Nick Nolan

by Double Bound (Sequel To Strings)

  He even drew them a fairly accurate floor plan of the Tylers' house.

  The case had been resolved to the satisfaction of nearly all, for he'd played the role of doting butler beautifully and had done a fine job of surveillance and reporting.

  But one night, when he'd been happily undercover at a gay coffeehouse guarding Katharine's hunky nephew--Jonathan's son Jeremy--Bill had injected a drunk and passed-out Tiffany, Jeremy's diabetic mother, with an overdose of insulin.

  She died.

  That same night, while Arthur was still looking after the young Tyler, Jeremy's friend Darius borrowed his letterman's jacket to retrieve a cell phone from the car, and some thugs Bill had hired to pummel Jeremy into vegetablehood thought Darius was him and beat him viciously instead.

  He almost died.

  After that, since they believed Bill had fled to Brazil, Arthur was at the Tyler compound looking after Katharine when Bill materialized unexpectedly at the family's chalet on Lake Estrella and almost succeeded in killing both Jeremy and his lover, Carlo.

  But Jeremy turned the tables on him.

  And Bill died. Finally.

  So he hadn't exactly earned gold stars when it came to protecting the Tylers. But in the process, he'd developed an intimate, yet platonic, relationship with Jeremy; they'd become rather like father and son: Upon his arrival at the mansion, he taught him how to throw a baseball and how to drive, and he called him "old buddy" like his own grandfather used to call Arthur, and tried to steer him around the pitfalls of being gay. Jeremy sought his advice on everything from boys to clothes to geometry, and how to negotiate Aunt Katharine's relentless, unending demands.

  Arthur had learned to sit stoically during these exchanges, ignoring the fact that Jonathan had been his first love, and that my, oh my, the more Jeremy matured, the more he walked and talked and laughed and looked and even smelled just like his father.

  So it was with considerable trepidation--mixed with glee--that he'd accepted Katharine's offer, after the case was closed, to stay on at the house as her assistant and the estate's overseer. Taking the position had meant leaving his post with the FBI, but the gamble seemed worth it: being paid to live in a seaside mansion while playing father to Jonathan's son fulfilled needs that, until then, he'd been blithely unaware of.

  But now, as they were about to embark on some crazy business trip to Brazil--once Jeremy and Carlo returned from Hawaii--new concerns had arisen about those loose ends Bill had left that needed tying up, as well as Arthur's ability to stifle certain feelings that had arisen recently.

  He rubbed the knot of tension in his neck and groaned.

  Danny, if only you were here, none of this would be happening.

  Chapter 9

  The guy over there's Ramón; he's the owner," Ellie, their best girlfriend from back home, told them while pointing. "Actually-- and you didn't hear it from me--his boyfriend, Jorge, actually owns the place, but he's in New York on business right now."

  Jeremy looked across the patio, beyond the sparkling turquoise pool, to assess their handsome host, who was surrounded by a dozen gabbing and laughing young men.

  Their eyes met across the water, and both smiled. "He's cute," he whispered to Carlo.

  "If you like those trashy Hispanical types," he replied.

  Jeremy laughed. "I love 'em," he said and then pulled Carlo closer. "What's his boyfriend do?"

  "He's someone high up with the NFL or KFC, or whatever," Ellie replied, sounding bored. "He's an absolute doll. But he's a lot--I mean a lot--older; like forty-five. I think Ramón changes his diapers."

  "What's Ramón do?" Carlo asked.

  "He used to 'model,'" she told them, making quote signs in the air, "but Jorge didn't like the clothes he wasn't wearing for the shoots, so now he's supposedly designing his own line of decorative pillows." She rolled her eyes. "But he's a sweetheart, and does make a very hot corporate wife--he's a big favorite with those Velvet Mafia girls when they go to LA-- if you know what I mean. Come on, I'll introduce you."

  They followed her around the pool, and as they approached, the small crowd parted for them, while the guys gave them the twice-over. "Hey, gorgeous," Ellie broke in, "this is Jeremy and Carlo, the most fabulous couple in Ballena Beach. And you can't have them. unless you ask me."

  Ramón held out his hand. "Glad you could come by."

  They shook hands.

  "This place is gorgeous," Carlo told him. "I can't believe you've got a view of Diamond Head and all of Waikiki. It must look incredible at night."

  "Jorge bought it with his first lover about twenty years ago," he said, "but I got to redecorate it last year, thank God. I just wish it wasn't so far up the coast, because Kahala's a long drive from Hula Joe's after a few drinks. Speaking of, what're you boys having? We've got a full bar inside. Come on, Ellie. You're dry again."

  The trio, arm in arm, followed the powerfully built young man as he steered them through gaggles of cruisy-eyed guests toward the lushly landscaped contemporary home. "When was this place built?" Jeremy asked as he stopped to admire the cascading fountains and ponds with their wriggling orange koi.

  "I think it was in the 1960s, but Jorge remodeled it in the eighties," Ramón said as he stepped into the expansive living area adjacent to the deck, "so I just got to trash all that gross black lacquer and shitty dusty rose stuff when we redid everything."

  His arm swept out to the side. "now everything's white granite and bamboo cabinets and limestone floors. Oh, and we had the pool redone with that little sitting wall around it so Joey, the dirty little bichon frise you'll probably trip over, won't keep falling into the water."

  "I really like this," Jeremy said, taking in the sparse grandeur. "Our home is like a big old villa. It's scary."

  "Oh, it is not scary," countered Ellie. "You should see it, Ramón. It's got a hundred perfect rooms and a mile of private beach."

  "I'd like to see it, or you guys, the next time we're in LA." He stared at them and smiled, and Jeremy felt his crotch tingle. "So what do you guys drink?"

  "Do you have any beer? like a Corona?" Carlo asked.

  Ramón laughed. "Carlo, your huaraches are showing, mijo. We've got mojitos or cocktails. And"--he went to the refrigerator under the bar and opened it--"we've still got some champagne left over from my birthday."

  Jeremy's eyes sparkled. "I've never had champagne before. And happy birthday, by the way."

  "It was last month, but we'll pretend it's today." He pulled from the fridge one of a dozen dark green bottles with simple bronze-colored labels, then grabbed four heavy crystal flutes from over the wet bar. "Jorge got me three cases of Dom for the party, but everyone guzzled the cheap vodka, instead. I think you'll like this."

  He popped the cork and filled each glass carefully. "To my new friends," he toasted. "To new friends," the boys answered.

  "To great booze," added Ellie as they clinked their glasses. "Come on, I'll show you the rest of the house," Ramón said.

  "While you do that," Ellie cut in, "I'm gonna take my camera and find the drunkest guys here and tell 'em my boyfriend's a big porn producer. I'll e-mail you the nasty pics when I get home." Then she was off, with a wag of her ass and a toss of her platinum locks.

  "Jesus Christ, these men are hot," Carlo noted after being introduced to yet another cluster of Abercrombie clones. "Have you been doing genetic experiments?"

  Ramón laughed. "It's Ellie--she's got some amazing tractor beam that sucks the pretty ones to her; then she drags 'em up here. Jorge says she's an old troll trapped in a bulimic cheerleader's body."

  "She's like that back home, too," said Jeremy. "She's got a big collection."

  "How'd you meet her?" Carlo asked.

  "Jorge does business with her dad. He met her at a party and they hit it off, so she flew out last month for the weekend and she's been staying with us since. She's going back to LA the day after tomorrow 'cause she missed the first couple of weeks at USC and her parents are really, really pis
sed."

  "I'm sure that being here with you," Carlo noted dryly, "she's been happier than a priest in a Jacuzzi full of altar boys."

  Ramón cackled and threw his arm around Carlo. "It's good to finally have an hermano here, Carlito; it's lonely being the only maricón west of Catalina. Come on, let's see the master bedroom."

  They followed him down a long hallway lined with dramatic black-and-white male nudes to a double door that opened into an immense room sparsely furnished with Danish modern pieces and ornamented with Japanese porcelains. Outside the west wall a Jacuzzi steamed even in the afternoon sunlight, and on the other side a trio of floor-to-ceiling glass doors opened onto a courtyard teeming with leafy palms and vermillion orchids and chartreuse ferns surrounding a trickling lava-rock fountain.

  "This is what I want," Jeremy announced. "I'm sick of my aunt's creepy antiques--

  this place is cool." He examined a wildly contemporary landscape of a tropical beach. "And this painting--I love it!" "That's by Paul Blaine Henrie. Jorge collects him," said Ramón.

  "Is this Hawaii?" Jeremy asked, moving in closer to examine the smeared riot of colors.

  "I think it's Tahiti. He bought a bunch of his pieces from the guy's nephew right after he died. now they're all worth a fortune."

  Jeremy looked back at Carlo. "This is exactly the kind of place I want."

  "Hey!" Ramón exclaimed as he sat on the bed. "You guys should come with us the day after tomorrow--we're going out to Molokai for the day, and our designer's coming." He patted the bed's silk coverlet, inviting them to sit. "You could talk to him about doing your place."

  Carlo looked excitedly at Jeremy as they sat. "Can we?"

  "But our flight's at eight a.m. tomorrow."

  "Just call the airline and change it," Ramón suggested. "I do it all the time."

  "Could you?" Carlo pleaded.

  "I don't know..."

  "Listen: There's about ten of us going on our yacht, and we're meeting up with some other guys from Black Point; they've got this fabulous eighty-one-foot Ferretti that makes Jorge's Cayman 38 look like a rowboat. We're having an all-day catered barbecue and the beach is totally private and it's just going to be all hunky, hot guys." He placed a hand on Jeremy's shoulder and squeezed. "Look, dude, if you two don't play, it's OK with everyone, but I guarantee you'll enjoy the show."

  He looked from Jeremy to Carlo and back. "So? You can use my phone to call the airline..." He pointed to the telephone atop the nightstand.

  Since Jeremy had been sipping his champagne, everything in the room had taken on a honey-colored glow. He felt relaxed, so he closed his eyes and imagined the man-fest on the beach, with muscular guys laughing and sunning and eating and drinking and hugging, while out in the water two spectacular white yachts were moored just beyond the waves, waiting to take everyone back to their privileged, fabulous lives.

  And then he remembered Arthur.

  "Baby, no. My aunt needs us to come back."

  "What's she need you for?" Ramón asked. "Is she in a wheelchair?"

  "If only," Carlo muttered.

  Jeremy shot him a look. "My family has this big real estate deal happening in Brazil, and we're going down at the end of the week to check it out--Carlo and me, and our friend Arthur."

  "He's Jeremy's fairy godfather," Carlo added, "and he's this very hot ex-Marine.

  You'd love him--but not as much as Jeremy does."

  Jeremy laughed and rubbed Carlo's knee. "But I love you more," he told him.

  "We'll come back, maybe over Christmas when it's summer down here. Yeah?"

  "Hmmm." Ramón raised his eyebrows, nodding. "You should bring Arthur with you next time; there's always a couple of sons looking for a hot dad." He twirled his empty glass. "I need another drink, and it looks like you do, too. Be right back."

  He got up from the bed and disappeared down the hallway, and Jeremy collapsed back onto the bed.

  He was feeling tipsy.

  "I don't want to go," Carlo said, talking into his knees. "I don't. I really don't."

  "Don't wanna go home or don't wanna go to Brazil or don't wanna go out on a yacht?" Jeremy asked, while scanning the rippling squiggles on the ceiling that were reflected up from the Jacuzzi outside.

  Looks like glowing snakes.

  "I don't feel like going home. I mean, we're finally here having this incredible trip--

  especially after all the crazy shit that happened this year with your family--and we're supposed to go windsurfing tomorrow and we could go to that incredible beach party the day after; we even talked about going to Maui." He downed the rest of his champagne. "What's the difference between leaving tomorrow and leaving on Monday or Tuesday? We're not even going to Brazil until Wednesday."

  "Because there's stuff we need to do when we get home, and I don't want to fly in one day and go out the next. And I don't know how to change plane tickets--we could wind up in fucking Iraq." He was starting to feel defensive. "So I'll just leave it how it is. We'll go home tomorrow."

  Carlo looked away, pouting.

  "Look," Jeremy began. "Brazil's supposed to be amazing--kind of like this, with all the tropical stuff, but...weirder. Not American. And we'll be on a private island over there. Doesn't that sound just as cool?"

  "No. It doesn't. Because we'll be with Arthur, so it's not going to be our vacation anymore. And I was really looking forward to us being together. Alone."

  "Yeah, I know." He nodded.

  "And Brazil can be dangerous, Jeremy. My cousin Afonso lives in one of those favelas in Rio de Janeiro. Those are scary."

  "What's a favela?"

  "A Brazilian slum. Looks like...a tornado picked up a bunch of old houses and threw them on a landfill. Sideways."

  "Huh?"

  "You'll see." Carlo sighed and lay back on the bed. "I'm just surprised that you want to go there so badly. Why is that?"

  "I just want to get it over with, you know, get Katharine off my back."

  "That's the only reason?"

  He shrugged. "Plus, it'll be an adventure--this whole huge resort place sounds incredible." He ran his hand up and down his torso, feeling his bumpy abs through his T-shirt.

  The champagne was making him horny.

  "I think it sounds crazy," Carlo said.

  "Why?"

  "Because anything your uncle Bill was involved in can't be good."

  "That's why you think it's crazy?"

  "Didn't you ever think that a place that says it has guaranteed security is an invitation for all the crazies out there to attack it, like they did to the Pentagon?

  And what do you, or any of us, know about building resorts anyway? It's like, we can look at the place and say, 'Yeah, that pool looks pretty and that hotel looks real big,' but what if they're doing a shitty construction job? How can we tell?"

  "Katharine's sending over building inspectors after we come back. We're just gonna, like, look over the place and get to know this Dom Fabiano guy."

  "I thought his name was el Gigante."

  "I guess that's his nickname. Maybe he's really tall."

  "What does your beloved Arthur say about all of this?"

  He ignored the jab. "He says that everything in Brazil is about who you've paid off and who owes you favors. And because Bill invested a lot of our money over there before he died, they owe us some big favors." He glanced out the window and saw that some of the guests had dropped their trunks and were skinny-dipping.

  He wanted more than anything to stop talking about this and to run out there, drop his shorts and leap in.

  "But how can you make an island secure? What if someone traps you there? How do you run away?"

  "I guess you need to make sure no one gets on it in the first place; it's kind of like...a castle with a big moat around it." He began rubbing himself through his floral-patterned board shorts, and his eyes closed with pleasure.

  "Great. So now we're running off to a place with castles and moats...and giants.

 
The next thing you're gonna say is there's this big ol' beanstalk." He looked to the ceiling, laughing sourly. "At least I can translate for you--although my Portuguese isn't great, I can still tell if they're gonna throw us off a cliff or feed us to the piranhas."

  "Then it's a good thing you're going," Jeremy told him. And I'm really glad Arthur's going. He turned to his lover and smiled.

  Carlo pursed his lips and kissed him.

  "Hey, we don't leave for home until tomorrow morning, so why don't we go back to the hotel room...and I'll fuck you like a crazy man?" Jeremy grabbed Carlo's hand and placed it on his swollen groin.

  Carlo grinned and began massaging him through the flimsy nylon. "I thought you wanted to go to Hula Joe's one more time," he said, and then licked the inside of his ear. "You said you wanted to see those go-go boys again."

  "But I want to fuck you now, Carlito," he whispered. "We can go there after."

  "Man, what'm I missing here?" Ramón announced as he walked in with another frosty bottle in his hand. "I'm glad I left you guys alone."

  Carlo pulled his hand away and Jeremy sat up. "Sorry, dude."

  "Sorry for what?" he asked. "Sorry for being cute and horny? Join the club."

  Jeremy blushed. "It's just...we don't..."

  "Don't worry. If you guys need a room, we've got 'em all over. And most've got locks on the doors."

  "Actually, I think we're gonna leave," Carlo said.

  "OK, but you're coming on Sunday, right? We're leaving from the old Gilligan's Island marina down by the Ilikai at nine a.m., and I just told the caterer to plan for two more."

  Jeremy and Carlo looked at each other. "We've gotta get back home, papi," Carlo told him. "It's just the way it is."