by Cass Lennox
And if he couldn’t do those things, he was going to do the next best thing and lie through his winningest smile with a pic of his boyfriend at the ready on his phone.
But, damn it, he really wanted to do those things.
He also wanted to take everything back. Brock had a quaver in his voice that Gigi hadn’t heard in a long time, which had him checking himself. Had it really come to this? Was he really going to dump Brock over this? What was he doing?
Gigi cast back over the last year. The last three months or so had fucking sucked, like seriously sucked, but it’d started out so well. How had they reached this point?
Regardless of good beginnings, they couldn’t keep going. Not like this. So now was as good a time as ever to—
“No.” Brock’s voice growled through the phone. Goose bumps rose on Gigi’s skin. Oooh, he knew that voice. He liked that voice.
“No what?”
“No to everything you just said. I don’t know if you’re trying to threaten me or manipulate me, but there is absolutely no way I want to break up with you, babe.” His voice lost the edginess. “Are you really that unhappy with me?”
A lump lodged in Gigi’s throat. “I don’t want to go to Maney. If I have to go, I want to go with you. You keep saying that you have my back, but you’re not here and I don’t understand why. I feel like you haven’t been with me for months now.”
A long silence followed his words.
Brock couldn’t believe he’d fucked up this badly.
He’d been trying. Ever since he’d convinced Gigi he was serious about him at the start of last summer, Brock had made sure he was the perfect boyfriend. They’d met each other’s friends. Taken weekend breaks in Niagara, Syracuse, and Buffalo. He’d gone to as many of Gigi’s shows as he could—the dance performances, the small stage roles, the drag shows when Gigi LaMore came out to play. None of them had been left out. He’d been nothing but supportive of Gigi’s drag and creative pursuits. He even called him Gigi instead of Toby at his request, even though Brock’s memories of Gigi were irreparably tangled with seventeen-year-old Toby Rosenberg. Guilt alone over their history would have ensured his game was up and on point, but he did love Gigi. When Brock thought about it, he wasn’t sure there had ever been a point since he was a teen when he hadn’t loved him.
And he’d assumed he was doing okay there. Making ads was earning Brock the most money he’d ever made, and even though he sometimes had to cancel stuff lately, he’d helped Gigi out with money for other things. And he was building some savings so they could do something together for their future, like buy an apartment or go on some crazy overseas trip. He knew he wasn’t around as much now, but Gigi’s jobs had led to cancelled plans too, so it wasn’t as though he was the only one who prioritized work.
He’d tried.
Only, somehow he was standing in his living room, on the phone with a very upset Gigi and feeling like everything was falling down around his ears. Gigi sounded so far away, and not just physically. He sounded like he was poised to go and, apparently, to never come back to him. To Toronto, yes, but not to him.
How had he let things get this way?
Brock flopped down on his sofa, a tattered and ripped thing he and his housemates had dragged off the street when they’d moved in. The cell felt hot in his hand, as though Gigi’s anger had infused the metal and plastic. His stomach roiled.
He didn’t have a choice. Not really.
“I hear you,” he said. “I’ll go.”
A slow exhalation. “You saying that because you think it’s what I want to hear?”
“No. I’m saying it because I don’t want to have this conversation on the phone. And I don’t want . . .” you to stop loving me. You to leave me. “. . . to let this go. I’ll go to Maney with you.”
He heard some muffled movement from Gigi’s end. “I’m still angry at you, asshole.” Gigi’s tone had lightened slightly, which gave Brock a sliver of hope. “But I know it sucks. I promise, it’ll be better if we’re together, okay? I’ll try too. You have an hour to get to Yorkdale. I’m going to walk around and resist buying the entirety of Zara, but I’m not waiting forever for you, got it?”
“Got it.”
“Bye.”
Gigi hung up, and Brock rose heavily to his feet.
So, he was doing this after all. Going back.
Shit.
Returning to their shitty hometown for Gigi’s sister’s wedding had seemed . . . well, not fine, but kind of doable when Gigi had first mentioned it a year ago. There were awkward things about that which he’d meant to discuss with Gigi before they went. But life had been too perfect to screw up with an argument, and there would be an argument if Gigi knew just how not-out Brock was to his parents, and how he wanted to remain that way. Three months into this relationship at the time felt like too soon to have that kind of argument. He’d wanted Gigi too long to wreck it.
So there was no choice now. Stay and lose him, go and maybe try not to lose him. A total no-brainer.
He called a taxi, then quickly packed a bag. He’d started packing the night before, but midway the thought of going back had paralyzed him to the point that he’d crawled into bed instead, mind playing through how he could tell Gigi in the morning.
All the scenarios he’d thought of paled in comparison to reality. Gigi had been absolutely livid. Of course he’d been—and honestly, Brock was kind of dumb for expecting anything different. He knew Gi. The man was a queen who saw life as a permanent stage and any hiccups as attempts to upstage him. He’d flipped his shit in a display worthy of Mariah Carey and barely paused before sweeping out and screeching away. No questions, no concern for Brock at all, no attempt to try to understand that Brock could not and did not want to do this. Nothing except some scathing one-liners and insults Brock couldn’t bear to respond to.
The thing was, Brock got it. He totally did. But, and not for the first time, he wondered if it would kill Gigi to calm the fuck down for once.
Also not for the first time, he wondered if it would kill him to actually fight back and stand his ground instead of folding like this. Seriously, it wasn’t like it was the worst thing in the world, right? He could have explained himself a year ago, six months ago, six weeks ago. He could have sat Gigi down and explained just how fucked up his family was, and why his gap year had turned into two gap years, and why he never spoke to his parents, and why he never ever wanted to be in the vicinity of his parents ever again. But he hadn’t, and now it was too late. Now any excuses would just show how much of a coward he was.
And he was a coward. Big time. Because despite refusing to go back and hiding that he was still in the closet where his parents and Maney were concerned, there was one thing he was especially scared of: killing this relationship. That was enough to make him backtrack on everything else.
Problem was, he’d trapped himself. Too scared to go back, too scared to stay. And while it was so tempting to sit here and pretend his promises to himself mattered more than his boyfriend, Brock knew Gigi wouldn’t forgive him if he stayed here this weekend.
So. He was going. Because if there was a sliver of a chance he could mitigate that whole coming-out thing better while being there, he might be able to keep his relationship. Hopefully.
As he tossed in boxers and a clean sleep shirt, he paused at the sight of lube and tissues on the dresser. A new bottle, unopened, ready for action. Would it be too presumptuous to take it with him? Maybe. Maybe not. He tossed it in the bag.
One suit, shoes, phone charger, some spare socks, and a shirt, and he was good to go.
His stomach tied itself in knots as he put on a jacket and got into the taxi, twisting further the closer he got to Yorkdale. By the time he paid the driver and went into the mall, his stomach was a lead weight. He was well within time, but the centre was huge and his boyfriend wasn’t patient.
He texted that he was at Starbucks, bought some coffee, and waited.
Oh God, he was really do
ing this. He was going back. With his boyfriend. They’d be open as boyfriends in front of the homophobic assholes who’d made Gigi’s high school years a genuine misery and Brock’s a closeted wreck. He’d be out in front of everyone who’d once known him. The idea of being out in front of Mrs. Sable from down the road and his English teacher who’d hated him and anyone from school who was still there and his parents was horrifying. Being boyfriends in Toronto wasn’t a problem, just as being out in Toronto wasn’t a problem. But in Maney?
And having to deal with all that in front of Gigi as well as dealing with Gigi . . .
The coffee was a mistake. The lead in his stomach had turned into heavy roiling acid, ready to be ejected all over the shiny mall floor.
He saw Gigi before Gigi saw him. Not difficult—the man stood out in a crowd. He was practically walking art: lean and muscular from dancing, spangled with jewellery from earlobe to glittery shoes, and hair dyed to a deep red like fallen leaves. There was a now-familiar surge of blood as Brock watched him, and his stomach somersaulted before settling back down again—a little lighter and steadier this time.
Under the red hair and sparkles, Gigi’s face was wan and frowning as he walked towards the store. “I’m not happy” replayed in Brock’s head, and he fought to keep from laughing hysterically. If Gigi wasn’t happy with him now, despite everything Brock had done to be the boyfriend Gigi deserved, he was going to be miserable by the time they came back to Toronto. Guaranteed.
This weekend is going to be a fucking disaster. Maybe I should just stay here and save us all a lot of trouble.
Yeah, no. Going back was happening.
Brock took a few steps to meet Gigi, coffee in one hand and weekend bag in the other. Gigi glanced him over, unimpressed. “That’s all you’re bringing?”
“I didn’t want to be late.”
“Please tell me there’s at least a suit in there.”
“Yes! Not everyone needs five outfits a day.”
That took Brock back to their Syracuse trip, when he’d taken two shirts and a mountain of lube and condoms, and Gigi had brought a massive suitcase stuffed with clothes. They’d teased each other in between kissing and fucking and eating and taking in the sights of Upstate New York. It had been Gigi’s first time out of Canada. Granted, it hadn’t been exactly far out of Canada, but it still counted.
That had been an amazing trip.
Gigi stiffened, his eyes narrowing. “You’re meeting my family.”
“I’m pretty sure I can buy anything else I need in Maney.”
Gigi crossed his arms and looked aside. That set jaw meant he was either angry or nervous. Maybe both. If he was nervous too, that was something. Brock gripped the handle of his bag tighter and watched Gigi refuse to react—he could tell, he knew how Gigi’s mind worked. The sounds of the mall filled the silence between them. His coffee warmed his fingers through the thin cardboard cup.
So stupid. And weird. Why all this over a trip? Over clothes? How could someone he understood this well also be someone whose reactions sometimes completely confused him?
“You done here?” Brock gestured to the mall.
Gigi nodded, the movement jerky. “Let’s do this.”
Brock followed him out into the parking lot. The day was bright and sunny, a pleasant autumn day, which was a perfect contrast to the black mood between him and Gigi. Brock trailed behind him, sipping his coffee and watching Gigi’s ass flex as he walked.
One year and three months ago, he’d watched that ass walk up to a dance audition stand and he’d been unable to look away. Not that he’d been expecting to know the owner of the ass at the time—Brock was only there to do a documentary with his friend and project partner, Katie. As far as he’d been concerned, Gigi was just another dancer in the dance competition they’d be filming.
Brock had been setting up the camera, gauging light and focus and watching the dancers congregate next to the stands. Strong, lean, tough bodies flexed and stood and sipped coffee, completely unaware of their beauty or the looks they were getting from passersby. Brock lifted weights and jogged, so he knew he was built, but the athleticism here was something else.
And so was the last dancer to show up: tight jeans and a T-shirt that gave everything away, iced coffee in hand and wide grins for his fellow dancers. His hair was dyed an electric purple, earrings sparkled from both lobes, and his ass looked tight enough to spank back. Beautiful and crazy sexy.
So obviously when he and Katie approached the dancers to introduce themselves, he’d approached the hot guy with a grin.
Sexy Ass smiled widely back at him, a thrilling, cheeky smile that seemed familiar and made Brock’s blood surge. One dextrous, elegant hand was held out—not for Brock to shake, but to kiss.
Brock took it gently. “I feel like we’ve met before.”
Sexy Ass frowned and cocked his head. “Hmm. Possibly. You . . . Wait, maybe you know me as Gigi LaMore.” His expression turned sultry. “I’ve had some very fun shows.”
“How would he recognize you out of drag?” his fellow dancer, Tyler, asked.
“Hush you.” Gigi batted his eyes at Brock. “Enchanted.”
A drag queen. That explained a lot. Smiling, Brock bowed over Gigi’s hand, almost but not quite kissing it. Queens could be temperamental about that. “Pleased to meet you, Gigi.” He straightened. “I’m Brock Stubbs.”
Gigi stiffened and went pure white, grey eyes wide. He whipped his hand out of Brock’s. “Y-you don’t say.”
Just like that, the flirty vibe was gone. Looking back, Brock could see this was when Gi had recognized him, but at the time, he’d just been taken aback by the one-eighty.
Katie had stepped in, given them some spiel about looking forward to working with them, then hustled Brock back to their equipment. Throughout the auditions, Brock had kept eyeing Gigi, a feeling that he knew him niggling away in his gut. No particular thing stood out, but the guy just seemed so very familiar. Had he slept with him and forgotten? Brock doubted it. Gigi looked like he’d be a memorable lay.
Gigi kept glancing at him too.
A few long hours later and Gigi was finally assigned to a sporty guy named Mark, who had a very supportive girlfriend in the audience. Katie groaned when Mark and Gigi met, Mark shaking his hand enthusiastically and Gigi looking like he’d touched something gross.
“Christ, this is going to be a mess,” Katie murmured to Brock.
“What? Why?”
“Look at them. Hetero überjock with gay sex kitten.” She popped her gum. “Guy’s practically allergic to Mark. It’ll either be hilarious or mortifying on film.”
Brock let his eyes linger on Gigi. “What’s Gigi’s deal?”
“Deal? He’s a dancer. He’s . . .” Katie looked between Brock and Gigi, the penny obviously dropping. “Him? Really? I thought you went for the serious, conscientious type, not—” she waved towards the dancers “—that.”
“Hey, what do you mean by ‘that’?”
She gave him a hard look. “You remember telling me about Toby?”
A bolt of guilt went through Brock. Toby. He’d never get over Toby. Wait, how did she know about him? “No,” he said honestly.
“Thought not. You were wasted. End of semester party at my house, remember? I got you to the bathroom okay, and after throwing up, you mumbled something about trying to find Toby because he was the love of your life and you wanted to make things up to him.” She shrugged. “I figured you wanted to find your high school boyfriend and play house, not chase tail.”
“But look at the tail.”
Her jaw moved as she frowned at him. “Brock, you’re the kind of guy who wants to settle down with a nice man, adopt a few babies, and grow old together. Do you even do flings and one-night stands?”
“Uh, yeah?” Was that how he came across? He knew he wasn’t sex on legs like Gigi over there, but he didn’t do badly in the gay scene. Especially once he’d dropped his hang-ups about his sexuality, which had hap
pened during his extended gap year. After doing charity work in Indonesia for a year, then working and fucking his way through Europe for another year, he’d definitely sorted through the mental scars his upbringing had left about sex and same-sex relationships. No more closet for him. That meant having fun in Toronto’s Village and gay bars while also keeping a lookout for Toby’s face. Because yeah, he had to find him and at least apologize for what he’d done.
“It’s just that the way you were about this Toby guy made it seem like that’s who you’re holding out for. You were so into him.” Katie snapped her gum again. “Gigi, on the other hand, is a high-maintenance queen; even I can see that.”
Brock grinned. “Maybe so, but he’s fucking hot.”
“Ugh. Just don’t do anything that jeopardizes this project.” She pointed at the dance machine where two girls were waiting. “Film them. I think one of them knows Tyler. She might get through based on friendship.”
After the auditions were over, Brock had packed up the camera and headed to lunch with Katie. Thoughts of Gigi warred with memories of Toby throughout lunch and well into the afternoon.
Toby Rosenberg. Brock had moved to Toronto specifically to find the guy and make amends with him, and to finally attend university, but he’d been here for three years and hadn’t seen so much as a hair. He wasn’t on Facebook, none of Brock’s gay friends knew of him, Brock hadn’t spotted him out in any of the gay clubs and bars, and Brock was starting to wonder if Toby had given him the wrong information about his university plans back in school.
The Toby in his memories had been tall and overweight, with big grey eyes, floppy dirty-blond hair, and a filthy mouth. Adorable. A drama club member who could sing and dance, Toby had haltingly told him about his dream to move to Toronto, leave Maney behind for good, and take the stage. The Maney gossip mill backed that up; he’d gone to Toronto, been in a few plays. But Brock hadn’t seen him, so was he still here? Or had he moved on to somewhere more exciting for actors, like New York?
