“Man, I got cramps.” He pressed a hand to his belly. “My internal clock has been off-kilter all week.”
“We’ll be home in about fifteen minutes or so.”
“If you really want to know, Adam says Javier hit on his boyfriend in California. I just don’t trust him.”
“So that’s it.” I turned the wipers back to auto. “Well, I don’t really trust Adam. Since when has he been so truthful to you?”
Dillon winced again.
I caught a whiff of something foul. “Did you fart?” I rolled all four windows down, and cool rain spit in.
“Evan, it’s raining!” He rolled his window back up. “Oh no! I’m prairie-dogging.”
“Jesus.” I rolled up the back windows, and the car shimmied a bit from the offset in aerodynamics. I put mine up. “Do you want me to stop at the gas station?”
“No, I think I can…yeah, stop at this 7-Eleven.” He pointed over the dash.
“Good Lord. Well, we need milk for cereal in the morning, anyway.”
Inside the store, Dillon left a trail of fumes in his wake as he shuffled ahead, like Charlie Chaplin in a silent film, toward the bathroom.
I banged a right down the cookie aisle—a detour from a direct route to the milk section, closer to the bathrooms—to avoid any association with my farting husband.
Two female cashiers chatted up front. “I think that was Vilhelm Strom’s boyfriend.”
I froze.
“What?” said one.
“The guy that just went into the bathroom….”
“He looks like him, no?”
I peered through boxes of overpriced Cap’n Crunch. At the checkout, one of the girls held up a newspaper.
The other one took it from her. “Oh my God. You think? He’s supposed to be from Boston. I heard they met on the set of that movie they made in Salem.”
A wave of nausea shot through my stomach. I snuck around the back of the store, by refrigerators of bottled water and soda. At the ice machine, I meandered up the aisle that ended with magazines and newspapers. I gasped at what I saw.
Dillon paged through Star Weekly while I drove like a speed demon down Route 128. “I can’t believe this rubbish.”
A picture of Dillon and Vilhelm clicking glasses of red wine and sitting awkwardly close at a table, looking dreamily at each other, was smeared on the cover. A smaller picture, similar to the one texted to me in Settlement, of them “caught sleeping together” appeared at the bottom.
“Are you guys fucking or what?” I pushed the SUV to 90 miles per hour.
“Oh, God.” Dillon turned a page and held the magazine up to the light for a better view of a photo of his blurred-out ass in a red union suit and a separate photo of Adam—or someone like him—in a red-and-black-checked flannel. Allegations of “a gay ménage” abounded in the article.
A car beside us beeped as I drifted into the wrong lane.
“Jesus, Evan. Watch—”
“Jesus, Evan? Jesus, Dillon!”
“This is all bullshit. You don’t believe it, do you?”
I zoomed past a large sedan. “I don’t know what to believe.”
Home in bed, we lay with our backs to each other and with the lights out. We were both wide awake, but I breathed slowly and steadily to appear as if I’d nodded off.
After a few minutes, the bed trembled. Dillon moaned softly. Then, the mattress quaked and he orgasmed with a grunt, shifted back on his side, and soon thereafter snored.
Chapter 54
Dillon
The next morning our arguing continued, flanked by persistent phone calls from old clients and potential new ones wanting in on my newfound Hollywood insight. Evan slammed the phone down on the kitchen island.
“What does Candlepin Lanes want?” I asked, having recognized the number on the caller ID when he’d picked it up.
Evan had no intention of easing up on the argument interrupted by our former client’s call. “You expect me to believe you were only talking business.” Evan flung the newspaper he’d held down beside the phone. Its newsprint was smudged from constant perusal, as if examining it deeper would lead him to greater insight. “You’re about to kiss!” he yelled, hands extended in skepticism.
“We were not about to kiss! I told you. It looks that way because of the lighting.” In the photo, the restaurant’s candle lit our faces like we were in a scene from Endless Love.
“The lighting,” Evan harrumphed and opened the fridge.
The phone rang.
“Jesus Christ!” he yelled, as if an abrasive finger scraped across a chalkboard. “Is the phone going to ever stop?” He picked up the cordless before I could. “Conant Marketing. This is Evan,” he answered cheerily. He hip-checked the refrigerator door closed in his sexy-as-fuck corduroys. The can of seltzer he’d removed hissed softly with an escape of gas. His dimples needed kissing. I longed to make love to him and show him who really mattered.
“Why of course,” he said to the caller, whose number I hadn’t caught. “We’ll add you to the list.” He carried on about our firm’s work in retail, while I sported an uncomfortable stir in my jeans. Evan jotted down the company’s name onto our growing roster. He looked so handsome with blond tufts of hair beneath his tipped-backward baseball cap and a canary yellow windbreaker to protect him from the bite in the air on his impending walk with Deet. His flushed face was grooved with smile lines, and his tongue wet his lips in apt concentration as he listened to the caller’s inquiry. My erection hardened more.
Deet sauntered in and lapped water from his bowl.
Evan hung up. “The Northshore Mall wants to—”
I attacked like a tiger without a meal in weeks.
Deet scampered, as if knowing this wasn’t the right time to plead for a march around the lake.
The hard cement of our dispute cracked in a much-anticipated earthquake, and we fell through its rubble, landing against the island. I ripped Evan’s coat open with a ffft-ffft-ffft to its buttons. He tugged at my sweatshirt, pulling it off over my head. I swept the Star Weekly and the telephone off the island. A crash and flutter mixed with our groans as the objects crashed to the floor. I undid Evan’s pants. He was already hard too.
We didn’t bother to fully undress. He hopped atop the granite and I mounted him with his legs on my shoulders and his ankle-strapped pants banding my neck. In little time, we came with a forced fury—me inside him, him creaming into a fisted palm and streaking an L.L. Bean T-shirt with his gonads’ guts. Afterward, in a tender growl, I rose, leaning over him. My own pants locked my feet, and I banged my head into the pendant lights above. Startled, I winced, and Evan laughed.
The phone rang.
We laughed louder and kissed.
Two weeks after my Star Weekly debut, the publicity dwindled. Another celebrity’s folly took precedence in the headlines. Plus, my original story ran below another claiming Big Foot was preparing a run for president in the next election. Evan found it hard to remain mad at me, not only on the merits of the story, but because business boomed further. Customers welcomed my insider connections.
Evan clicked a button on the new phone set. Gone was the annoying chime, replaced with a new state-of-the-art console. “Conant Marketing. This is Evan.”
I’d been sitting in the office/living area watching him field calls. Deet panted by my side wanting a run outdoors.
“Oh, yes,” Evan said, “your social media ads are up and running…what’s that? Well, you’re very welcome. We’ll send you a spreadsheet of the results.” He tapped a pencil on the desk. “No problem. No, thank you.” He hung up and had spun his chair around when the phone rang again. He clicked a button on his headset. “Conant Marketing. This is…oh hi, Shelley!” He grinned. “Did you get my email?” He flipped back to the computer, typed, and detailed to her something about an invoice and payment arrangement.
Deet put his paw on my knee.
“I know, boy. Just a few more minutes.”
&nbs
p; “I’ll send it out right now.” Evan held the headset’s mic. “Thank you. Bye now.” He sighed and removed the earpiece and pushed back his chair. “This is crazy. It’s either feast or famine.”
“I’ll take the feast.” I stood. Deet rose to all fours.
From caterers to hoteliers, equipment-rental facilities to security firms, they all wanted part of New England’s burgeoning movie business, and Conant Marketing facilitated the connections. Money poured in. I’d never imagined the extent of the products and services required to make a film. Even our old customer the Blow Brothers, and their portable toilets, were back in our roster. Since they’d left us, they’d expanded into trailer rentals equipped with high-end restrooms. I clinched a deal with Minnie Tonka to contract with them.
Evan placed papers into his briefcase.
“Where you going?” I asked.
“Off to a meeting.”
“A meeting? With who?”
He zipped his attaché. “I told you.”
“I can’t keep track.”
“I’m meeting with a creative agency in Beverly.”
“Oh, yeah.” I folded my arms across my chest and admired Evan’s fitter physique as he bent to pick up more paperwork.
“Someone’s got to handle all this work you’re bringing in.” He rose and faced me. “Are you staring at my ass?” He looked down at his buttocks.
“Me? Never.” I winked. “So this person or persons you’re hiring…” I pulled him in, and we joined buckle-to-buckle. “Someone to answer the phones?”
“No, I can handle that. But Jerry’s booked solid. We need more of him to handle the digital media.”
We desperately needed people experienced with ad campaigns, copywriting, and graphic design. We outsourced most work to Jerry, a consultant we trusted in Boston.
“This firm in Beverly has freelancers from all over. It’s the gig economy, stupid.”
“Are you calling me stupid?”
He kissed me on the tip of the nose. “No. But your sexiness is making me lose my senses.”
“Really?” I kissed him softly on the neck. The phone rang again. I sighed, head lolling backward.
“It’s already set for voice mail. I’ll get it later.”
“Oh, yeah.” I hitched an eyebrow and reined him closer.
“It’s nothing that can’t wait.”
I moaned and kissed him on the lips. His mouth tasted of peppermint tea.
“Unfortunately,” he said, “we don’t have time.” He looked at an alert on his Fitbit.
“Not even just a little quickie?”
“Dillon….”
I brushed my lips along his neck, knowing it drove him crazy. His hormone treatments and our recent forgive-and-forget had improved our sexy time.
He glanced at the wall clock. “Shit.” He bolted for the door. “I can’t be late.” He grabbed his keys off the hook in the hallway.
“Take the Audi!” I shouted.
“Why?” His head popped out at the room’s entrance.
“I’m taking Deet to the park.”
“Fine. Just be careful with New Betsy.” He exchanged keys with a clack.
“Yes, sir.”
“All right, I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
“Wait a minute.” I slid over to the foyer—socks on hardwood. “Kiss?”
He pecked me on the cheek and I slapped his ass. “Go get ’em.”
He ran down the steps.
“Drive safe!”
I laced up my sneakers, and Deet practically dragged me out the front door. I opened the SUV’s back and he jumped inside.
The drive through Beverly didn’t take long. The AC/DC compilation cheered me on, but by the time I crossed over the Kernwood Bridge, traffic had backed up in Salem. I took a left to cut behind Greenlawn Cemetery to avoid congestion.
Buds had bloomed. The tranquility of the area didn’t match with “Highway to Hell” blasting from the radio, so I shut it off. Old homes lined the road, and I slowed down when I came upon a construction site near Dearborn.
“Whoa, Deet. Check this out.” The Old Farm Road Victorian had been in disarray for decades. The last time I’d driven past it, the porch sagged and hip-high weeds choked the front yard and entrance. Years ago, a large oak lost a limb that crashed through the garage’s roof. The demise of the historical home had made the papers.
Now the yard was clear, the porch repaired, and the barn was stripped to its studs in renovation. Freshly painted and restored, the house looked new, yet its historic charm remained. “Nice.”
On the wraparound porch, a man on a ladder cleaned a stained-glass window, and another painted decorative molding.
The phone rang and broke me from my trance. Vilhelm’s name and number flashed across the computer dash.
“Hi, Matchmaker,” he said when I answered.
“Matchmaker?”
“You busy?”
I started driving again. “I’m taking the dog to the park. What’s up?”
“I thought you’d want to know about Debbie McCandless from Biloxi.” I’d coordinated a lunch meeting at Rowes Wharf a few weeks back and introduced her to Patty.
“What about her?” I stopped to let a woman, pushing a stroller, cross Dearborn. She waved a thank-you.
“Your introduction went swimmingly well,” Vilhelm said.
“Did they sign a deal?” In my mind, I upgraded my Audi to a Mercedes S-Class.
“I’m not sure. But there’s something better…well, for them….”
“Huh? What?”
“They’re dating.” Vilhelm chuckled.
“Patty and Debbie? I didn’t know Debbie was a lesbian. Hold on. I didn’t know Patty was….” I parked parallel to the playground that is along the North River. “Patty’s transgender.”
“So?”
“Well, I mean…” While I was completely receptive to the T in LGBTQ, it was a little foreign to me. “She was born a guy, but wanted to be a woman. Well, not as if she had a choice. She is a woman.”
Vilhelm tsked. “Essentially she always has been. Dill, even I know a thing or two about sexuality versus gender. They’re not the same thing.”
I rolled my eyes. “And this is coming from an asexual.”
“Confused.”
“Oh, now we’re confused. No longer asexual?” With the car in Park, I took my foot off the brake.
Deet whimpered in the backseat and panted in the rearview mirror.
“Well,” Vilhelm said, “we’re going to get together.”
“When?”
“I’m coming out—”
“Of the closet?” I snickered in beating him to the punch.
“Ha. Ha. No, I’m coming to Boston in a few weeks. Darlene isn’t doing well.”
“Oh.” Not that I cared.
“Perhaps we can get together.”
“With Darlene?” I sat upright.
“You and I.”
“Um, yeah…sure.” I lowered the window some. Things with Evan had smoothed over. I hated to risk ruining a good thing. “Let me look at my schedule. Business is booming.”
“Well, let me know.”
We said our goodbyes and hung up.
Across the way, with views of the North River, a park neither Deet nor I had been to invited us. Deet’s tail wagged vigorously along the back of my seat. “Okay, boy. You want to check it out?”
Chapter 55
Evan
On a Saturday in Salem, Dillon and I toured the Peabody Essex Museum—aptly known as the PEM. We hadn’t been in some time, and while the current exhibit—a fashion designer’s hat collection—didn’t interest us, we strolled the main halls and toured the Chinese house. Years ago, the PEM had acquired an eighteenth-century home from China, and neither Dillon nor I had experienced it.
“Amazing,” Dillon said, tossing his metal admittance button into the bucket upon exit.
I tossed mine in too. “It’s much nicer than I’d expected.” I wanted our
first real date since the paparazzi explosion to be a good one—help foster that better spirit forming between us.
We traversed alongside the gardens and through a construction zone, as the museum was in the process of expanding. We hooked onto Charter Street and passed a dilapidated house, with mold growing along its asbestos shingles. Much of the home’s brick steps had crumbled.
“What a shame,” I said. We crossed the street to avoid a bicyclist from a pizza delivery shop, an insulated bag strapped to the bike’s rear.
“Speaking of old houses,” Dillon said, dressed in his new loafers, jeans, and a blue sweater, “there’s a gorgeous renovation off Dearborn. You should see it.”
“Oh, yeah? Which one?”
“Remember the old Victorian with the big yard, three-car detached garage…?”
“That one! The one with trees growing out from the roof? What a disaster.”
“Well, you should see what they’ve done to it.”
My stomach rumbled, reminding me of our hunt for a restaurant. “That place must be a money pit. And on pits, my stomach’s growling.”
“You weren’t able to get a hold of 62?”
Sixty-Two on the Wharf had been the location of our first date, many years ago, and I thought with our reconnection, of sorts, it would be good spot to dine. “They didn’t pick up. We should stop by, anyway. They might be able to squeeze us in.”
Dillon shrugged and followed me as I spun around, heading for Pickering Wharf.
We backtracked by the museum and through the witches’ burial site.
“Pressed to death?” I read one of the markers. “Good Lord.”
“There are better ways to go.”
“My fear of car crashes is nothing in comparison.”
“I’ll say.” Dillon shoved his hands in his pockets, and I followed him down a one-way to Derby Street.
A short while later, we arrived at Pickering Wharf. Boats teetered in the harbor, and tourists shopped in gift shops. We cut through a hotel parking lot.
“They’re closed?” I pressed my hands on 62’s front window, shielding the setting sun from my view, and peeked in. Tables lined the walls—some dressed in linen and some bare.
Building Us: A Gay Romantic Comedy and Adventure (Marketing Beef Gay Romance Book 2) Page 21
