Tipping the Balance

by Koehler, Christopher

  Suddenly Brad was as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, as his grandmother used to say. Pits and palms started to sweat, and his chest was tight. What if Drew didn’t remember him? What if he’d just been acting nice at those regattas? Just humoring one of his friend’s jocks and not interested at all? He’d probably laugh at Brad just as soon as he hung up the phone, maybe call some of his gay friends to howl with laughter at the bumbling straight guy.

  Why was a straight guy like him calling someone so… so… out there as Drew, anyway? Why was he spending so much time thinking about Drew? That couldn’t be good. He needed to find something else to do, something to distract him from this unhealthy obsession. What else could it be but an obsession? Why else would he be so hung up on some other dude?

  Yeah, something to take my mind off Drew, Brad thought. That’s what I need. He bounced up from his chair like he had a spring in his ass, pacing restlessly around the sales office. He spotted the folders containing the floor plans and design options. One was turned the wrong way!

  He pounced, disassembling the stack entirely before carefully re-stacking them, one atop the next, Sundstrom Homes’ sunburst logo proudly displayed. He’d seen that logo as long as he could remember, but it was still kind of a trip to see his name in print like that, all official and everything.

  Just like it had been a trip the first time Drew had tried to carry the oars up after the disaster of a race. What had that guy been thinking, trying to pick up all those oars? Sure, Brad could carry all eight at once if someone stacked them in his arms, but Drew? That had been funny. Drew’d looked at him with such gratitude, such a warm smile that went right to Brad’s groin, never mind how tired he’d been. Drew’d smiled at him and Brad had lit right up, even throwing a little wood. For a guy.

  That was so wrong.

  Damn, he was turning into a girl, Brad thought. Was this what chicks did if they called a guy? Had any of his girlfriends gone through this? If so, he promised to track down and apologize to each and every one of them.

  Had he always been like this and just never noticed? Pick up the damn phone, he told himself. Call him. Yeah, sure, call him and sound like a doofus. What if he said the wrong thing? What if he couldn’t say anything at all? That’d be just like him.

  He picked up one of the yellow pads of paper on his desk. He’d better write down everything he planned to say, from hello on down to goodbye.

  “Hi, Drew,” Brad mumbled as he wrote the words down. Then what? That was always the problem with “Hi.” You had to follow it up with something.

  He glanced around the office. Drumming on his desk with the pencil. Exhaling noisily. Hoping for inspiration.

  He looked down at the pad. At last he figured out why he was going to call Drew. Drew was a real estate agent, and Brad needed some input from a pro, from one of the people Sundstrom Homes hoped would be bringing their clients in but weren’t. That was the easy part.

  That done, he still had an entire conversation to script. He needed an outline. He had an entire notepad. Hell, when it came down to it, he had a stack of notepads he wasn’t using for anything else.

  So. A conversation. He had the meat of the conversation. Now for the skin and bones. Cool. He could do this.

  He flipped to another page and jotted down observations about the weather. That was child’s play. It was summer in Sacramento, so the weather came in two varieties, hot and hotter.

  Another page, terrifying in its blankness. What had he been up to since he graduated? Nothing, that’s what. Wait. Duh. That’s what he’d been up to. He’d graduated and started this job for the family firm. No more rowing.

  Brad brightened. Crew was another topic. So was Coach Bedford. Or should that be a separate topic? He agonized over that for a few moments before jotting his former coach’s name halfway down the page for crew.

  He puzzled over the pages more, trying to elaborate on each one. It felt like writing an essay. He’d thought he was done with that, but no. Actually, he felt proud of himself for his hard work. That communications professor who said he’d never amount to anything should see him now. Brad. Making an outline. To call Drew.

  Right, Brad thought, get to the point. He brightened. That was gold, that was what that was. Let… me… get… right… to… the… point, he wrote in big block letters on another page.

  Hmm, Brad thought, small talk. You don’t dive right in, not when you want something. You have to mosey up to it, make it look like you weren’t a user. It was just good manners. Those gay guys always had good manners, and business always seemed to involve the kind of pointless conversation that froze him to the floor.

  So what did they have in common? Brad thought. And thought. And thought. Well, we’ve both got cocks. Brad started to write that down, then scratched it out, shaking his head. He was so not going there, because what they did with them? No.

  With a sinking feeling, Brad figured he was screwed. He was noisy, obnoxious, and wasn’t above belching in public. Loudly. His car smelled like a locker room, and most of the time, his clothes, even when they were clean, looked like he’d wadded them up in a gym bag for a few days before wearing them. But Drew? Brad sighed, staring out the window, a soft look on his face. Drew was always so… so… suave. That was the word. Put together. He seemed like the kind of guy who always knew what to say, what to wear, and how to act. No wonder chicks liked the gays.

  No wonder they didn’t like him. Brad knew he could hold it together for a date or two, but sooner or later he was bound to burp at the wrong moment, and from what he’d gathered from his dating history, there was never a right moment. Maybe it’d be different, being with a guy.

  Who was he kidding? Brad was just a big, dumb oaf like his father said he was. He was screwed.

  Then he flinched. “Screwed” was so not the word to use, not when he was….

  Brad groaned, leaning back in his chair. He covered his face with his hands. Not when he was thinking about calling another guy, not when he wanted to ask that other guy out but didn’t know how, not when he thought about that other guy touching—

  “No!” Brad bellowed, standing up. “I’m not thinking about guys touching anything. I’m not!”

  He looked at the clock. It was almost noon. He couldn’t believe he’d spent three hours on this, but he had. Close enough. He was going to lunch.

  He wasn’t gay. He couldn’t be.

  The restless, thudding anxiety robbed him of his appetite, so instead of eating, he just drove around. Driving was good. Driving cleared his mind. Driving gave him a break from thinking about gay men and conversations and other things he didn’t want to think about it.

  But when his lunch hour ended, he was back to calling Drew. He had to. His original idea might’ve been a ruse, but it also had merit. He needed some ideas from a Realtor about how he could make Suburban Symphony attractive to house hunters, since the marketing firm apparently had none.

  Chapter Three

  Drew arrived a few minutes early for lunch with Brad. The restaurant was a good one, located on a busy corner of the part of Midtown called Lavender Heights, but just on the far side of trendy, so tables were relatively easy to get and the waiters didn’t glare if you lingered too long over lunch.

  When Brad had called him yesterday, he’d almost lost the power of speech. When Brad had asked to meet him for lunch, he’d started babbling. Drew just hoped it didn’t run Brad off. He wasn’t sure what to make of Brad’s request for advice on that frankly dire housing development, but he’d do what he could if it meant staring at Brad across a table even for an hour.

  Drew could’ve gone inside, but he had work to do, so he sat in his car, resisting the impulse to bang his head into the steering wheel. His new clients wanted a house that had been on the market for a while, so Drew knew the homeowners should be willing to bargain, should being the operant term, but first someone had to explain the facts of life to their agent, and Drew figured he’d drawn the winn
ing ticket.

  “Yeah, I get that they’re home, but do they get that they’re selling their house? It’s been on the market for six months. I’ve got clients who want to see it, but the last time I brought people by, they tried to take over the tour…. Yes, I know it’s their house, but if they scare people… well, scared people don’t buy houses. And one other thing—Get. The. Taxidermy. Out. Of. There.” Do your job, asswipe, so I can do mine, he screamed silently. “Haven’t they ever heard of staging? Haven’t you? They’re going to move anyway, so they need to get a jump on the packing.”

  Drew half listened to the listing agent for a few more moments. The agent swore up and down his clients wouldn’t spoil this, but Drew paid more attention to cars pulling into the restaurant’s parking lot. Excuses were like assholes: everyone had one. “Look, we’ll be by at 6:00 p.m.” A battered Lexus had parked while Drew was laying down the law. It wasn’t until a man got out of it that Drew paid attention. It was Brad. “Look, make sure those freaks are out of there and that they take the dead petting zoo with them.”

  Then Drew killed the call. For a moment, he just looked. Brad still caused a hitch in his breath. Unlike a lot of former college jocks, Brad hadn’t started packing on the pounds, even though without the intense demands of crew, his caloric demand had surely dropped. Drew very much appreciated Brad’s efforts to keep fit, even if he looked out of place in khakis, a dress shirt, and a tie. Some people just looked better in shorts or jeans and a T-shirt pulling tight across those muscled pecs.

  Drew could see Brad had just the tiniest hint of bearish endomorphic belly, just the way he liked it. He hadn’t seen Brad since the Pacific Coast Rowing Championships in May, but he still felt the old tingle deep in his belly as he responded to the sight of a man he thought was sex on legs. That Brad looked sweetly nervous, he thought, was just adorable.

  “Brad, hi!” Drew said, getting out of his car.

  Brad turned to face him and smiled shyly. “Hi, Drew,” he said, hands in his pockets. “Thanks for meeting me.”

  “Any time,” Drew said. He extended his hand, and Brad shook it awkwardly, as if he weren’t quite sure what to do or how to act. “Let’s get a table; then you can tell me all about this development of yours. I had no idea you were going into real estate after you graduated.”

  “Yeah, it just sort of happened,” Brad said.

  “I hear that. I’m not sure many children dream of growing up to sell or flip houses, but it’s still kind of fun,” Drew replied.

  Drew watched Brad surreptitiously as they entered the restaurant. He saw Brad wipe his palms on his pants several times and glance around repeatedly, far more than necessary to look where he was going. Oh yeah, this guy was nervous. Drew wondered what might be driving Brad, because he sure hadn’t struck Drew as the type to be nervous in his own skin like that.

  “So… do you come here often?” Brad asked after they’d sat down, glancing around warily, as if he expected to be attacked before ordering or perhaps ambushed by the woman filling their water glasses.

  Drew looked up from the menu. He smiled, trying to put Brad at ease. “From time to time. The food’s good, and they’re usually not so busy that they resent you if you linger over lunch.”

  “Oh. That’s good.”

  Drew’d had a date like this once. It hadn’t ended well.

  With one last glance around, Brad picked up his menu. Drew hoped he didn’t get hung up on the prices. They were pretty reasonable for a Midtown restaurant, and besides, Drew was paying. He would’ve, even if it weren’t deductible, just for the privilege of having an excuse to stare at Brad Sundstrom. He wanted to pinch himself.

  “So. I have to admit,” Drew said after they placed their orders, “I’ve been dying of curiosity since you called me yesterday. You said you had some questions for me?”

  “Yeah. I really appreciate you meeting me like this. I know you must be busy and all,” Brad said. He picked up his knife, tapping the hilt on the table top.

  “It’s my pleasure,” Drew said, and it really was.

  But Brad didn’t reply, and Drew sat there, waiting. Expectantly. Waiting.

  When the seconds threatened to lengthen into a minute, Drew kicked himself mentally. The guy was nervous. It was time to fill empty space. “After all, you were one of Nick’s favorites. He talked about you all the time.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that,” Brad said, smiling his anxious smile again. Drew felt it in the pit of his stomach.

  Yep, because I wouldn’t quit pestering him about you, Drew thought. “So… your questions were about real estate, I’m guessing? Since we both know I can’t help you with rowing.”

  “Oh,” Brad said, coloring. “Sorry. I guess I’m kind of nervous.”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed,” Drew said blandly.

  Brad looked at him for a minute like he was trying to figure out if he was being made fun of, but Drew simply sat there expectantly. “Yeah, I got put in charge of Suburban Symphony when I started working for my dad after graduation.”

  “Oh. I mean, wow, that’s great. Right out of school and already in charge of an entire development,” Drew said.

  “It sucks ass,” Brad said bluntly.

  The combination of Brad and sucking ass took Drew to a place he really didn’t want to go. Rather, he did, a lot, just not in public. He’d never been more grateful for a tablecloth in his life, because he’d gone from zero to painfully hard in seconds.

  “Drew?” Brad said.

  “Oh, sorry,” Drew said. “I guess I’m not seeing the problem.”

  “Yeah, well, people aren’t seeing the houses, either, and the old man’s riding my ass to turn it around,” Brad grumbled.

  Drew closed his eyes momentarily. His cock had just zoomed from painfully hard to crammed up against the fly of his pants in a second.

  “Hey, man, are you okay? You kind of whimpered or something,” Brad said.

  Drew shook his head to clear the visual. “Bit my tongue. I’m sorry, you were saying something about Suburban Symphony?”

  “Yeah,” Brad said. “It’s dying, and it’s trying to take my career, such as it is, with it. It’s not like I’ve got any cred with my dad as it is, but if this goes under, I’m sunk.”

  “I see,” Drew said.

  They were silent as lunch was placed before them. When the waiter was out of earshot, Brad said, “So what do real estate agents look for in a subdivision? What makes you bring people who want to buy a house to one place instead of another? What makes you drive right on by a development?”

  “Well,” Drew drawled, stalling like an American car with air in the fuel injectors, “that all depends on the needs of the client, of course.”

  Shit, Drew thought, he wants my help to save that subdivision!

  Brad bounced his foot up and down, the tapping muffled by the carpet. “No, I get that, but houses are pretty basic when you think about it—bedrooms, bathrooms, kitchen, living, maybe a dining room. But this place is… I mean, almost no one comes to see it. No one wants to live there, but I’m supposed to turn it around,” he said bitterly. “Somehow I’m supposed to come up with something to save that place when the marketing people can’t come up with anything. You gotta help me, man.”

  “There are intangibles too,” Drew said, shrugging, “like the vibe people get off it, or what they think of the way the rooms are arranged.” But that place—ugh, he didn’t want to tell Brad the truth. Those shy smiles Brad had flashed him at the regattas that spring… he didn’t want to be the one to kill them. “And of course, there’s always the famous ‘location, location, location’—”

  “Stop playing me, dammit. I asked for your help because I need it, not because I want smoke blown up my ass,” Brad hissed.

  Drew took a bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly and taking his time choosing his words. His appetite was gone. He took a deep breath. He had to do it. Even if he never saw Brad again, at least he’d be able to say he’d been h
onest with the younger man. “They say that there’s a house for every buyer, but there’s going to have to be a whole lot of desperate, clueless people to fill that place up and real estate agents who don’t care about their clients to bring them there.”

  Brad slumped in his chair. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  “There are virtually no neighborhood amenities, because whatever county agency’s responsible for planning out in that former corn field apparently thinks driveways and streets count as ‘open space’,” Drew said, plowing on. “The floor plans could only have been designed to generate maximum misery for the people dumb enough to buy there. And the location? Please, Brad. It’s out in the middle of nowhere, the backside of beyond. Did you know I went out there a few months back?”