tapped my business card with a high-polished fingernail. “Dillon Deiss. I’ve heard of you!”

  “You have?” Visions of my butt plastered on postproduction reels and distributed throughout Hollywood for insiders to laugh at consumed my thoughts.

  “Minnie Tonka,” the woman said, “she’s a good friend of mine. Her Untitled Bar Harbor Project as she’s calling it…she credits it to you.”

  “Minnie? She does?” The squirrelly old lady I’d met one afternoon in Fresno had agreed to set her picture in Maine after a short pitch I gave on New England’s weather and a chat on Acadia’s beauty.

  “She says you were very helpful and informative about New England’s seasonality, offerings, etc.”

  “She did? I mean, I’m glad.” The plane rumbled. The woman must’ve noticed my fear and tapped my hand, which was still clutching the armrest.

  “The turbulence will pass soon.”

  I nodded, and as the plane settled, I relaxed. “We should meet for lunch. I can get Patty to join us.”

  “I’d enjoy that, Dillon.” She opened her purse, handed me her card, and tucked mine away.

  The overheard speaker hissed. “Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the bumpy ride. We’re leveling off soon and should be out of this shortly.”

  The casting agent, Debbie McCandless as her card read, dove into a novel.

  I returned to my earbuds. AC/DC rocked on as the plane passed over the Grand Canyon. Fondly, I remembered Ev and me hiking red-rock trails in Arizona and couldn’t wait to wrap my arms around him again.

  Chapter 53

  Evan

  American Airlines’ flight 722 was scheduled to land at 10:13 p.m. While Dillon’s internal clock would be on West Coast time, mine craved pajamas and reading in bed. But another part of me desired my husband, so I arrived at Logan at little early to surprise him.

  I waited by the escalator that led down to Luggage, figuring I’d catch him coming out of the hallway by security. Normally we met at Passenger Pickup, but I didn’t like the cat-and-mouse game of driving around to get there at the right time with cops yelling to not idle.

  From my back pocket, I took out the sign I’d made on notebook paper:

  Welcome home, Dillon Deiss!

  Hearts and arrows adorned its corners, and I’d sketched a bottle of wine with two glasses clicking on the bottom. I’d surprised myself with my fancy artwork.

  A group of oncoming passengers shuffled down the hall. On my tiptoes, I peeked over suntanned faces and Hawaiian-shirt couples but didn’t see Dillon. A young blonde walked by me and chuckled at my sign. Her daughter, presumably, eyed me suspiciously.

  Embarrassed, I folded the paper back up and figured I’d wait until I saw him to flash it.

  More people emerged—still no Dillon. I checked my watch—10:25. Perhaps he was stuck in back a
nd was unable to land a first-class ticket.

  On tiptoes again, I searched. A flop of brown hair, like Dill’s, hid behind a fat woman with rosy cheeks, but when she moved, the man I’d clocked looked more like John Krasinki than my husband. Maybe it is John Krasinki. After all, it’s an LA… The man sauntered near.

  “No.” My foot bumped into the backpack I’d left on the floor. In it I’d packed water and protein bars for us, in case Dillon was hungry, and my Kindle, in case of a flight delay. Donna Tartt waited.

  The crowd thinned. I checked my watch again, picked up my backpack, and my phone vibrated in the front pouch. I took it out.

  “Where are you?” Dillon asked.

  “Where are you?”

  “I got my luggage I’m out front at Passenger Pickup.”

  “How? I saw the entire…are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” He huffed. “Why would I not be sure about where I am? I’ve been out front for twenty minutes trying to call you.” Dillon always exaggerated time.

  “I’m at the gate.”

  “The gate? In the parking lot?”

  “No! Upstairs…hold on.” I hung up, my surprise foiled.

  “Excuse me!” A woman tried to get by. I had inadvertently blocked entry to the baggage-claim escalator. I scooted my knapsack up my shoulder and shoved my cell into my back pocket.

  I veered into someone else. “Sorry.” I stepped aside.

  “Watch it, buddy.” The man moved around me.

  I huffed, crumpled my silly sign, and threw in the trash receptacle I’d been backed into. In an opening from a new throng of arrivals, I stepped onto the escalator. As it descended, I strained to see the doors leading out to Passenger Pickup for a glimpse of Dillon. At the bottom of the escalator, toted luggage hummed over the grated landing. I aimed for the closest exit.

  A cold drizzle flew in my face, and my phone startled me with a vibration against my butt. “Where are you now? I’m outside,” I answered.

  “I’m upstairs. You said you were at the—”

  “Well, not now!” I huffed.

  “Hold on. Meet me at Carousel Twelve. That’s where my luggage came in.”

  “Twelve?”

  “Yes, the baggage claims are numbered.” His irritation grew and fueled mine.

  A hallway led to the MBTA shuttle. “I’m by a sign that leads to the T.” They’d done the airport over considerably since my last visit. I marched along angrily.

  “Meet. Me. At. Carousel. Twelve.”

  “O.K. You. Don’t. Have. To. Get. Huffy!” My knapsack slipped off my shoulder and I whisked it back up.

  “I’m not getting huffy. I don’t understand why…I texted you that my plane landed early.”

  Shit. “Well, I didn’t read it.”

  “No, because you probably had your phone in your man-purse or something.”

  “I don’t own a man-purse.” I approached Carousel Four. “What, do you think I’m Adam or something?”

  He sighed. “Meet me by Carousel Twelve.”

  By the time I found the number, I’d calmed some, and a pang of guilt for being a dick to him fell over me.

  By a merry-go-round of look-alike luggage, he stood with a bend to his knee. His black suitcase—with the pink pom-pom I’d put on it for ease of identification—was beside him. He took my breath away. Still. After all these years.

  Dillon lifted his palms up in a come-get-me-here-I-am manner.

  “Hi.” I couldn’t help but smile and wished I hadn’t trashed my welcome sign.

  We embraced, careful not to show too much affection in public and saved a kiss for the privacy of the car. Even in liberal Massachusetts, one has to be cautious.

  “You didn’t write down the parking spot number?” Dillon dragged his suitcase, with an annoying rumble, along the parking-garage floor. We’d already tried the fifth floor.

  Frantically I clicked the panic button on the Ford’s key fob. “I know it’s on this floor. I recognize the lobster-claw sign.”

  “You’re supposed to jot where you parked down or take a pic—”

  “I know what I’m supposed to do, Dillon! I just forgot. Sue me.” A car horn blared. I felt ashamed for treating him poorly again, I turned around to apologize, but he’d already gone toward the Explorer’s flashing lights. “I’m sorry,” I muttered, overpowered by the blasting alarm. I disarmed it.

  In the car, with luggage away, Dillon buckled in. “No Deet? Why didn’t you bring the dog?”

  “What?” I started the car. “You’d rather the dog than me?”

  “No,” he said, drawing out the vowel for effect. “I’m not saying that. It’s just that you usually pick me up with the dog…at Passenger Pickup.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s been a long flight and trying trip. I’m exhausted.”

  I backed out of the spot. “I’m sorry to disappoint you by not bringing a slobbering canine.” Immediately I felt guilty for characterizing Deet as such in my anger.

  Dillon reached over and tenderly kissed me on the cheek. “I’m not disappointed, silly.” He placed a hand on my thigh. “I missed you.”

  I stopped the car at the end of the row and clutched his hand. “I missed you too.” The tears flowed—the tossed welcome sign, loneliness with him traveling, me acting like a crab when all I wanted to do was love him, and the tension between us. It all hit me.

  “Hey, hey…don’t cry.” He kissed a falling tear and snickered. “Mh, salty.”

  I laughed and kissed him hard on the mouth. I leaned back to view my man, the one I’d married and longed for. “I. Love. You.”

  He beamed. “Ditto.”

  We drove out of the parking garage and out onto the main road.

  “How’s New Betsy?” he asked. We’d named the Explorer after the stolen one—not very creatively, but it stuck.

  “She’s great.” I shoved the napkin he’d handed me in my coat pocket, crying done. I told him how Steven, the next-door neighbor, drove me to Salem Hospital during the blizzard, which now had melted.

  “Oh, and Mad and Pike’s baby…?”

  “The baby…Joey they named him…is doing well, but he’ll probably be in the hospital for a good month. Madeline’s home…Tuesday, I think it was. But they’re exhausted from traveling back and forth to the hospital. Spending most of their time there.”

  “I can imagine. It must be hard.” He pointed to the North 1A sign. “Don’t forget—”

  “I know.” We used to exit from the right-hand lane, but it had been reversed years back. The mishmash of new signage always screwed me up, like the last time I picked him up and we wound up in Boston by mistake.

  In silence, we passed the Delta hangar near the airport’s exit.

  “I was just saying…not criticizing,” Dillon said. “So what else did you do while I was gone?”

  “Worked. We got another gig from the Hawthorne.”

  “Nice. Rocket continuing to screw up their contracts?”

  “Yup.”

  “Can we handle the work?”

  “It’s a small email campaign.” I babbled on, telling Dillon how I’d farmed it out to the one consultant we’d been using. Then, after a quick recap of the financial state of the business, and a stop at a red light in Revere, I disclosed my day with Tim and Javier. “I met Javier’s husband yesterday.”

  Dillon hesitated before speaking. “Oh?”

  The light changed and we moved forward. “Yeah. He’s a nice guy…his husband. You’d like him.”

  The automatic wipers swept a misty window.

  “Yeah,” I added. “He’s Carolyn Sohier’s assist—”

  “I know. You told me.”

  “They have a cute little girl. Three years old.”

  The wipers flapped again and stopped.

  “They’re thinking of adopting another kid, from China or something.”

  “Lovely. Tim must make good money being a celebrity’s assistant.”

  I shrugged. “I
imagine so. I don’t know, really. I didn’t ask.”

  “That would be rude,” Dillon said.

  “Look, I know you don’t like Javier….”

  “Javier stays at home and raises the kid?”

  “He does his gigs to pitch in. You know that.”

  “Right. Traveling on film sets.” Dillon’s knee bounced. “It must be nice being cared for.”

  “I wouldn’t say….” I dropped it.

  “Is he cockwhipped?”

  “Who? Javier?” I faced Dillon as he stared out the side window.

  The rain picked up, and I switched the wipers on low. Drop it, Evan. It’s not worth arguing over.

  “It’s not that I don’t like the kid. I just find him untrustworthy.”

  This was a new one. “Untrustworthy? What do you mean?”

  “Forget it.” He slid his hands across his thighs. “I’m home. I’m happy to be here. I’m tired of traveling.”

  “No, why do you think he’s not trustworthy? I want to know. You don’t say something like that and drop it.” I stopped at an intersection.

  He scratched an eyebrow. “Adam says—”

  “Oh Adam!” I rolled my eyes.

  “Look, you asked.”

  “Okay, what does Adam, the patron saint of trust, have to say about Javier?”

  “I’m not trying to pick a fight, I just—”

  “What does he say?” The light flashed green and I gunned the engine. “Adam, the Mother Teresa of relationships.”

  Dillon huffed. “It’s my belief, based on what I’ve heard from Adam, that there’s more to these traveling gigs that Javier goes on.”

  Another light, and I slammed on the brakes. The ABS crunched.

  Dillon braced. “God, Evan! Be careful.”

  “It’s a red light.”

  “I can see that, but you don’t have to send me through the friggin’ windshield.”

  The wipers beat steadily. “So what do you suspect Javier does on these…traveling side jobs?”

  “Men.”

  For the next couple of miles, we didn’t say much. Dillon fidgeted in his seat some and winced.

  I eyed him suspiciously.