Redesigning Landry Bishop

by Kim Fielding

  Jordan replied immediately. I’m not good with massages. Too wiggly. Also kinda ticklish.

  And there went Landry’s brain again, romping happily through X-rated pastures. “Stop it!” he scolded himself. How about a fancy shave instead?

  I’ve never had anyone shave me. Is it weird?

  I think you’ll like it. Meet me there. Landry followed up with a call to the salon and was relieved to find that they’d be able to accommodate Jordan.

  They arrived at the same time, each from a different direction. And dammit, as soon as Landry saw him, his heart raced and his skin tingled. He felt as if he’d been injected with the best kind of drug, a chemical equivalent of rose-colored glasses, leaving his head clear but softening the world’s cruel edges.

  “Fancy shave?” Jordan asked Landry as he entered the spa.

  “With a facial.”

  Jordan covered his mouth and snorted with amusement, the world’s oldest twelve-year-old, and although Landry rolled his eyes, he was secretly charmed.

  They went to separate areas for their treatments. Landry’s masseuse was excellent. She made him groan with mingled pain and pleasure.

  “Your shoulders are really tight.” She said it three or four times, shaking her head with wonder. And then she dug in deeper, until he was certain she’d squished all his muscles to goo.

  He walked out of the treatment room feeling slightly sore but also loose and unexpectedly mellow.

  His masseuse made him drink a big bottle of water spiked with an assortment of fruits and herbs. “Finish it off,” she ordered. “You need to detox from everything that I released from your muscles.” Although Landry was skeptical of the scientific basis of this, he obeyed. The water tasted good.

  But when Jordan emerged a few minutes later… oh my. His skin glowed, and the barber had obviously given in to the temptation to play with that beautiful hair. The short ponytail was now gone, and what remained was styled casually but artfully. Picking up on Landry’s hungry stare, Jordan gave a wolfish grin.

  “I like weird shaves with facials,” he announced in the elevator.

  “And the massage worked miracles. Thanks for thinking of it. In fact, when we get back home, I’d like you to arrange for someone to come weekly to the house.” Maybe with regular rubs, his shoulders would lose some tightness.

  Jordan made a note in his book.

  Back in their suite, Jordan waited while Landry showered again, washing away the remnants of the massage oil. When he came back into the living room, Jordan was peering intently at an iPad. “Looking at potential Suzee Show outfits,” he explained. “I don’t know if I’m on the right track, though. I don’t have anything like your sense of style.”

  “I wasn’t born with it, and I certainly didn’t pick it up in Peril.”

  “Your hometown isn’t a fashion mecca?”

  Landry snorted. “There was one shop downtown that sold women’s and kids’ clothing. The menswear store went out of business when I was in grade school. Other than that, you bought your clothing at Svoboda Ranch and Home, you mail-ordered it, or you drove somewhere else.”

  “I bet you’d look adorable in overalls and a John Deere baseball cap.”

  Landry glared and vowed never to let Jordan know that a photo once existed of him wearing exactly that. Landry had been only three years old at the time, and therefore generally unable to voice his sartorial preferences, but still. That picture had been hanging on his parents’ wall when Landry moved to California. If he was lucky, Missy had thrown it out after their mother died.

  “What we did have, even in Peril, were magazines. I read many of them and paid close attention. That’s how I learned to dress.”

  “Maybe. But your… panache is innate. I bet I could plunk you down in overalls in the middle of a cornfield and you’d still manage to look chic.” Jordan’s words were complimentary, but his tone and expression bore real fervor—the marks of a true believer.

  Dammit, Landry was blushing. “Corn isn’t grown in the Sandhills,” he muttered.

  “What do they grow there?”

  “Cattle.”

  Jordan laughed. “So can I picture you in chaps and a Stetson instead?”

  “Don’t you dare.” Landry sighed. “Let’s go find something suitable for you to wear.”

  Landry had decided to get Jordan a few solid base pieces, the kinds of trousers and jackets that might suit a variety of situations, and to spice them up with a selection of shirts and accessories. The mall adjacent to the hotel was perfect for this purpose since it contained several high-end boutiques. Jordan followed along obediently, his face reflecting its usual expression of expectant happiness. On anyone else, Landry would have found that mien irritating. He didn’t like perky. But on Jordan he found it endearing.

  Shit.

  He chose the shop carefully, a designer whose styles were youthful without being overly trendy. There were no other customers, and the salesman—who looked like Ricky Martin’s sexy younger brother—rushed over. “Oh my God! Landry Bishop! I’m so sorry. I know I shouldn’t be gushing, but I am a huge fan.”

  “Thank you. That’s very kind.” After years of practice, Landry had become fairly adept at handling public admiration, but it still made him uncomfortable. It was hard to pull off graciousness and humility without being awkward. “This is my PA, Jordan. We’re looking for a few foundation pieces for him.”

  The salesman clapped his hands as if this was the best news he’d heard in months. And maybe it was; he probably worked largely on commission. “Terrific! I’m Emilio, and I’d be thrilled to help you.”

  Landry and Emilio spent a long time perusing the store’s offerings, rejecting most options but choosing several. Although Jordan occasionally chipped in with an opinion or preference, mostly he waited good-naturedly, watching passersby through the store windows. Eventually Landry was satisfied with the selections.

  “Let me get the dressing room set up,” Emilio said. “Be right back.”

  As soon as Emilio was out of earshot, Jordan sidled close to Landry and spoke in a whisper. “See those sweatpants over there? They’re eight hundred bucks! Who pays that kind of money for sweatpants?”

  “Don’t worry about it. We’re not buying you casual clothing.”

  “But if the sweats are that much—and Jesus, that T-shirt is four hundred!—how much is that suit Emilio plucked off the rack?”

  “Considerably more,” Landry admitted. “But I’m paying, not you. It’s like providing my employee a work uniform.”

  “But… Christ, Landry. It’s a lot of dough to throw around. Can’t you make me look good cheaper?”

  “You always look good. But my PA is part of my brand. You make an impression when you’re in public, and we need to make sure it’s the right impression.”

  “Yeah, okay. I get it.”

  Emilio came back, and it was Landry’s turn to wait while Emilio helped Jordan try things on.

  Jordan emerged in a closely tailored navy blue suit with a cut that emphasized his broad shoulders, slim hips, and long legs. Landry almost forgot to breathe.

  “He looks like a model,” said Emilio, who seemed as stunned as Landry.

  Jordan glanced down at himself. “It’s a nice suit.”

  “We’re getting that one.” It was the easiest decision Landry had made in a long time.

  They also bought two pairs of somewhat more casual trousers and a blazer that went with both. Emilio was ecstatic. Landry signed an autograph for him and promised him tickets to the Suzee Show the next time Emilio was in LA. “Just email me in advance.” Jordan, meanwhile, grumbled under his breath that the bill would have covered several months of his Seattle rent.

  But the shopping excursion wasn’t complete. They visited other stores to buy shirts, a couple of sweaters, ties, a lightweight jacket for what passed as winter in LA, and a pair of shoes—all to be delivered to their suite. Aside from occasional exclamations about the prices, Jordan was a remarkably go
od sport.

  “I feel like I’m ten again,” he said as a saleswoman held a red cashmere V-neck against his chest. “Every August Mom would drag me to the mall to buy me new clothes.”

  “Did you hate it?”

  “Eh. I got bored, but it was also nice to spend time with her. She’s a really cool lady, even if she is my mother. Plus she bribed me with lunch in the food court. I can be bought for Hot Dog on a Stick.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, making the saleswoman giggle.

  Eventually satisfied that they’d bought enough, Landry led them back toward the hotel. “Thank you,” he said to Jordan as they exited the mall.

  “What are you thanking me for? You’re the one who just spent a small country’s GDP on making me look presentable.”

  “Thank you for letting me do this. I know it wouldn’t be your preference.”

  “If I made a list of the top one hundred crappy things I’ve had to do to earn a living, this wouldn’t be on it.”

  Someday Landry would ask him for that list. He wanted to know more about Jordan’s past, about the combination of circumstances that had brought this incredible man to his doorstep.

  Jordan bumped his shoulder lightly against Landry’s. “All those salespeople recognized you.”

  That was true. Not all of them had enthused as openly as Emilio, but they had all appeared happy to have him as a customer. And he’d signed autographs and taken selfies with every one of them.

  “In their line of work, I suppose they’ve encountered me now and then.”

  “Hmm. But I kinda see what you mean about the brand. I mean, if some random shoe salesman in Nevada has expectations of you, well, it’s hard for you to keep a low profile.”

  “It’s what I signed up for.” Landry was never going to complain about the price of fame, not when he’d worked so hard to get it. Yes, there were downsides. But as Jordan had just pointed out, every job brought challenges, and Landry wasn’t going to whine about having to keep up his image when millions of people mopped floors or flipped burgers for minimum wage.

  They crossed the casino floor, navigating around people with suitcases, people pushing tiny dogs in strollers, people texting, and people meandering with cigarettes in hand. Conversation would have been difficult, so neither said anything until they were alone in the elevator.

  “It’s really hard on you sometimes, isn’t it?” asked Jordan.

  “What?”

  “Being the official version of yourself.”

  Landry shrugged.

  The elevator opened on their floor, and they walked down the corridor. But right after they closed the suite’s door behind them, Jordan put a hand on Landry’s arm. “Elaine used to help you out with this, right? Help you do some of the stuff you want to do but have to be sneaky about?”

  “Yes.” She made fast-food runs on his behalf and rescheduled meetings so he could binge-watch Supernatural and Friends, and she’d pretended not to notice when he spent the morning working in his office—unshowered, unshaven—wearing ratty old Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt. He hadn’t needed this kind of help from her often, but he’d appreciated it.

  Jordan bounced on his toes again. “That’s what I’m gonna do too, then. It’ll be an official part of my job description.”

  It was funny. Such a simple thing, yet Landry felt as if Jordan had suddenly lifted a great weight from his shoulders. “Thank you.”

  “Can we start with tonight? Will you let me give you a fun evening that has nothing to do with your brand?”

  Landry had reservations, but he couldn’t refuse Jordan when he looked so eager. “Fine.”

  Jordan whooped his delight.

  Chapter Nine

  “TELL me you’re kidding.”

  “Nope. Dead serious.” Jordan leaned forward and handed a tip to the driver, then hopped out of the car holding Landry’s hand and dragged him out as well.

  “But it’s a sex museum.”

  Jordan tugged him toward the door. “We’re not here for the museum.”

  The night had begun tamely enough, even though Jordan had appeared slightly disappointed Landry hadn’t packed any jeans. He seemed somewhat assuaged when Landry agreed to wear Jordan’s long-sleeved V-neck tee. It actually gave Landry a strange little thrill to wear something that had spent so many hours in close contact with Jordan’s skin. The shirt was clean, of course, but Landry imagined it still carried a bit of Jordan’s scent.

  Once dressed, they took the hotel monorail to the Luxor, where they ate hot dogs at the food court. Then they walked back up the Strip, stopping for frozen yogurt along the way. Landry dripped a bit of it onto his chest. Laughing, Jordan wiped it off with his fingertip and then licked the finger clean, much to the amusement of the teenagers nearby.

  Jordan had remained stubbornly silent about their next destination. He’d even made Landry stand at a distance so as not to overhear what Jordan whispered to the driver. And now here they were, at a sex museum.

  Once inside, Jordan had a brief discussion about show tickets with the woman at the counter. Ah. The museum had a theater. And apparently Jordan had bought them second-row seats.

  “Puppetry of the Penis?” Landry asked as they sat on folding chairs in the small auditorium. “What does that mean?”

  “Pretty much as advertised.”

  The opener was a stand-up comedian who did a short set. She was funny, Landry had to admit, but he remained worried about the main act.

  And then two naked men walked onstage and began to create various shapes with their cocks and balls. Sombreros. Snails. Hamburgers. It was really silly, and Landry laughed so hard that his eyes teared. Even better was having Jordan sitting so close by, laughing right with him.

  Steve would have been appalled by the show. But Steve was gone, and Landry was having a wonderful time. I love you, Stevie. But Jordan has become important to me.

  After the show, the performers came out—fully clothed—to sign books. Jordan, of course, insisted on buying one. Then he called for a car to pick them up.

  “Horrible?” Jordan asked as they waited outside.

  “Unexpected. But nowhere near my list of one hundred horrible things I’ve had to do.”

  Jordan laughed and gave him a one-armed hug.

  “What made you choose this?” asked Landry. Had Jordan thought the show would shock him? God, did Landry come off as a prude?

  “You said you’d already seen all the big shows, and I thought it would be fun.”

  That simple. “You know, you’ve already secured the job. You’re a wonderful PA. You don’t have to go to this much effort to stay employed.”

  “Two things. One, I like to put in effort and do my job well. I said when you interviewed me: I like to make people happy. It makes me feel useful. And two, I didn’t plan tonight so I can keep my job. I did it for you. ’Cause I specifically want to make you happy.”

  Almost everyone else was already gone, leaving them alone in the parking lot. Across the freeway, the big hotels glowed proudly. But on this side, despite the nearby strip joints, their particular corner was quiet.

  “Why me, Jordan? I see why you’d want the job, but not why you’d risk it. You can go to any gay bar in LA and instantly pick up dozens of men better-looking than me.”

  “It’s not about looks. You’re sexy, no doubt about it, but that’s not the thing.”

  “The thing. What is the thing?” Plaintive, because Landry didn’t understand. He knew fashion, food, entertaining, décor. He had a fairly solid handle on the industry. He could pen a decent blog post or appear on TV without making a fool of himself. But for the life of him, he couldn’t fathom Jordan’s motivations.

  Jordan didn’t answer immediately; he stared at an advertising poster on the museum’s exterior wall. Then he turned to Landry. “My parents met in a dentist’s waiting room. Just two chatty strangers waiting for fluoride treatments. He’s a radio news reporter, and she’s a nurse. Seven days later, they got married. Everyone they
knew—everyone—told them they were making a huge mistake. But Mom says that five minutes after they started talking, click, everything fit together just right. And Dad says he knew before their first date that he was already in love with her. Maybe you don’t believe in love at first sight, Landry. But they’ve been married almost forty years now.”

  “That’s a really sweet story.”

  “Yep, and I’ve heard it approximately eighty billion times. Ugh, and they still kiss in front of me. And hold hands, and cuddle on the couch.”

  Landry couldn’t help but smile. “Sounds horrifying.”

  “It is! Okay, and here’s the thing, and it might freak you out. Probably will.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve felt that click too. For the first time in my life. With you. And it wasn’t, Oh, he gave me this cool job, or even Wow, this guy is hot. It was… Landry Bishop fits me. Like that great suit you bought me today. Just click, and I knew for sure, that first time I made you breakfast. And you’re gonna ask how I could possibly know that when I didn’t even know you, but I did. Fate. Karma. Chemistry. I dunno. But it’s real.” He grabbed Landry’s hands and held tight.

  “Oh.” That was all Landry could manage. Once again, he had no handle on his own thoughts and emotions.

  “Freaked-out?”

  “Maybe. Yes.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I asked; you were honest.”

  Jordan cocked his head. “Did you feel that click with Steve?”

  “No. I felt a big wallop of lust. His office, remember?”

  “Right,” Jordan said with a chuckle.

  “That initial rush subsided. It never went away completely, but Stevie and I….” Landry tried for an analogy that made sense. “You know that armchair in my living room?”

  “The one you sit in when you take a few minutes to watch TV. Sure.”

  “Pairing up with Steve was like settling into that chair. It’s a very good piece of furniture—really well crafted. I can trust it to support me completely. The chair makes me feel good.” He sighed. Poor Stevie deserved more than becoming a metaphorical seat. “I’m not exactly sure what his take on the matter was. I think he liked supporting.”