Taking You Home

by Cooper Davis

  That thought causes me to toss back the rest of the martini, and I sink onto the Daniels’ sofa while I wait for everyone else to appear in the living room. Late afternoon sunlight tracks across their carpeting and I squint at the patterns of light and shadow. I’m a little tipsy, I gather, from the way those patterns fascinate me, but I don’t think I’m dangerous quite yet.

  In fact, in the giddy haze of olives and tinkling glass, I’ve already come to think of my conversation with Max’s dad as the Drawing Room Contretemps. Definitely fodder from Aunt Edna’s historical romance novels. She used to leave them on the back of the toilet, and I’d read them for a good laugh.

  I’m not laughing now, although I have managed to amuse myself by redefining what happened between Phillip and me. I’ve recast myself as the naughty, ne’er do well aristocrat, the one who gambled his fortune away and now just trades on his tarnished reputation. That’s me in this affair. And Max? Well, he’d be the innocent duke’s daughter who I somehow managed to ruin. Kissed him in the rose garden late one afternoon without a chaperone. Or her, since we’re talking duke’s daughter here, not Max precisely.

  I guess that makes this the morning after and everyone here in the Daniels home is just trying to sort through all the shame and moral perfidy. Only one difference—nobody wants me to marry the daughter. Not by a long shot. They just want me bribed and sent out on a rail.

  Well, I’ll be damned if I’m not getting my fairy tale now. Not after working my way out of the closet, not after owning up to being totally gay. Hell no, baby.

  About the moment I sniff indignantly at the thought, my stunning groom-to-be appears in the doorway and I have to swallow hard at the sight of him. How is it Max always looks so ridiculously hot in those expensive suits?

  “Look nice,” I pronounce with what I know must be a slightly drunken, besotted grin, and my timing just sucks because Leah appears behind her brother at that precise moment. Her eyes widen, but I really don’t give a shit, though I sure don’t miss the way Max’s face reddens. He smiles uncertainly, and I wonder if he regrets my openness, especially when I see the way the tips of his ears turn bright red. That never happens, so I get sheepish and just stare down into my drink.

  “Freshen you up?” John offers, all relaxed and friendly as he steps into the living room.

  “Nah, probably had enough,” I mumble.

  I just don’t get how the rules are changing now that we’re back here in Winchester. Max has wanted us all the way out. He’s been proud as hell of who he is and loving me. Now all of a sudden I’m supposed to hide what’s going on between us, even when they all know.

  “Is that what you’re wearing?” Leah asks, her voice pure innocence, and I stare up in surprise when I realize that she’s talking to me. I finger my jacket uncertainly. It’s a suit, so what’s the problem?

  “Leah, please,” Max snaps as I stare down at my tie. It’s the one I bought for my first date with him.

  “Max, it’s a nice restaurant,” she explains with forced patience.

  “Yeah, and it’s a nice suit, Leah.” Max glares at her, jaw tight as a wire.

  For a moment, I have to count to ten, because otherwise I’m out the door. Seriously. Max must realize this because he drops beside me onto the sofa, still staring at his twin sister.

  “Everyone ready?” Diane chimes as she appears in the living room, followed by Phillip. Max leans close and whispers in my ear, “You look amazing. You always do.”

  “Take me shopping when we get home.” For a moment, I imagine a spree on Rodeo Drive, kind of a gay version of Pretty Woman, with Max cast as my very own Richard Gere.

  The film clip is rolling in my mind when he leans close again, and says sweetly, “You know you take my breath away.”

  I believe him, but still, sitting there and fingering my tie, an avalanche of inadequacy descends in the space of moment.

  Max is rich and handsome and could obviously have anyone he desires, male or female. On the other hand, I’m just a construction worker from Iowa, moderately handsome on a good day. And now to top it all off, it turns out my best suit apparently sucked without me ever knowing it.

  Dinner begins as the miserable failure I feared it would be, riddled with awkward silences and unvoiced questions. The restaurant is one of those overly quiet places, so the tension is punctuated by the clattering of silver against china.

  But I have to hand it to Max—he’s as refined and classy as ever, even under these tense circumstances. In fact, he’s commanding the entire event, as bottles of rare wine and dainty hors d’oeuvres are brought to our table in a procession worthy of the best L.A. restaurants.

  In particular, Max’s mother seems to really be responding to his overtures, and as the dinner progresses, I get the idea that she might even like me. Hell, maybe victory is still within our grasp.

  Then there’s John, and he’s just a real standup guy, asking loads of easy questions, particularly when he turns the full spotlight onto me.

  “What kind of work you do, Hunter?” he asks, right about the time a bottle of champagne appears at our table.

  “I’m a carpenter.”

  “Construction,” Phillip clarifies, but it’s a correction, an effort to make me look blue-collar here beside his decidedly white-collar son.

  But Max won’t have a moment of that. “Hunter is a finish carpenter at Universal,” he beams. “He’s in set construction.” He really is proud of me, and something about that causes me to blush unexpectedly.

  “Really?” His mother asks, all breathless and excited as she leans across the table toward me. This was my trump card, and it feels good to have finally played it, as she nearly sings, “You work in the movies?”

  My gaze wanders toward Phillip, and I’m a little smug. “Yeah, but it’s more just the pre-production side of things.”

  “Oh, but that’s so interesting.” His mother draws out the last word for an indefinite period of time.

  “I enjoy it.” I shrug like it’s just a casual thing, glancing at Max with a soft smile. He’s got his hands folded elegantly in front of him, just watching me, and my heart absolutely swells with love for him. That look in his eyes betrays how much he worships me, and while I don’t always understand it, I can’t help but lap it up right now.

  “Ever see anyone famous?” John asks.

  “Sure, most every day.”

  I sense Max lean a little closer toward me. “Tell them about Julia Roberts.”

  “Oh, Max.” I laugh with a dismissive little wave, and then laugh again at how much like his wife I just managed to sound.

  “No, we really do want to know,” Diane encourages.

  And so I launch into my Julia Roberts story, making sure to include all the pretty details I know his mother will enjoy. But Leah’s listening, too, I see it in the way her dark eyes study me while I share. She’s silent, but tracking with this whole discussion.

  I wonder why Max never told them about where I work. It wouldn’t have changed the blue-collar facts, but it would have at least sounded sexier. Maybe he was being as strategic as he is in his job every day, saving the winning details until he closed in for the kill. Or moved in for the close, in our particular case, since it’s us he’s hoping to sell his family on.

  I’m still glamorizing my very basic job when the maître d interrupts, asking Max to taste the champagne he’s just delivered to our table. Max sips, and then nods approvingly, and I find his sureness more than a tad arousing. He’s pure male, surveying the menu and restaurant like a wily general. And I’ll be damned if he hasn’t already conquered a few of the civilians with gracious ease. In fact, they don’t even seem to realize it themselves.

  As glasses are poured around the table, his mother continues to ask me about the specific movies that I’ve worked on. Her focused attention alternately pleases and rattles me.

 
; Once all of our glasses are filled, Leah interrupts me, looking to Max. “A toast?” she asks.

  Max nods thoughtfully, staring down at his hands for a long moment without speaking. The silence of the restaurant comes rushing inward then, deafening in its freight train roar as it closes around us.

  Finally Max takes his glass in hand, clearing his throat, and when he speaks, his voice is more quiet than usual. I lean a little closer just to hear him.

  “Well, you’ve all seen my ring,” he finally says, his gaze fixed on Leah. “And I know there are, well, a lot of questions. But I wanted to take this time to tell you officially that Hunter and I are…are…”

  Oh, God. He’s just stalled out, and he can’t seem to actually say it aloud. So, I take a fortifying breath, raising my glass. “We wanted to ask all of you to toast to our union ceremony in the spring,” I finish for him.

  Beside me, I sense Max nod in agreement, as he rushes to fill the void, stammering quietly. “We’re having a ceremony in Vermont, actually, where it’s legal,” he hesitates then adds, “For us. Where it’s legal for us. So here’s to Hunter Willis, the newest member of our family.”

  He raises his glass a little higher, squeezing my hand, and then the most horrible thing happens.

  Silence. A rushing, gaping canyon of pure silence. That, and both our glasses extended like an unanswered question, as his family just stares at us, shocked.

  Well, except for Phillip. He knows exactly what’s going down in the spring, of course. And Diane surely does, too, though her face is a freeze-frame of unexpected surprise.

  After a moment, it becomes painfully clear that no one is going to share Max’s generous-hearted, hopeful toast, so I clink my glass against his.

  “Here, here.” I have to fight the tears that burn my eyes. They’re not for me, mind you; my heart’s just breaking for the love of my life.

  “To Hunter Willis,” he repeats hoarsely.

  But then my faith in this family gives a little gasp of life when John Ramirez slowly lifts his own champagne flute with a smile.

  “To true commitments,” he pronounces slowly, as if he’s choosing his words as he speaks. “And a lifetime together.” Then he clinks his glass against Max’s and mine with a reinforcing nod, suggesting he really believes what he’s just said.

  Okay, so he’s my new best friend, and I’ll make no apologies for that fact. Especially since Leah turns to him aghast and he doesn’t even pay her a moment’s notice.

  But my shock value increases triple-fold when Diane lifts a tentative glass, clearly gathering her thoughts.

  My heart hammers, because whatever comes next will establish the tone of my relationship with this family for years to come.

  Tight breaths burn within my lungs as she slowly says, “Here’s to my son, whose heart has always been so incredibly true.”

  Maybe that’s it. Maybe she won’t mention me. And I’m okay with that, I really am, because she’s given us a strange blessing of sorts. But then she finally finishes her toast with a nervous smile. “And to Hunter, who has obviously managed to capture that heart.”

  “Here, here,” John chimes, and then all four of our glasses clink together.

  I glance sideways, and the most charming smile has spread right across Max’s face. He’s visibly relaxing, finally, because we’ve turned some critical corner of this whole visit home.

  “When’s the big day?” John asks, settling back into his chair with the glass of champagne, and I’ve got to hand it to this guy, he’s got balls of pure steel.

  “April twenty-eighth. At a country inn, and if the weather’s good, the ceremony will be in the garden.”

  Max continues sharing the details with his mother and I choke back a roll of laughter when he mentions that we’re hiring a wedding planner. I think it’s the way Leah’s eyes nearly bug right out of her head at that one that’s nearly my undoing.

  “For a gay wedding?” she asks incredulously. “Who would do that?”

  I pipe in for this one, because it’s worth it to see her reaction. “A gay wedding planner. There’s loads of them, all over the country.”

  “I see,” she coughs, covering her mouth with a prim hand.

  And all this time, Phillip Daniels is silent as the grave. But he’s listening—and watching too, because I glance at him periodically, hoping to gauge his reaction.

  For a brief moment, I think he even seems interested in the events we’re describing. Maybe because from the moment the tension let up, Max started bubbling away about everything, his golden eyes dancing with unabashed joy. Anybody could see it, particularly anybody who loved him.

  So maybe his dad gets the picture a little more clearly now. Not only do I adore his son, but I’m here to stay, kind of like the old marriage saying, “two become one”.

  That’s really what we’re talking about, and it should be evident from the way Max has opened up about this. He’s talking flowers and rings and happily ever after. Not something furtive and hidden, not something easily annulled two months later.

  What Phillip needs to get is that Max is talking about the rest of our lives.

  Chapter Five

  Once we’re all in for the night, Max heads for the shower and I decide to snag one of his Cuban cigars for a backyard smoke. We agreed privately to take separate rooms tonight, knowing it would be the most political move. So once I rummage through his bags for the cigar, I give him a quick kiss goodnight.

  He just stands there, wearing nothing but his suit pants and undershirt, looking sexy as hell. “Smoking without me?” he asks, sounding slightly peeved. God, he turns me on when he’s sulky like that.

  I shrug, kissing him again. This time my mouth lingers against his, tasting the sweet champagne on his lips. “My consolation prize.”

  “Oh, really now?” he purrs as I run my fingers through his silky hair. A quick glance confirms that his bedroom door is closed, and I draw him close against me.

  “For a night without you,” I whisper against his cheek, “I need a lot of consolation, baby.”

  Then, our kiss deepens into something amazing. With all that we’ve shared, with as intimate as we’ve become, he can still just break me with one gentle kiss. Those sure hands wrap around my neck, urging me closer, and I feel his heart hammer against my chest. He’s all sinew and strength, yet a little delicate at the same time. I’m definitely a bigger guy and I’ve always loved the way he feels within my arms—that he’s masculine and hard, yet edged with a strange softness that makes me half-crazy.

  Like now, the way I have to lean down a little to steal this kiss, and how I hold his narrow hips right within the palms of my hands. God, I’m even a little giddy from the way the strawberries and champagne taste on his luscious lips.

  Maybe that’s why I turn into a romantic fool, as I trace my fingers tenderly over his lips, savoring the feel of them. “Oh, you’re just so sweet,” I whisper, closing my eyes. “Sweetest thing I know, I swear.”

  For a moment, he kisses me again, but then he steps backward. His gaze drops and an odd look passes over his face, kind of like a storm cloud shadowing the sun.

  I scratch my eyebrow, confused. Maybe it was a weird thing for me to say, but I don’t really understand what the problem is.

  Then he speaks, his voice heavy and intense. “I was always gay, Hunter.”

  With the back of my hand, I wipe my mouth, still wet from his deep kisses. “What do you mean?” I ask, willing my heart to slow its insane tempo.

  “Sweet,” he says, raising his eyebrows for emphasis. “That was always me.”

  “Maxwell, look, I was just being—”

  “Romantic, I know. But that’s not my point.” His voice is anguished, and in turn, that anguishes me.

  I don’t want him hurting, and I sure as hell don’t want the way this visit is starting to tear us
apart.

  “Tell me then,” I urge as gently as I can, reaching for him. But he shrugs me off with an angry wave, and that one gesture nearly kills me.

  “It wasn’t just Bruno. Or Brian,” he cries, his hand clutching at his heart. “Don’t you get it, Hunter? It wasn’t my little gaytrading venture or anything like that.” His voice becomes suddenly whisper-soft, like loving velvet. “And it wasn’t even falling in love with you.”

  “Okay.” I nod, feeling a little light-headed as I stand there, listening.

  “This is what I am, that’s what my family doesn’t understand. They think I’ve made some kind of choice just to be rebellious or something.” He turns away from me and stares into the full-length mirror on the back of the door. Almost like he’s expecting to find something in his reflection, something that wasn’t there before. Until finally he faces me again, tears filling his dark eyes.

  “They don’t get that I fought this for years, Hunter.” He stares at me, intense and focused, wiping at his eyes. “For years. That it goes back to college, earlier even. And once I started down this path, I couldn’t stop myself anymore.”

  This is more than he’s ever told me about his sexuality or his desires, so I’m not sure what to say. I mean, one minute I was getting a raging hard-on, and now it’s suddenly confession time.

  But he’s not finished, at least not quite yet. “I know they don’t understand that once I found you, I’d found my destiny,” he whispers fiercely. “You’re not a choice anymore, Hunter, you’re just my life.”

  His words are so heartfelt and unexpected as he stands there in the middle of the room, looking up at me with tears shining in his eyes, that for a moment my throat tightens sharply.

  I’m no idiot; I know what I say next has to be good. It has to somehow convey how much I love him, but more than that, how much I accept him. And like a gift sent from above, I remember what he said about Bruno and that very first kiss they shared, how it felt for him.