by Mel Gough
After a moment, she erases ‘penthouse’ and writes ‘PH’. Then, at the top of the page, she writes DT in big letters. It raises her spirits to make a note of her adventure. She feels a little bit like a private investigator. Another thing she’ll be able to tell Damien later. He’ll find it funny, that she hung around here, waiting for him.
But Damien never shows. Viv stays at the café for nearly three hours. Her butt is sore from the uncomfortable bar stool, and finally she admits defeat. Without looking toward the cash register, where the youth has been waiting for customers with as much success as she has been waiting for Damien, Viv exits the café.
She’ll try again tomorrow. This was a waste of time.
28
Viv is in the back of another sedan and halfway to Chinatown the next morning when she has an epiphany. She pulls out her phone and goes straight into her Instagram app. Ignoring a bunch of comments she got on her bubble tea picture she types @iamdamienthomas into the search bar. He doesn’t use his account much, and until now she had forgotten that he has one. The last picture he posted is dated the day they left Vegas. It shows the sunset from their roof terrace, and Viv is reminded of the first time she met Damien.
But she’s not one for sentimentalities. She taps the little picture icon on the right to bring up all the pictures Damien has been tagged in. Two rows show Damien in his Nordic costume from his role as Bard on Gaukur. But the first picture on the third row is a fan selfie. Viv clicks on it. The date on it is yesterday, and it shows a beaming young man with braces and Damien, who bumps fists with the guy. The picture is geotagged LAX.
Well, that explains her fruitless stake-out of the day before. He’s not even in the city. And, consequently, she doesn’t need to go to Chinatown today. Just great! Why didn’t she think of the possibility that he might be away? But Vivienne isn’t irritated for long.
“Change of plan,” she says to the driver, and brings up a list on her phone that she has been drawing up over the last few days. “I’d like you to take me to the following address.” She gives him the address of a kids’ and baby store off Broadway. When they get to there, she says, “Wait for me. And change your log book. I’ll need you for the rest of the day.”
After spending an hour and a thousand dollars in the little store, she directs the driver to another, similar store a couple of blocks away. Another few hundred dollars later she feels pretty good. As she appraises the dozen or so bags around her in the back seat, stroking her belly absently, she says to the driver, “We’ll have one last stop. Babies R Us, Union Square.”
It’s time to look at strollers.
29
Another fan selfie from LAX the next day alerts Viv to the fact that Damien is already on his way back. She calculates that, judging by the timing of the picture, he’ll land in New York around three in the afternoon. It’ll take him an hour or so to get back home, but it’s better to be safe than sorry, so Viv decides to be at the bubble tea café at around half past three.
She spends a couple of hours sorting through all the baby clothes and toys she bought the previous day. Seeing the tiny pink vests and romper suits fills her with a happiness she hasn’t felt in a long time. The stroller and crib she ordered at Babies R Us will arrive in a few days. Then she browses the Internet for a while, looking at nursery wallpaper patterns. The apartment on Park Avenue only has two bedrooms, but she estimates that it’ll take her and Damien a little longer than nine months to find their perfect home together, so she’ll convert the second bedroom into a nursery as soon as possible. There’s no way she’ll move in with Damien into that crummy penthouse in Chinatown. Good thing the New York apartment is hers; she bought it with her income for Eve. There won’t be any unpleasantness about it with Victor when it comes to the divorce.
She hails a yellow cab for the ride downtown today. The limousine chauffeur yesterday had thrown her odd looks by the time he’d dropped her off home with all her baby purchases and hadn’t even offered to help her carry them inside. In the end, the doorman had obliged, but Viv would rather not meet the rude chauffeur again just yet.
On the drive she considers texting or calling Damien, but something stops her. Viv frowns at her own strangeness. Why should she be worried about it? Maybe he’s still mad at her, and that’s better worked out face-to-face.
She settles again into the window at the bubble tea café. After twenty minutes, a cab pulls up outside Damien’s building. He gets out, his cell clamped to his ear. Viv watches him unload a small suitcase from the trunk but doesn’t move. A few moments later, the cab pulls away, and Damien disappears into the house and from view.
Viv sits motionless, clutching her handbag. She has no idea why she didn’t go out to catch up with Damien before he disappeared. When he got out of the cab all she could think about was how he hadn’t wanted her to stay the night last time they saw each other. What if he really doesn’t want to see her now? She wants to tell him about the baby. She’s sure he won’t want to leave her side once he knows, but such news need the right occasion. And maybe now is not the time to tell him. He’s just had a long flight and is tired.
A gaggle of teenage girls bursts through the door into the bubble tea café, laughing and talking at high volume. Viv flinches, then slides off the barstool and hurries past them out of the shop. As she walks toward the nearest bigger intersection to hail a cab, past black trash bags containing the refuse of the day from all the restaurants and businesses around here, she once again muses about what an unpleasant neighborhood this is.
She can’t wait to get Damien uptown. Once he sees how much better life is there, he’ll be grateful about the fresh start with her and their little one.
30
Trying not to think about the disastrous charity gala becomes Brad’s favorite pastime over the next few days. The memory haunts him during his shifts, which are frustrating as hell. No progress is being made in the Chinatown murder, and a sudden dip in temperature accompanied by days of incessant rainfall brings with it the first wave of flu. It travels from the uniforms on the beat into the station at lightning speed. Eric is one of the first victims, and Brad finds himself working overtime on additional cases with a different partner every day as more and more detectives get their feet knocked out from under them by influenza.
As bad as the days are, the extra work at least allows Brad to push the miserable thoughts to the back of his mind for some of the time. It’s the nights he dreads, the lonely dinners and his even lonelier bed. Lying there in the dark, his mind replays the embarrassing scene at the Bowery Hotel, his face burning with remembered humiliation. And increasingly, inspired by his overall misery, Brad’s mind wanders again back to Aiden and their failed relationship. He worries about how his ex might be getting on with the medication and his therapy and is more than once tempted to call him. He never does.
Then, on Eric’s second day of flu-related absence, during the first hour of Brad’s early shift, a vice detective Brad only knows by sight stops by his desk. “You’re working that Chinatown murder, right?”
Brad looks up. “You got something for me?”
“Just arrested old Mr. Liu’s nephew visiting from Chicago,” the vice detective says, looking pleased with himself. “Looks like he’s got himself a new and shiny meth habit and thought of creative ways to feed it.” The detective grins. “Uniforms picked him up a block over, while he helped himself to some other family jewels.”
In no time at all, they’ve got a confession for the murder, and the investigation switches to court prep, which means more desk work. With Eric out of commission that would suit Brad fine. But right now, all it means is spending more time on the incidence floor full of coughing and sneezing cops, and evenings lying awake even longer because he isn’t tired out from running around all day. And to top it all off, after the first day of sorting and preparing files he already has a headache and a twitchy eye from staring at the computer screen for hours on end.
Without an unsolv
ed case looming above his head Brad doesn’t need to do any overtime, so Saturday night finds him vegging on the sofa with a beer and a bowl of salted peanuts, too miserable even to go to the gym. Some old Doris Day film is on TV and he watches with half an eye while munching his way through the peanuts. When his phone rings at almost ten p.m., Brad’s eyes are already drooping. He nearly upends his beer on the coffee table as he gropes for the phone.
Damien’s number flashes on the little screen. Brad sits up straight, no longer sleepy. Then he stabs at the green phone icon before he can change his mind.
“Hello.” He tries to keep his voice neutral but is aware just how tight the one word of greeting sounded.
“Hey, man.” Damien sounds nervous. There’s an awkward pause. Brad can hear traffic noise in the background. Finally, Damien continues, “How’re you?”
“Not bad,” Brad says before his mind has quite caught up with his mouth. “You?”
“I’m all right I guess. Listen, I…” Damien hesitates, and Brad is sure there’s an apology coming. Before he can head Damien off the other man asks, “You at home?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“You’re in Brooklyn, right?”
“Uh-huh.” Brad has an inkling where this is going, and he’s not sure if he wants it to.
“Hey, if… if it’s not too late, and you’re not busy…can I come over?”
Brad needs another moment to think this one through. He asks, “You in Brooklyn tonight?”
“Yeah,” Damien says. “Was out with some friends, and…well, I wanna see you. I think we should talk.” When Brad doesn’t answer for a while, he adds in a quiet voice, “So, what about it?”
“Yeah, sure,” Brad says, heart beating fast. “I’m at Garfield Place, number forty-eight.”
“Great!” Damien sounds relieved. “I’m already in a cab. Ten minutes?”
“Okay, see you soon,” Brad says.
“Yeah.” Damien’s voice betrays a smile. “Can’t wait.”
Brad hangs up. What does that mean, he can’t wait? What about Wednesday, then? And he doesn’t believe for a second that Damien was out with friends and just happened to be close by.
For a moment, Brad just sits on the sofa. Then he gets up and grabs the beer bottle and almost empty bowl of peanuts in a great sweeping motion. He dumps the dregs from the bowl into the trash and finishes the beer. He needs it, after that call. Back in the living room he picks up a sofa cushion that’s fallen on the floor and turns the TV off. Then he smooths down his hair with both hands, noting that it could do with a trim.
Should he change clothes? He’s still in jeans and the black tee he wore under his shirt to work. Brad shakes his head at himself. Jesus, what’s wrong with him? Damien won’t give a shit about empty bottles or peanuts on the table, or what he wears. And even if he did, why should Brad care?
Brad can hear Damien’s footsteps on the stairs outside before the doorbell chimes. He hurries to answer it, but then checks himself right by the door. With one hand on the doorknob he takes a deep breath.
“Hey!” Damien gives an awkward little wave as the door swings open.
“Hey,” Brad echoes. He can’t help but let his eyes glide up and down Damien’s body. He wears a black leather jacket over a white tee and his blue jeans riding low on his hips. Damien’s dark curls shimmer silken in the glow of the porchlight, and Brad imagines what it’d feel like to comb his fingers through them.
“Come on in,” he says, trying to recover some of his poise. He steps aside, and Damien walks into the house. At least his reaction when he looks around is predictable, and something Brad can deal with. Damien gives a low whistle as he turns around in a circle, taking in the downstairs.
“I assumed you’d get more for your buck out here than in Manhattan,” he says, his voice awed. “But I didn’t know a detective’s salary stretches quite this far.”
Brad lets the door fall closed. “Inheritance,” he says, hoping to head off the small talk and any kind of apology he doesn’t want. “Would you like a drink, or—”
With one fluid movement, Damien steps right into Brad’s space and claims his lips before Brad can get out the rest of the sentence. Brad stiffens, surprise not even beginning to describe his feelings at this turn of events. But with an effort he switches off the part of his brain that always second-guesses and leans into the kiss. He parts his lips as Damien’s tongue pushes against them.
Damien tastes of cigarettes and, oddly, ginger ale. Brad had been so sure he would’ve had a drink or two, to stiffen his resolve, to be so bold. Damien’s hands sneak around Brad’s back, settling just above his waistband.
When Damien pulls away there’s an impish grin on his face, but he also looks relieved. “Just wanted to make sure we’re on the same page,” he says, breathless.
“Do you want a drink?” Brad asks again. He’s not sure how fast he wants this to go, though he knows he won’t say no to Damien’s agenda once they get down to it.
“Not really,” Damien says. He still holds Brad close but doesn’t make a move to pick up where they left off. “We can talk about everything, I swear. It’s just…” He glances at the staircase.
Brad follows his gaze, then fixes Damien’s eyes again with his. “That’s fine with me; we can talk later. I just need to know one thing.”
“What the deal is with Viv,” Damien guesses. Brad nods, and Damien sighs. “She’s not what you think. We’re not dating. We just…”
“Fucked,” Brad supplies.
Damien looks sheepish. “Yeah.”
Brad feels sorry for Damien. He doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable. Whatever is going on with that woman won’t be explained in a few sentences. He sighs. “C’mere.” Brad is about an inch taller than Damien, and he leans in and dips his head to resume the kiss.
Maria would give him a talking to right about now, about how Damien should own up to everything before Brad takes him to bed. Brad grins at the thought.
“What?” Damien asks around Brad’s eager lips.
“Nothing,” Brad murmurs. He pulls away and takes Damien by the hand. “Come on.”
They climb to the second floor together. Inside the bedroom, Damien pulls away from Brad and looks around.
“You know,” he says over his shoulder. “I didn’t expect to experience house envy, coming here tonight.”
Brad doesn’t reply. Damien doesn’t mean to be snobbish, even if that’s how it comes across. But so what? Their lives are so different; Brad is sure there’s an awful lot he doesn’t even begin to understand about the life of a famous TV star. And not being in touch with mere wage-earning mortals’ life experiences at least fits the cliché. For Brad, tonight turns into many a gay man’s most amazing wet dream: A gorgeous actor has come willingly into his bedroom, with his arousal clearly showing.
Brad grabs Damien around the waist and resumes kissing him. Damien’s erection presses against his thigh, and the leather of his jacket creaks under Brad’s fingers.
Without warning, Damien pushes Brad across the room, until Brad’s back hits the mirrored closet doors, and then he pulls back with a grin. He shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it on the floor. Then, his eyes never leaving Brad’s, he sinks to his knees.
He’s got Brad out of his pants before Brad knows what’s happening. Damien’s hand on his dick feels so good, Brad has trouble coming up with any coherent thoughts. But when Damien lowers his eyes and dips his head, Brad puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Wait,” he says, panting with the arousal coursing through him. Damien glances up, his gray eyes gentle.
“I trust you, Officer,” he says, his voice a low, resonating timbre.
It’s stupid not to use a rubber. Brad doesn’t know the guy from Adam, even though it’s easy to believe he does. And the fact that he’s less at risk here than Damien doesn’t make him feel any better. But fuck, he needs this. When has anyone last offered to suck him off?
Against his better judgement, h
e nods. As Damien’s mouth closes hotly around his dick, Brad leans his head back against the cool mirror. What is this guy doing to him?
Whatever it is, Damien does it superbly. This is his real thank you, and an apology for the charity gala. But Brad doesn’t care about that for long. He doesn’t want to analyze now or think about what comes next and what they still have to talk about. As Damien takes him deeper, intensifying the sensation by taking hold of Brad’s balls, Brad gives in to the temptation and threads his fingers into Damien’s silken curls. They feel just as wonderful as Brad imagined.
He’s so close now; Damien is too good. He should be responsible and not come in his mouth, but when he tries to pull away, Damien has none of it. The hand not busy with Brad’s balls sneaks between Brad’s still-covered ass and the mirror door. The glass is cold against Brad’s buttocks as Damien pulls his pants all the way down, and a moment later there are fingers pressing against his opening.
Brad moans, and gives himself up to Damien’s hot mouth, his experienced fingers. He cries out, once, as he comes, at the exact moment Damien’s fingers his sweet spot.
Damien keeps very still until Brad is spent. Then he withdraws his fingers and sits back on his haunches. He smirks and wipes his glistening lips with the back of his hand.
For a minute or so, Brad can do nothing but gaze down into incredible velvety gray eyes, that boyish, flushed face looking so young and innocent all of a sudden. The endorphins still thrum in his ears, and the air feels cool against his now waning erection. He reaches out and cards his hand through Damien’s hair again, and Damien leans into the touch like a cat.
“Hey,” Damien murmurs.
“Hey,” Brad echoes weakly, then adds with a little laugh the only thing that comes to mind. “Wow!”
They end up on the bed, in nothing but their boxer briefs. For a while, they kiss and touch and make out like two high school kids in the heady throes of their first crush. Then Damien stretches with a sigh and rolls onto his back, resting his head on Brad’s chest. His arm lies on Brad’s stomach, his hand hanging down between his thighs. “Guess we should talk about…” He trails off.
