Redesigning Landry Bishop

by Kim Fielding

  Jordan mumbled “amazing,” or something like that—Landry’s pulse pounded so loudly he had trouble hearing. He moved to his knees, straddling Jordan’s waist, and gazed down at him in wonder.

  Then Jordan gently scraped his teeth across Landry’s nipple as his fingertips teased the cleft of Landry’s ass, and Landry’s body zinged with marvelous electricity. “Fuck yes!” he shouted, slamming his hands against the headboard, not caring whether someone might hear. Another delightful movement of Jordan’s fingers and Landry’s leg jerked sideways of its own accord, granting Jordan better access and also knocking something noisily off the nightstand. “Yes!” he repeated before bending down to suck greedily at the crook of Jordan’s neck.

  Everything was heat and friction and taste, and nothing in the history of the universe had ever been this good.

  But still Landry wanted more. With his lips still pressed to Jordan’s sweet-salty skin, Landry sprawled on top of him, aligning their cocks together. Jordan moaned and moved his fingers a bit deeper—not quite inside Landry’s body, but close enough to make Landry buck and thrust and growl as Jordan drove his own hips upward.

  “God, L-lan!” As Jordan gasped these words, the wet heat of his climax proved exactly enough to pull Landry over the edge as well. Even then, they weren’t finished. Still shuddering with aftershocks and heedless of the mess at their groins, they kissed some more, Landry carding fingers through Jordan’s damp hair.

  “Sleep in my bed?” Landry asked when he’d caught his breath. Because that was what he wanted now, maybe even more than he’d wanted sex.

  Jordan gently cupped Landry’s cheek. “Every night until you kick me out.”

  Chapter Eleven

  MORNING sex was a new thing for Landry, but Jordan’s contagious enthusiasm caused them both to go at it with more vigor than Landry would have thought possible. Afterward they sprawled on the mattress, bathed in the afterglow.

  “I should go exercise,” said Landry.

  “I thought we just did.”

  “Cardio, yes. But today is supposed to be a leg day.”

  Jordan laughed and stroked Landry’s flank. “They’re great legs.”

  They ended up going to the fitness center together. And although Landry had expected some awkwardness—perhaps a shadow of regret on Jordan’s part—the opposite proved to be true. Jordan was cheerier than ever, and their interactions felt as smooth and easy as if they’d been working together forever. Back in their suite, they paired up in the oversize shower, and afterward Jordan watched Landry’s skin and hair regime with fascination. “You know, you’d look just as good without the creams and goos.”

  “Perhaps, but I’m accustomed to using them.”

  “Sure, Lord Thistlebottom.”

  Landry gave Jordan’s butt a satisfying swat.

  Later, Landry again dictated a list of tasks, and Jordan took notes as assiduously as before. But this time Jordan kissed Landry’s forehead when the list was complete. “Don’t work too hard, okay? Do you want a cabana?”

  “No… but maybe we could find a quiet corner somewhere else?”

  They settled on a lounge reserved for the fancy-suite guests, which included comfortable seating, light foot traffic, and an array of snacks and cold drinks. If anyone had consulted Landry, he would have told them the room’s color scheme was slightly dated. New carpeting and wallpaper might be too much, but at least the abstract paintings could be changed. None of it distracted him from work, though. Jordan mostly left him alone, although he periodically texted a quick question.

  Shortly after noon he arrived with a lovely salad. “Three kinds of dressing,” he announced, setting little plastic cups on the table in front of Landry. “’Cause I wasn’t sure which you’d want. Those cubes among the greens are spiced tofu. I figured you might want some protein but nothing too heavy after last night.”

  “It was a good night.”

  Jordan’s answering smile was a nine on the Jordan Stryker Scale, which Landry had just invented as a rubric for measuring Jordan’s apparent happiness. “It really, totally was.”

  “When we get home—”

  Smile disappearing, Jordan sat close beside him and spoke quietly. “This isn’t a stays-in-Vegas thing, is it?”

  “What?”

  “You know—what happens in Vegas….”

  It took Landry a moment to decipher the meaning, and when he did, his chest ached. He took Jordan’s hand in both of his. “If you’re asking whether I intended this as a temporary vacation… fling, no. That wouldn’t be fair to you. And it’s not what I want.”

  “Me either.”

  Landry nodded. “What I was going to say was, when we return home, I’m going to have to spend a lot less time playing and more time buckling down.”

  That made Jordan’s eyebrows rise, but he didn’t say anything. He had folded his lips between his teeth as if he were literally biting back words. He gently withdrew his hand and fussed over Landry’s lunch, setting out a paper napkin and plastic utensils and carefully unsnapping the lid off the salad. Then he stood. “Anything else you need right now? Iced tea?”

  Landry pointed to the bottle of water next to his laptop. “I’m set, thanks. Feel free to relax when your work’s done, but meet me in the suite at six thirty.”

  “Sure.”

  Taking a few bites of his salad now and then, Landry finished a reasonable amount of writing throughout the afternoon. He outlined two book chapters and finished a blog entry on makeup storage hacks. Then he threw away the trash and packed up everything else before heading back to his room. He had a long phone conversation with Suzee’s producer, followed by shorter calls to a few people he hoped would supply promo items for the show. Even if a demo fell flat or an interview proved tedious, he could keep the audience loyal by giving them freebies. He happily scored several good items, including a hairbrush claiming to be tangle-proof, a faux fur throw blanket, and a set of noise-canceling headphones. He’d need to keep working on this project, but it was a good start. Actually, he was pleasantly surprised to accomplish anything at all, considering his mind kept wandering to thoughts of Jordan. Sense memories of Jordan.

  He’d just finished finagling gel socks that were supposed to improve dry skin when Jordan walked into the suite, plastic bag in hand.

  “You did some shopping?” Landry asked.

  “A little.”

  “What did you get?” Landry couldn’t make out the logo on the bag. Not that it was any of his business.

  “Oh, nothing. This and that. But what should I wear for dinner tonight?”

  Ignoring the obvious change of subject, Landry led him to the closet and helped him choose an outfit. Truthfully, Jordan needed only a little guidance this time. Once dressed, he followed Landry to his closet and watched closely while Landry picked out his clothes. “Less swanky tonight?”

  “Tonight I’m going for carefully cultivated casual.”

  “Ah. I still think you should wear that sweater more. The one that matches your eyes.”

  Apparently flirtation was still going to make Landry blush, even though they’d slept together. He had always sucked at flirting. Jordan’s playfulness was new to him—and Landry was discovering he liked it.

  Tonight’s restaurant was downtown, a couple of blocks from the Denny’s but in an entirely different culinary category. It was called Re/Style, complete with cutesy and unnecessary punctuation.

  “Ah,” Jordan muttered as soon as they entered. “Hipster food.”

  He wasn’t wrong. The place claimed to serve “reimagined comforting classics in refreshed ways.” After perusing the menu and looking around, Landry concluded this meant thirty bucks for a BLT made with rainbow bread, kale, and candied bacon. With artisanal pickles on the side. Re/Style didn’t offer alcohol but instead focused on cold-pressed juices.

  “At least we don’t need a microscope to see our dinner,” Jordan said cheerfully. He ordered a trendy permutation of grilled cheese with tomato
soup, while Landry decided on fried chicken. Their waiter, a young man named Humberto, was adorable, with big sparkly earrings and deep dimples.

  “He recognizes you.”

  Landry looked at Jordan in surprise. “How do you know? He didn’t say anything.”

  “Yeah, he’s too much of a pro for that. But watch how he interacts with other people. He fussed over us way more.”

  Landry watched and saw the truth of Jordan’s statement. While Humberto was a good waiter in general, he didn’t spend as much time at the other tables.

  “Maybe he just thinks you’re cute,” Landry said.

  “Maybe he thinks you’re cute. But nah. I can tell.” Jordan looked thoughtful. “It’s rough, isn’t it? Not being anonymous.”

  “I chose my career path. I’m not going to complain.”

  “Sure. But when you chose it, did you truly realize what it would mean?”

  Landry replied with a shrug. He hadn’t given the price of fame much thought when he was younger, and to the extent he did consider it, he’d thought it was a small price. After all, look what he had. Look how many people admired him, hung on his every word. That was worth a lack of privacy, wasn’t it?

  Their food arrived promptly but in surprising forms. Landry’s chicken legs sat on their ends in a flower pot, tied together by braided garlic chives: a poultry bouquet. A vegetable medley overflowed the scoop of a plastic spade, and the accompanying roll was shaped like a worm or caterpillar, complete with currant eyes. Humberto served the entire ensemble on a tray illustrated with antique seed packets.

  Jordan received his soup in a small black cauldron. A rack arched over the cauldron, with the grilled cheese suspended from hooks and dripping into the soup.

  “It’s like a sandwich torture chamber,” Jordan said. He picked up a slender fried zucchini stick and stabbed it into his bread. “Confess or it’s the esophagus for you!”

  “What crimes might your dinner have committed?”

  “Burning the roof of someone’s mouth? Hmm. Maybe getting grease all over their fingers, which then touched expensive clothes or important papers.”

  “How dastardly!”

  Jordan tore off a hunk of sandwich and ate it. “You know what’s really dastardly? Someone in the kitchen has to wash all these stupid-assed shovels and things. Plates were invented for a reason.”

  That was a good point, and Landry made a mental note to never recommend overly cutesy serving ideas. He dug into his meal, which was tasty but not spectacular. He would have been almost as satisfied with the chicken that came in a cardboard bucket.

  Humberto checked in with them often, topping off their water glasses and bringing a felled forest’s worth of extra napkins. He whisked away their empty dishes promptly, and when they declined dessert, he promised to bring coffee instead.

  “I really hope it comes in a regular cup,” Jordan said after Humberto was gone.

  Before Landry could speculate on how else the restaurant could serve coffee, a woman strode purposefully toward them. Her dark hair was pinned up, and around her waist was a white apron suspiciously free of food splatters.

  “Mr. Bishop?” Although her smile was wide, it looked strained.

  Landry shook her outstretched hand. “Landry Bishop. And this is Jordan Stryker.”

  She barely glanced Jordan’s way. “I’m Ivory Wintuck. Owner-chef of Re/Style. I’m so honored to have you as a guest!”

  What followed was fifteen minutes of awkward conversation in which Landry tried to say kind things about her restaurant without outright lying while repeatedly turning down offers to try the rest of the menu items. He kept trying to include Jordan in the chatter, but Ivory mostly ignored him. Jordan simply watched.

  Finally Landry had enough. “Thanks for visiting with us, Ivory. It’s been a pleasure. But Jordan and I would like to continue our date.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh! I thought— Never mind. Thank you again, Landry.” After a brief negotiation in which she offered to comp their entire bill and Landry politely refused, she wished him good night, gave Jordan a final glance, and walked away. They never did get their coffee.

  “Sorry about that,” muttered Landry. But Jordan was giving him an odd look, piercing and undecipherable. Landry paid the check and led them out onto the street. He intended to call for a ride back to the hotel, but Jordan leaned against a nearby brick wall and stared at him.

  “What?” Landry finally demanded.

  “You told her we were dating.”

  “You didn’t want me to?”

  “No, it’s fine. But you could have said I was your PA. It would have been the truth.”

  Flummoxed, Landry shook his head. “Not the whole truth. Anyway, why does it matter what I told her? She was incredibly rude to you.”

  “I don’t care about that. I’m just….” He looked away, as if fascinated by the blinking lights on the bar down the street. His bouncing and his pursed lips betrayed his anxiety, however, and eventually he looked at Landry again. “You don’t mind if people know you and I are… a thing. Of some kind.”

  Landry decided they could name the thing later. He moved closer and cupped Jordan’s chin. “Why on earth would I mind?”

  “I’m not exactly in your league, am I? I’m not a celebrity or a rich lawyer or… anything like that. I’m kind of a flake who’s never done anything important.”

  Oh no. Regret and self-damnation flooded Landry. “I’m so sorry if I gave you the impression I didn’t think you were good enough for me. I never felt that way. It’s not why I was reluctant. You are nobody to be ashamed of. Not ever.”

  “Yeah?” Hesitancy was rare for Jordan, and it broke Landry’s heart a little. Had nobody ever told him he was valuable?

  “Yes. And you told me yourself that what you want to do is make other people’s lives easier. That’s at least as important as writing blogs about brightening your living room with fresh throw pillow covers.”

  They kissed then, of course. A warm kiss, sweet as honey and filled with promise. Tonight Landry didn’t much care about hiding public displays of affection. He wanted Jordan to know his words were sincere, and he couldn’t think of better proof. Judging by the way Jordan’s shoulders relaxed under Landry’s hands, he found the kiss persuasive.

  Soon afterward they caught a ride back to the hotel, practically sprinted to the elevator, and made out during the fast ride up. Inside the suite, they sent their clothes flying. One of Landry’s shoes knocked a snack container off the display stand, no doubt activating the automated inventory. He’d end up being billed for those snacks, but what did it matter? Especially when he learned that Jordan’s purchases that afternoon included condoms and lube and that Jordan was eager to use them in whichever ways Landry saw fit.

  Once again, Landry took the lead. Not because he was a control freak, not because he was used to giving orders, and certainly not because Jordan showed hesitance in any way—because he most definitely did not. Landry took charge because he delighted in exploring Jordan’s body and finding new ways to make him moan. Jordan was a willing feast, and Landry was ravenous.

  After some preparation and Jordan’s demands that he hurry up, Landry sank into Jordan’s body. Groaning, Jordan stared up at him and urged him deeper. Harder. And when it all became too much and Landry lost his rhythm, simply plunging onward without finesse, Jordan pulled Landry’s head down and sighed into his ear. “Perfect, Lan. God, perfect.”

  By nine thirty, they lay naked, sweaty, and sated in Landry’s bed. Although tempted to turn in—with Jordan—Landry sat up and sighed. “I have to—”

  “Get some work done.” Jordan said it without rancor but looked disappointed. “Gotcha.”

  “We’ll want an early start in the morning.”

  “Do you want me to pack up everything tonight?”

  “It can wait. Relax.”

  “I’d tell you the same, but you won’t listen. Hang on, though.” Still delightfully bare, Jordan padded out of the be
droom and into his own. He returned a moment later carrying what looked like folded clothes. “Here. Put these on.”

  “Why? What are they?”

  “Don’t sound so suspicious. I promise they won’t make you burst into flames.”

  Landry took the items with a degree of trepidation. One of them turned out to be a purple T-shirt bearing the iconic Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas sign. The other was a pair of black sweatpants made of very soft cotton fleece. Landry held one item in each hand. “Why?”

  “They’re comfy. You don’t need to dress up when you’re working in a hotel room.”

  Landry always dressed up. With rare exceptions over the past years, the closest he’d come to casual was wearing Jordan’s T-shirt. But as usual he found Jordan hard to resist, so he donned the new outfit. “The shirt’s too big.”

  “When you go out, you can wear stuff that shows off your physique. I already know what’s hidden under there”—he gave a wolfish smile—“and a baggy shirt is perfect for when you want to be schlumpy and relaxed.”

  As Landry sat in the living room, he had to admit that the soft, roomy T-shirt felt nice. Sometimes he stroked the leg of the sweatpants, enjoying the sueded feel of the fabric. In his bedroom—their bedroom now—Jordan sprawled naked in bed, laughing quietly at whatever he was watching on TV. That was nice too. Much better than the instrumental music Landry sometimes piped through his speakers in an attempt to feel less alone.

  Tomorrow they’d return to a more normal routine in LA, and Landry wasn’t at all certain what shape their relationship would take then. For now, though, he was content with what he had.

  That warm feeling accompanied him through several texts and a few emails. Until he got to a message that began Dear Wormy, You need to come back to Peril.