Infamous

by Jenny Holiday

  Coming to visit Avery—and, increasingly, her friends—was the perfect counterpoint to the intensity of recording. It got him out of both the studio and his head and provided some structure in his otherwise formless days. When he had a date with Avery, he had to wrap things up by a certain time. It forced decisions to get made rather than endlessly pushed off. It was like that old adage said: if you want something done, give it to a busy person to do.

  The visits were also a stupid amount of fun, even with the Katy Perry.

  So, he was freely willing to admit, though his visits probably fell, technically, under the banner of “charity,” he got a lot more out of his relationship with Avery than he gave. His visits to the hospital were selfish.

  But not just because of Avery.

  When they finally lurched to the end of the song, he gave the girls a thumbs-up and glanced at his watch. “Holy shit! It’s eight!” Then, belatedly remembering his audience, rephrased. “My goodness! It’s eight.”

  “Nice try,” said Avery. “But yeah, you’d better go pry Dr. W.—and by the way, I’ve decided that W stands for ‘workaholic’—from his office.”

  Yes. In addition to singing Katy Perry songs on the reg, Jesse was routinely hanging out with Dr. Hunter Wyatt now too. They had taken to grabbing dinner after Hunter’s shift ended on evenings Jesse was around.

  It was purely platonic—they were just friends. But it was weird. At his age—twenty-nine—and his level of fame—medium and climbing—a person didn’t really make new friends. New faces were either put in front of him by Matty or the label or a publicist for a specific reason. People he met “organically” always turned out to want something from him. Which was fine. There was a certain amount of “You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours” in this business.

  But Hunter was . . . something else. He wasn’t connected to the music industry at all. He didn’t want anything from Jesse. He had no image to protect. No secret agenda. Hell, he didn’t even know that much about music. They just . . . clicked.

  As friends.

  Avery was correct in her assessment of Hunter as a workaholic. Jesse had observed it himself. In fact, that was why they’d gone to dinner the first time. Jesse had popped in to see Avery one evening after dinner and had run into Hunter in the hallway.

  “Do you live here?” Jesse had teased. “Because I’m starting to wonder if you’re ever not here.”

  “Ha ha,” Hunter had said, running his hands through his thick gray hair and trying to stifle a yawn.

  Avery, who functioned as the hospital’s Gossip Girl, later told him that Hunter was famous for his dedication to his patients. That he worked much longer hours than he was supposed to. She needled him about it, but underneath her ribbing, Jesse could tell, was genuine concern.

  So he’d taken up the cause, starting that night, by dragging Hunter out of the hospital to a diner down the street where the good doctor had proceeded to put away meatloaf and mashed potatoes like he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

  After that, it had become a tradition of sorts. He would stop by Hunter’s office on his way out and try to lure him away from the hospital.

  And if he timed his visits so they would coincide with the end of Hunter’s shifts, well, it was because Hunter needed someone to force him to leave.

  But eight thirty might be too late, even for Dr. W-for-workaholic. Jesse had gotten a little too caught up in the Katy Perry fest.

  The prospect of missing Hunter was more disappointing than it should have been.

  It was just that his once-or-twice-a-week dinners with Hunter functioned kind of like his visits with Avery—they imposed a structure that was good for his creative energy in the studio.

  But when he rounded the corner and spied the telltale light on in Hunter’s office, he feared the swell of excitement in his chest had nothing to do with his creative energy in the studio.

  “Hey.” He rapped on the doorframe of Hunter’s office. “Time to go, Dr. W.”

  Hunter looked up, his face painted in warm light by the lamp on his desk—he worked with the florescent overheads off—and smiled.

  That smile killed Jesse. It was like each time, Hunter was surprised and then delighted to see him at his door.

  “Hey,” he rasped, doing his signature move where he raked his fingers through his hair. He wore his hair in sort of a 1950s-style pompadour, but by the end of the day, it tended to lose some of its height and get a little floppy.

  Jesse wondered what it looked like first thing in the morning.

  “Chop, chop.” He tapped the doorframe again with the chunky rings he wore. “All work and no play makes Dr. W. a dull boy.”

  Hunter got up without a word and started loading his briefcase. A couple of months ago, when they’d started these dinners, he would protest—either that he had too much work, and/or that Jesse had better things to do.

  But he’d stopped that. Now he took their dinners for granted. He took Jesse for granted.

  It was nice to be taken for granted by someone who didn’t want something from him. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.

  “Where to this evening?” Hunter switched out his horn-rimmed glasses for his sunglasses. It was cute the way he always put his sunglasses on inside, like he was pre-arming himself to face the elements.

  It also made him look like a freaking model, what with the Ray-Bans and the freakish but undeniably alluring premature gray.

  “I’m thinking ramen.”

  They’d fallen into the habit of Jesse coming up with a new restaurant to try each time, after it had become clear that although Hunter had been in the city for more than two years, he hadn’t actually been anywhere.

  “Sold.” Hunter locked his office. “I think ramen is my desert island food.”

  As they waited for the elevator, Hunter rolled his shoulders and neck—something in there popped audibly.

  Jesse’s first impulse was to reach out and rub Hunter’s shoulders, but of course he checked it. That was something you did to your significant other, not your new platonic hot doctor friend.

  “We walking?” Hunter asked when they stepped onto the street. It was a gorgeous August evening—warm and, since the days were so long this time of year, still sunny.

  Jesse put on his own sunglasses and a hat. He hated hats—they made him look like fucking Johnny Depp—but they’d become a necessary evil if he didn’t want to be recognized.

  Even so, it didn’t always work.

  “OMG, you’re Jesse Jamison!” A woman of about twenty materialized out of nowhere.

  Busted. He shot an apologetic glance at Hunter. For some reason, it embarrassed him when fans made a big deal over him in front of Hunter.

  “I am indeed,” he said, making a point not to smile. There was a sweet spot he could sometimes hit with his demeanor that communicated his desire for privacy without him having to be overtly rude.

  It didn’t work this time.

  “I love you so much!” she squealed, whipping out her phone. “Can I get a selfie?”

  “Yep.” He grabbed the phone and navigated quickly to the camera app. He was a master at rapid selfie-taking. “Say cheese!” He clicked and handed her the phone. By the time her fingers closed around it, he was already walking away.

  There was something utterly surreal about being friends with a famous person.

  It wasn’t that Hunter didn’t think of Jesse as famous, didn’t see his star quality. It practically oozed from Jesse’s pores. Hunter had seen it two years ago, five seconds after meeting him on the train.

  It was just that the image of Jesse and . . . the actual Jesse didn’t totally match.

  They kind of matched, to be fair, if he squinted his eyes. Outwardly, Jesse projected a fearlessness, a devil-may-care attitude, a fierce and sometimes biting wit, and an easy, confident sexuality. Those were all traits he genuinely possessed.

  But, like an ill-cut puzzle piece, the image was slightly off, relative to the man.
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  Because Jesse was also, as witnessed by his regular visits with Avery and the other kids, kind, goofy, and, Hunter was beginning to think, sensitive. He wasn’t sure if it was a rock star thing, or just a regular straight-boy thing, but Jesse felt more deeply than he was willing to let on.

  Jesse ran ahead and held the door of the restaurant for a woman struggling to enter with a baby in a stroller and a toddler in tow. Then he gestured for Hunter to go ahead of him inside, shooting him a big, open smile.

  Hunter’s belly did a little flip.

  No crushes on straight guys.

  Still, it was nice to have a friend. A good friend.

  Hunter’s friends in Montreal had been a mixture of old university pals—he’d gone to McGill—and couples he and Julian had socialized with. Perhaps it was the move as much as the breakup, but it seemed Julian had gotten custody of the latter group. After a few texts from his Montreal friends, things had dwindled. And here in Toronto, he was . . . trying. Some of the hospital crowd watched Maple Leafs games together, and though he wasn’t particularly a fan, Hunter made himself attend the viewing parties. He was supposed to be turning over a new leaf, right?

  He was pretty sure though, that if he had a new leaf, its name was Jesse Jamison.

  It was weird, and not only because of Jesse’s fame. He’d never really had a close friend who was a straight guy. Straight guys usually came mediated by girlfriends who were the initial connection or they came as part of groups.

  But Jesse . . . Jesse was sort of his own category anyway.

  “So,” the new leaf/own category asked after he’d autographed the hostess’s arm in exchange for a secluded table in the back of the restaurant, “how hungry are you? They do a ‘giant’ size here that is really something to behold.”

  “Giant. I’m starving. I haven’t eaten in . . .” He was setting himself up to be scolded.

  “Since when?” Jesse pressed. “When did you have lunch?” When Hunter grimaced instead of answering, Jesse said, “You didn’t have lunch at all, did you?”

  “I had eggs for breakfast.”

  Jesse looked at his watch. “What? Like fourteen hours ago? Damn, I thought doctors were supposed to be smart.”

  Hunter suppressed a laugh. There was something amusingly incongruous in being nagged about nutrition by a rock star. He didn’t hate it.

  “All right, giant ramen it is.” Jesse flagged down the server.

  As they ate, they talked mostly about the album Jesse and his band were recording. It was their second major-label release, and Jesse was nervous about it. Hunter didn’t see why. The first album—which he had only listened to about a million times—was fantastic. So was the band’s earlier, indie stuff. Hunter didn’t have a musical bone in his body, but a person had to be brain-dead not to recognize Jesse’s talent. Jesse and the Joyride managed to sound new and fresh while also channeling Chuck Berry and Buddy Holly and others from the dawn of rock.

  But Hunter supposed creating art was, by definition, scary. Even if your songs weren’t overtly autobiographical, they came from you. They exposed you.

  That bravery was part of Jesse’s magnetism.

  “I know you won’t believe me, but the album is going to be amazing.”

  Jesse rolled his eyes and played with his straw wrapper. “You can’t know that.”

  “I can.”

  “You’ve only heard snippets.”

  Hunter shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I know you.” It was startling to realize, given his interactions with Jesse had been limited to after-work dinners, but it was true all the same. “Anything you make is going to be good.”

  Was he imagining it, or was Jesse blushing a little? He didn’t have time to consider the matter because his phone dinged. He was on call, so he picked it up.

  And put it right down with a snort of derision.

  “Julian again?”

  If Hunter knew Jesse, it appeared Jesse knew Hunter too. Enough to know that his ex had been texting him. A lot.

  He made a vaguely affirmative noise.

  “Why don’t you block him?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Why not? Dude held you hostage for the better part of a decade, pretending to everyone who mattered that you didn’t exist.”

  “Well, only his family . . . and his law firm.” Hunter’s defense sounded weak to his own ears. Yes, they had been out to all their friends, but their friends were a select subset of the world, the people Julian chose to surround himself with.

  The people about whom he had no say in the matter? They hadn’t known Hunter existed.

  The shame of it flooded his stomach. Which, in turn made him mad. First, it wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t the closet case. And, besides that, it had been two freaking years. When was he going to get over it?

  He should block Julian. Or tell him, once and for all, to knock it off. Nothing his ex said was important. It was all meaningless stuff. The funny observations that had initially endeared him to Hunter. Or shared memories, like this one, which was a picture of random dog hairs Julian had found in the camping equipment that hadn’t been used since before the dog died.

  Jesse grabbed his phone. Hunter didn’t bother objecting. He needed the kick in the ass he knew was coming.

  Jesse read the text in a sneering, singsong voice: “‘Hey, H, look, I found some of Molly’s hair in the sleeping bags. Makes me miss you and your Dustbuster.’” Then he fixed Hunter with an impatient, incredulous look.

  “I’m kind of a neat freak,” Hunter said weakly.

  “I know that. That’s not the part I’m objecting to.”

  Hunter wondered how Jesse could possibly know that about him, since they’d only ever seen each other at the hospital and in restaurants.

  Jesse slapped the table. “Look at you, man. You said yourself you came here to start over. But you’re working a million hours a week and texting with your ex.”

  “You know what? You’re right.” Hunter took his phone back. “You know what I should do?”

  “Block your ex?”

  “Download Grindr. Or maybe something less hookup focused and more . . . I don’t know, dating focused?”

  Jesse raised his eyebrows.

  “You know, wash that man right out of my hair? Because let’s be real. I can block Julian, but what better way to cut the cord than a new romance? My problem is I’m kind of clueless about this stuff. I met Julian in, like, the actual physical world. But, okay, technology marches on, so I guess it’s time to get online.”

  Jesse shifted in his chair like he was uncomfortable. Maybe they couldn’t talk about Hunter’s sex life. Maybe this was the limit of Jesse’s tolerance for paling around with a homo.

  “Are you telling me you haven’t . . . been with anyone since you left Montreal?”

  God. It was so embarrassing, especially considering Jesse’s renowned womanizing ways. But what could Hunter do but make a vague gesture of assent?

  Jesse didn’t respond for long enough that Hunter feared he wasn’t going to. Finally, he took out his wallet. “Wash that man right out of your hair. Yes. Grindr is ideal for that. Let’s go—I’ll help you.” He threw some bills down on the table and added, “But don’t actually do anything to your hair. Your hair is perfect.”

  “The place is a bit . . . unsettled,” Hunter said as he unlocked the door to his apartment, which was the third floor of a subdivided old Victorian in Cabbagetown, a vibrant, garden-studded downtown neighborhood.

  Jesse snorted. Hunter’s definition of unsettled would probably change pretty rapidly if he saw Jesse’s place.

  “I would not call this ‘unsettled,’” he said, as Hunter led the way into an immaculate, clean, bright, beautifully decorated living room. The place managed to be classy but not off-putting. It looked like a magazine spread that was actually lived in.

  “Well, I’ve been here two-plus years, and I haven’t hung a single piece of art.” Hunter waved at walls that were, indeed, blank.
“It’s lath and plaster, so I can’t just stick a nail in it like I would drywall. I keep meaning to get around to hiring someone, but . . .”

  “But you’re working a million hours a week at the hospital.”

  “Something like that. I tried doing it myself. I thought maybe some of the lighter pieces would be okay on a nail, but the plaster crumbled.”

  “Yep.” Jesse ran his hand over the old walls. They reminded him of the bumpy plaster walls in the piece-of-shit house he grew up in. “You need monkey hooks.”

  “I need what hooks?”

  “Monkey hooks.” Jesse set his guitar down. “I’ll go get some. There’s a hardware store on Parliament. You get started on your Grindr profile.”

  “You’re going to hang my art?”

  “I am. You need me to approve your profile—I’ve appointed myself to that role, by the way—so I might as well make myself useful while you get set up. You have a drill?”

  Hunter laughed. “I do.”

  “Great. I’ll be back in fifteen.”

  When Jesse got back, Hunter had abandoned his phone and was bent over the computer and concentrating so intently, he didn’t hear Jesse come in.

  “Hey.” He laid his hand on Hunter’s upper arm. His biceps was . . . noticeable. The good doctor might be a workaholic, but somehow he was finding time to get to the gym.

  Hunter spun on his stool. He looked guilty, and it seemed like he was trying to block the laptop screen with his body.

  “Whatcha doing?” Jesse feinted left, which caused Hunter to move left in response, but then Jesse quickly went right and lunged for the computer.

  Hunter partially blocked him, but he hadn’t been as fast in his correction, and he ended up pushing a shoulder against Jesse’s chest, and as Jesse propelled himself toward his prize, the effect was a sort of perpendicular loose hug.