by Meg Harding
Jackson nods, going back to looking shy under Aaron’s attention. His teeth are worrying at his bottom lip. If it’s a consistent nervous habit, Aaron can see why he’d need to moisturize his lips.
“We’d do family movie nights, and I always thought the makeup was cool. I’d have my mom make me up like my favorite characters, and we’d do these little, uh… photo-shoot things? But I’m not big on having my picture taken. Denver and Dorian like that kind of thing. So she taught me how to do it, when I figured out I liked it more, and I started making them into characters, and she’d take pictures of them.”
The longer he talks, the more eye contact he makes. Aaron doesn’t want him to retreat, so he tries to keep him going. He’s grateful that Georgina isn’t interrupting with her own anecdotes. He’s sure she has plenty, and he’ll gather them from her later. He’s going to need as much background as possible to make this believable for nearly two weeks of what’s sure to be constant scrutiny.
“What characters?”
That finally earns a smile. Albeit a tiny, miniscule one. “Star Wars was a big one. The Joker. There was a Disney phase somewhere in there. Denver made a really nice Cinderella. Phantom of the Opera—I didn’t watch the film, though. My mom had a poster from it hanging on the wall. Pretty much anything and everything.”
“What was your favorite to do?”
Jackson looks like he’s really thinking about it. He’s back to chewing on his bottom lip, but Aaron thinks this time isn’t from nerves at least. “The Cheshire Cat. That’s more face painting in a lot of ways, but it was fun. I got really good at doing the grin.”
“Is that more like what you do now, or no?”
Jackson shakes his head. “I mostly do your everyday kind of makeup, and I do special effects a lot.” He waves at his face. “Like blood and scratches. That kind of thing. The only time face painting really becomes a thing is if I’m working on a photo shoot and they’re going for a certain kind of look. Sugar skulls are pretty big right now, so I’ve done a few of those.”
Georgina’s tiny, high-heeled foot collides with Aaron’s leg. He turns to look at her. “Oops,” she says, not looking particularly embarrassed or apologetic. “I was aiming for Jackson. Sorry.” She leans forward to view Jackson more clearly. “Why don’t you tell him about Comic-Con? You do a lot of fun stuff at conventions.”
He’s never been to any kind of comic convention, but he knows what they are and how big of a deal they are. “You go to conventions?” he asks.
“Mhm.” Jackson shifts in his seat, and Aaron braces for jittering, but it doesn’t come. “I do demonstrations for costume makeup, promoting my favored brands mostly. Depending on the convention, I’ll run a stall too and paint people up when they ask. I don’t get to go as much as I would like, my schedule’s kinda hectic, but when I’ve got the time, I try to make it happen.”
Their waiter—someone who’s not the redheaded Bastien from earlier—comes over with a bread basket, a bottle of wine, and a water for Jackson. The rest of them already have drinks, but they had opted to forgo the wine till Jackson arrived.
“Bonjour,” says the waiter, smiling at Jackson. “Always a treat to see you here.”
“Merci,” says Jackson, accepting the offered water. He says it slowly, putting more effort than necessary into it.
The waiter, a Frenchman named Marc, grins. “Your accent is improving,” he tells him, sliding the bread basket onto the table. He tilts the wine in offering, and everyone pushes their glasses forward.
“You think so?” Jackson sounds pleased.
“Oui,” says Marc.
Marc is flirting with Jackson, and Jackson is either completely oblivious or ignoring it. Studying his face, Aaron’s going to have to go with oblivious. He looks at Marc as he fills his glass. He’s college-aged by the looks of it, with short brown hair and hooded brown eyes. He’s attractive, though not really Aaron’s type and possibly not Jackson’s either?
The food comes as he finishes pouring the wine, and he moves aside so the waitress can prop the tray on a stand. He dishes the plates out quickly and leaves with one last cheery smile. “Bon appétit.”
Jackson uses the food as an excuse to not talk. Aaron figures he’ll let it go until he’s done with his meal. At some point before they leave, they’re going to have to discuss the plan. He has a feeling Jackson is going to be very nervous about it. He hates to ruin the relative calm the man seems to have adopted for now, but it isn’t something that can really wait. One of the first things people are going to ask is “how did you two meet?” and they need to have a good answer ready.
He should have known it would be Georgina who would bring it up. He gives her points for doing it as casually as possible.
He’s in the middle of cutting a slice of what’s left of his steak, when she says, “So we should probably get our stories straight for tomorrow. Did either of you have anything in mind?”
Aaron looks at Jackson to see if he has anything to weigh in, but he’s tearing a bread roll to pieces, and his cheeks are flushed once more. “I was thinking we keep it simple,” he says, when it’s clear that Jackson isn’t going to speak. “We met in a coffee shop. It was crowded. We had to split a table. That kind of thing.” He turns to Jackson. “Does that sound good to you?” He’s frustrated that they’re back to no eye contact.
Jackson’s staring at his empty plate. “That’s fine,” he says. He rubs his face. “Can we just… that is to say….” He heaves a loud breath. “Can you guys just decide what the story is and tell me, and I’ll go along with it? I don’t want… I don’t want to have to come up with it.”
He looks beyond embarrassed, and Aaron gets it. This is a man who’s used to getting his own dates. He’s ashamed that it’s come to this. Frustrated that he’s going to lie. Knowing Aaron does this for a living no doubt adds a whole different level of mortification on top of everything else.
This, thinks Aaron, is why he waits for the clients to come to him. There’s always a level of discomfort. No one likes saying, “I need to pay you to be my date.” But at least they’ve wanted his services so much that they put the time and effort into finding him.
Jackson not so much.
“That’s fine,” says Aaron. “We’ll stick with the café story. I’m going to need details from you, though. What’s something that everyone close to you would know? What side of the bed do you prefer to sleep on? Foods you like and don’t like?” These aren’t questions that will necessarily be asked, but Aaron’s learned to cover his bases over the years. Some people like to pry.
Jackson’s eyes are wide.
“I’ll start,” says Aaron. “I prefer the left side of the bed. Anything with cheese is fantastic. Anything with cooked vegetables is a no. I like tea with two spoonfuls of honey. I have a sweet tooth, but I won’t touch anything with nuts. My favorite color is yellow. I have three dogs, all of them mixed breeds. Tanner, Jeffree, and Simon. I’ll send you pictures. I was born in Michigan. My mother’s from Jamaica, my father’s from California. They live in Tennessee currently. She’s a lawyer, and he’s a schoolteacher. I have a bachelor’s in business and a minor in history. I’m thirty.” Jackson is looking overwhelmed. He stops there. He can slowly introduce him to new information over the following days. That little bit should be enough to get him through the first day well enough.
He waits a minute, wondering if he’s going to have to prompt Jackson to return the favor, but after releasing a low sigh, the man starts talking. “I sleep all over. I’m a mover. I don’t like tea, but I like coffee if it’s flavored. Needs to be sweet. My favorite color is blue—any shade, and I don’t have any pets. I don’t eat red meat, and I didn’t go to college.” He licks his lips. “Oh, and I love anything lemon flavored.” He twists his fingers together on the table. “Do you need the family stuff, or did Georgina tell you or what?”
“You’re good,” he says. He’ll get anything else he needs from Georgina. “That’s more than enou
gh to get started with. Would you like to say we met in California while you were working?”
Jackson nods.
Aaron can’t help but wonder if Jackson’s realized they’ll have to share a bed for this trip to make things believable. He doubts they’re going to book them separate rooms.
He reaches out, tangling his fingers with Jackson’s, stopping him from wringing them any more. He needs to get used to the physical contact anyway if they’re going to pull this off.
“This is going to be fine. Think of it as we’re really dating if that helps.” He taps Jackson’s chin with his free hand, nudging his head up till he has eye contact. “And you’re doing me a favor too.” He ignores the look of disbelief on Jackson’s face, grabs his chin so he can’t look away. “I’d be an awkward third wheel if it wasn’t for you. You’re making my time easier as well.” He nods his head at Georgina and Tristan. “Those two are going to be suffering some serious scrutiny. They won’t have a lot of time for me.”
Jackson cracks a weak smile. Aaron sweeps his thumb over his jawline, feels his low exhale rush over his hand. “This is a vacation, and we’re going to make it as awesome as we possibly can.”
He’s going to try his hardest to bring Jackson out of the shell he’s tucked himself in.
Chapter Three
JACKSON WAKES up at five in the morning the next day. It’s not an accident. He turns off his alarm, leaves the remaining five that are spaced five minutes apart on, and rolls over to bury his face in the pillow.
He’s flying to Hawaii today. With Aaron. His fake, escort boyfriend, who owns three dogs (he received pictures of them when he got home from dinner, and they’re all adorable) and has a smile that literally makes his knees try to buckle. It’s ironic. The first person he’s been interested in since Angel is someone he can’t actually have. Which was supposed to be the point. He wasn’t supposed to see Aaron and think oh hot damn. Georgina should have warned him!
He should have known this wouldn’t go to plan. It’s sure to add a whole new layer of stress to the mess he’s created.
His second alarm goes off, and he reaches for his phone blindly to stop the hideous noise. Their flight isn’t till eleven, but he wants to clean his house before Aaron gets there. He doesn’t want his first impression of the house to be that it’s as much of a wreck as Jackson is. He’s going to see just what an unorganized type of person Jackson is over the next stretch of days. He spends so much time living out of suitcases, when he comes home, things have a way of exploding around the house. Like he doesn’t know what to do with all the space—he doesn’t.
What he really wants when he stumbles from his bed is to go back to sleep. Since he can’t have that, he takes a shower. He can’t drink coffee first thing in the morning without eating food. It does wake him up, but it also gives him a killer headache. He sticks his head under the spray and keeps his eyes shut tight. It’s icy cold on his sleep-warm skin, and he stands under it till he starts to shiver. He cranks it to hot then and turns, letting the stream beat along his back. It’s a routine he’s perfected over the years.
He’s feeling less zombielike when he wraps his towel around his waist and heads into the living room.
He takes stock of what he needs to do. There are bowls and pizza boxes on the wooden coffee table, a crumpled red throw in the corner of his beige suede couch. His television remote is on the floor in front of the Xbox. The Xbox controller is nowhere to be seen. There’s a pile of DVD cases on the floor in front of the entertainment center from when he was debating what movie he should watch the other night.
So he should start by picking all his crap up. And then he should probably vacuum his wood floors. He doesn’t remember the last time he did that, which is probably a sign that now would be good. He’s not even going to look at the kitchen till he’s done with the living room. Baby steps and all.
He hooks his phone up to his wireless speaker, and he blasts Fall Out Boy’s Spotify radio station. He gets to do this now because his neighbors don’t share walls with him. Moving to the suburbs of New York has its benefits. It’s a novelty that hasn’t worn off just yet. He sings and dances while he cleans, something he feels breaks up the monotony of picking things up and putting them away. His towel ends up tossed over the brown faux leather armchair he has at an angle to the couch, and he lets whatever isn’t dry become so in an au naturel way.
He has to crank the music up to hear it over the vacuum, but it doesn’t stop him from bopping along to the beat while he cleans his floors. It turns out that under his couch is pretty disgusting. Some of the dust looks like it might be alive. He looks at the clock he has hanging on the back wall. As he suspected, he hasn’t allotted himself enough time to properly clean the entire house.
He’ll have to clean out the rooms when he gets back from Hawaii. If underneath his couch looks this scary, he doesn’t even want to contemplate how bad under his bed looks. He’ll have to move all the shit he crammed under there out too. He’s been using it as an unofficial storage place since he moved in.
Turning off the vacuum, he picks up the dishes he left around his living room and carts them into the kitchen. His sink is overflowing with dirty dishes. It explains why he left these ones in his living room, at least. Jackson has a deep, intense hatred of washing dishes. It’s not that it’s difficult—it’s not. He simply doesn’t like it. At the same time, he’s not a fan of dishwashers. It doesn’t feel clean unless he’s seen it cleaned with his own two eyes. When he was younger he used to watch his mom do the dishes, and she’d hand them to him to dry so he could inspect them.
What can he say? He’s a little anal.
He makes it about halfway through the pile when he realizes he didn’t pack any underwear. He should probably do that. Turning off the water, he wipes his hands on his legs, forgetting that he’s not wearing pants. He scowls as soapy water trickles down his legs.
While he’s packing his briefs, he notices he’s missing swim trunks. He’s going to be staying on a beach for two weeks. How could he overlook swimwear? So he goes to pull out an assortment of trunks he has stashed in one of his closet drawers for when a job takes him to somewhere with a beach or a nice hotel pool.
He’s folding them up and moving his grooming kit aside to squeeze them in, when he sees he hasn’t packed his razor. He’s got a little container of shaving cream, though. Sighing, he heads to the bathroom and picks up his razor. He takes a look through his drawers and cabinets while he’s in there.
Toothpaste!
Except he’s forgotten to get a new travel-size toothpaste, and he used the last of the one he had on his previous trip.
Well, that should be easy enough to pick up in Hawaii. It’s not anything to worry over. Maybe he should take a checked bag, though? He’s going to be gone for two weeks, and he’s probably going to pick up souvenirs. It might be handy to have the extra space. He can take his toothpaste, then. And his lotions. More of his makeup. He can take extra shoes. And he’ll have more outfit possibilities!
He grabs the toothpaste, makes it into the doorway, and turns back to snatch his toothbrush.
There’s a chance he should have packed for this a little earlier. No matter how much he travels, he always goes through this last-minute process. It’s the curse of being a procrastinator and naturally forgetful with certain things. Add in his worry about this vacation, and, well… he’s fucked.
His second suitcase is in the hall closet, and he’s rummaging around in it—he finds a tennis racket he didn’t know he had—when the doorbell rings. He bangs his head into one of the side shelves and curses. Now he’s going to have a knot on his forehead probably. He backs out of the closet, dragging his case with him, and makes for the door. He’s touching the handle when it strikes him. He’s still naked.
“Can you hold on a second?” he asks whoever’s on the other side of the door. If they can’t, they’re going to have to anyway.
“Sure,” says Aaron’s deep voice, and Jacks
on freezes. Aaron wasn’t supposed to come over till thirty minutes before they needed to leave. Either he’s way early or Jackson is running superlate.
He’s pretty sure he knows which it is.
A look at the clock when he dashes into the living room to get his towel confirms his suspicions. He’s behind. He’s got thirty-five minutes if he pushes it. He hasn’t finished packing. He’s not dressed. He glances toward the kitchen and the vacuum sitting in the middle of the floor. He didn’t even finish cleaning.
He really doesn’t have time to dawdle. He opens the door in his towel, making sure to stand behind it so any nosy people driving by or out and about can’t see him. Of course Aaron can still see him, and his brows go up when he does.
“Did you just get up?” he asks, squeezing by him and glancing around.
Jackson shuts the door and turns to face him.
Aaron looks put together. He’s wearing a white short-sleeve button-up and gray shorts that end at his knee. There are gray and black Nike running shoes on his feet. He doesn’t look tired, and his hair has clearly been combed. There’s even a hint of gel in it. He’s standing so close Jackson can smell his almond-scented aftershave.
Jackson has to look over his shoulder to talk to him. “No,” he says. “I’ve been up since five.” He can’t blame Aaron for looking doubtful. His music is still blaring. He needs to turn it off. “I was trying to clean.” He pauses it before he does any more talking, silence settling over the house. “And then I thought about the things I hadn’t packed. So I had to pack all of that. But we’re going to be gone for a bit, so I thought it might be better to take another suitcase and check it.”
He looks at Aaron then. He doesn’t have any bags. “Where are your bags? Have you decided not to go?” He tries to keep the panic from his voice. He hasn’t prepared himself to go alone. What will he tell people?
