by Tara Lain
With a huff, he slid a belt through his loops and shrugged into the blue wool jacket with leather inserts. He’d bought in on sale because a cute sales guy told him he looked awesome. I’m an idiot.
Michaela pulled out his collar, then turned him around toward the mirror. “See?”
John leaped up and mussed Wen’s curly hair. “Don’t look so neat.”
Well, damn. He hated to admit he looked good. Damned good. “If I primp any longer, I’ll be late.”
John gave him a pat on the butt. “Get going.” He grinned. “But come on, say it. You look good, right?”
Wen tried to hold back the smile, but John and Michaela laughed at him. He struck a pose. “I’m gorgeous.”
John folded his arms and shook his head critically. “Don’t get overconfident.”
Wen laughed all the way out of the apartment and down the stairs. Funny how light he felt. The ad got finished without him. Laila and Mickey assured him it was a smash. He’d helped the media buyers fine-tune the placement schedule, but first they had to get past the tests. Starting tonight, the ad would run in prime time in four key markets including New York. Whew. Great that he got to spend it at a movie with Peter and not chewing his nails in front of the TV. Let Arnie do the cuticle biting. Wen had done his part. The fact was, Mark and Arnie worked so hard to take credit that if the ad didn’t pull eyeballs, they’d have a tough time laying the results at Wen’s feet. He’d gone back to anonymity, and that felt safe.
He trotted down the steps into the subway and enjoyed that the looks he got were more admiring than usual. Maybe Michaela and John had a point. At twenty-three, he could damned well act young. He shook his curls and enjoyed the free feeling.
Chapter Seventeen
After only two stops, Wen hopped off the train and headed up to the theater. As he walked down the sidewalk toward the glowing marquee, Peter stepped out from the line and waved. Wen grinned and trotted forward. “Hi.”
Peter leaned forward and kissed his cheek. A couple of people glanced, but mostly they got smiles. This was New York. Peter looked Wen up and down. “Who are you, and what have you done with the old man I know?”
Wen’s belly tightened a little, but he forced it to relax. New leaf. Change is good. “The kids convinced me to leave him in the closet.”
“You look amazing.”
“Thanks.” Wen gave Peter an obvious once-over. “Not so bad yourself.” Peter had worn his usual tight black jeans and green T-shirt, but he’d added a mulberry-colored scarf wrapped twice around his neck, which set up a wonderful dissonance with his flaming hair.
The line moved, and they bought tickets to a program of animated short films expected to get Academy Award nominations. In their seats, crowded in the middle between bunches of art film fans, Peter took Wen’s hand and held it tightly. About halfway through the film collection, some of which was good and some pretty boring, Peter unwrapped his scarf and laid it on his lap.
Hmmm.
Wen slipped his hand out of Peter’s and slid it under the scarf. Oh yeah. A nice lump in the jeans met his exploring fingers. Peter made a little snorting sound and rested his palm over his own lap as Wen’s fist closed around his denim-covered cock.
The close-packed audience meant Wen couldn’t get too demonstrative with his undercover hand job, so he contented himself with sliding down Peter’s zipper and inserting a single finger that meandered around Peter’s commando flesh. Up the side, around the head, tickle the slit, slide down the other side, giggle, and repeat.
Glancing to the side, Wen fought a laugh at Peter’s gritted teeth and tightly closed eyes. Peter’s breath came fast—Wen could feel it all the way in his cock—but fortunately the music and soundtrack covered it.
Finally Peter grabbed Wen’s hand and stopped him from moving. Clearly getting too close to explosion. Fortunately the damned film ended, and before the credits even started, Peter jumped up, grabbed the scarf, draped it in front of his erection, took Wen by the hand, and dragged him past four people to the aisle. They were back on the sidewalk so fast, Wen couldn’t remember the trip.
“Come on.” Peter pulled Wen down the concrete until they passed the theater building and walked beside one of Brooklyn’s many pocket parks. With a yank, Peter hauled Wen onto the grass, past a tree, and behind some bushes. He ripped the scarf from his neck, unzipped Wen’s fly, pulled his own cock from his still open zipper, and handed Wen the other end of the scarf. With his end, he started pumping Wen’s already throbbing dick.
“Whoa!” Wen wrapped Peter’s penis in the fabric in his hand and returned the favor. “Hope this isn’t your favorite scarf.”
Peter panted, and his hand flew on Wen’s dick. “It wasn’t, but it will be now.”
Staring in each other’s eyes, they cranked their cocks like they were mixing martinis. Streaks of lightning shot from Wen’s cock into his balls, where the electricity set up a boil. “Not going to last much longer.”
“Are you kidding? I almost came in the stupid theater.”
“I can’t get enough of you.” Wen’s head fell back, and waves of heat washed over him with each tug on his cock.
“One of these days, I’m going to get you in a bed and we’re going to fuck until we can’t see or hear.”
“Can’t wait. Oh God, I can’t wait. Oh, oh—” The first jet shooting into the scarf blacked out Wen’s vision.
Peter cried, “Oh shit!” The end of the scarf in Wen’s hand got warm and sticky.
Wen’s knees wanted to collapse. He held on to Peter, who also staggered but somehow managed to stay upright. Their gasps turned to giggles, and they rested their foreheads together, laughing and trying to breathe. Wen shook his head, still against Peter’s. “You make me do crazy things.”
“A little crazy’s good for everybody.”
Is it? It was tough to get his gut to agree. But his body throbbed to the crazy tune. “I believe we planned food about this time.”
Peter stood straight. “There’s a sports bar kind of place across the street that has good burgers and won’t break either of our banks.”
“Sounds perfect.” More perfect was that Peter first wrapped the scarf back around his neck with a grin and then wrapped an arm around Wen’s waist. They walked like a three-legged animal to the restaurant.
Peter held the door for Wen then they strolled to the reception desk of the sprawling place with the big bar and a ton of TV sets all tuned to different sporting events. The hostess gave them a crinkly grin. “I’ve got a nice romantic booth in the back.”
Peter smiled and tightened his grip on Wen’s waist. Felt nice. “Sounds great.”
The girl blushed and only tripped over her feet once leading them to the booth. “Enjoy your meal.” Giving them both a glance, she walked away.
Wen said softly, “You shouldn’t have delivered both dimples. Too much for a young girl’s heart.”
Peter snorted. They both laughed softly and were staring at menus when a cute guy said, “Hi. I’m Ray and I’ll be your waiter. What can I get you to drink?”
Peter glanced up at Wen. “Beer? Coke? Milk shake?”
“I’ll have a beer. Whatever’s on tap.”
Peter nodded. “Me too.”
Ray the waiter gave them both a long look. “Are you legal?”
Wen held up a hand. “Twenty-three. Want the ID?”
“No, dear. I believe you.” He turned to Peter. “What about you, cutie?”
Peter tested out the dimples again. “I’m legal. Want ID?”
Ray held Peter’s gaze for a two count and then shook his head. “Nope. But if my boss asks, be ready to show it.”
“Will do, dear.”
“Are you ready to order, or do you want to look for a few more minutes?”
Wen said, “I know what I want. A fish sandwich and fries.”
Peter raised a brow. “Fish?”
Wen shrugged.
Peter looked back at the menu. “The double cheesebur
ger with mushrooms and tomato and fries.”
Ray nodded. “I’ll be right back with your beers.”
Wen leaned forward. “Do you think we smell like sex?”
Peter wiggled the still damp ends of the scarf. “Ooh, I hope so.”
Wen smiled softly and looked at his folded hands that lay near Peter’s. “I’m having fun. Thank you.”
“Me too.”
“But for you that’s just regular. For me it’s like a holiday.”
That first part wasn’t quite as true as he wished. Peter slid his hand over Wen’s. “I’m really glad. I hope we can do it again. A lot, even.”
“That would be nice.”
“Maybe now you won’t have to work so much.”
Wen raised his shoulders, then dropped them. “I have this really, uh, annoying boss who can always find way too many things for me to do, but yeah. Now things should be better. For you too, since I’ll be paying you and the Boys the larger amount in our agreement.” He smiled. “I hope that helps with the rent and such.”
Peter shook his head. “With so many of us sharing the income, it doesn’t tend to go far. Some of the guys like to party, and that doesn’t help either.”
“You’re so talented. I’ll bet there are a ton of jobs you could get.”
“Not really. No education. Besides, nine to five doesn’t leave time for adventure.” He flashed his best grin, even if he didn’t quite feel it.
“Did you graduate high school?”
“Uh, no. Dropped out.”
Ray walked up with their beers and sandwiches. Saved by the fish.
Ray said, “The sandwiches were ready so I brought it all at once.”
Peter nodded. “That’s fine. Thanks, man.” How to get the conversation pointed in some other way? “So the kids helped you get dressed, huh?” He smiled—yeah, deflectively.
“Oh yes. You should have seen them picking stuff out of my meager wardrobe.” He bit into his sandwich and chewed.
Peter chomped his burger. “Ummpf, good.” He wiped secret sauce off his lip. “So Michaela’s a musician, and John’s an actor. Serious creative chops in your family.”
A frown flashed on Wen’s face so fast Peter barely saw it. “Yes. They’re both talented, but I have to keep them focused on their other studies too. You know how hard it is to make a living in music or show business.”
“No reason to kill the dream.” He dabbed a french fry in ketchup and nibbled it.
Wen looked up with that crease between the brows and the steady gaze that always meant Seriousman was back. “Michaela’s sixteen. She needs scholarships to get to college. I want her to dream, but I also want her ready for real life.”
Right. Real life. The place Peter didn’t live. He bit his tongue and nodded. “Sure.”
Wen’s warm hand wrapped over Peter’s before he could grab his burger again. “Seriously, Peter, I know you hate the idea of regimented living, and I respect that, but if you could whip out a college diploma in case you wanted a job for a while, wouldn’t that be good? Convenient?”
Peter gazed at Wen. Jesus, I fight so hard defending my turf. “Yeah. It would, actually. I didn’t have the option.” That was sort of true. “But it would be handy.”
Wen released Peter’s hand and picked up the fish. “That’s all I mean. If they want to pound pavements their whole life, I’ll be happy. I just don’t want them to look at me in ten years and ask, ‘Why didn’t you tell me I needed a diploma to be who I want to be?’”
Okay, so that made sense. Peter smiled over the french fry in his hand. See, we can talk about stuff. He bit and chewed the greasy treat.
Over Wen’s head, three TV screens played—one basketball, one baseball, and one football game. Peter pointed. “Aren’t those sports all supposed to be in different seasons?”
Wen turned and looked over his shoulder. “One of them’s preseason and one’s a famous game from sometime back.” He resumed munching.
“How do you know that?”
Wen shrugged. “The only thing my father and I could figure out to discuss was sports. He loved sports. I never got the fascination, but it gave us something to talk about.”
Peter stared at the screens. The words kind of drifted out. “My father loved sports too. That gave me a good reason to ignore them.”
“I gather you and your father didn’t get along.”
“What? Oh, right. Yeah. Long time ago.” He looked at Wen’s almost empty plate. “So that fish is actually good?”
“Yep. Want a taste?” He held out the remains of the seeded bun with whitefish sticking out the edge.
Peter wrinkled his nose. “Maybe sometime when I’m starving to death.”
“You’re such a kid.” He laughed.
“Is that bad?” Peter kept smiling, but some piece of him waited.
Wen gazed at him for a minute. “No. It’s wonderful.”
Peter slowly let out his breath. “So when can we go out again?”
Wen pulled out his phone, and Peter glanced up at the TV screen. The baseball game that was playing switched to a beer commercial. Peter took his last bite and froze. “Wen! Look! Isn’t that your—? It’s the commercial for peanut butter.”
Wen whirled. “Yes, this is the first night of the test marketing in New York. They’re trying it on a guy-based sports audience just to see how it plays. It started yesterday in other cities.”
Peter stared at the images—his art coming to life, whirling and flashing. Beautiful. Just beautiful. His goose bumps got goose bumps. Tink danced across the screen. Map played guitar, then broke into a funny march. The camera caressed Dudish’s strong cheekbones. With umbrella twirling, Tink waltzed with Wingman, and then Samu walked into the image with the flying Peter above his head, both of them facing into the distance, the future.
Peter grinned at himself and the music swelled. The camera turned and closed in on Peter’s face, then faded out as Tink danced away, carrying the umbrella.
For an instant, Peter froze. Suspended between delight—and horror. “They—they showed my face. They showed me.”
Wen spun toward him, his eyes wide with—what? “Oh God, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. They must have done this the night I wasn’t there. I’m so sorry—”
“Sorry? I only asked for one thing! To stay anonymous, and you couldn’t even do that?”
“God, I’m—there are so many other people involved, and I should have checked but I never dreamed they’d change it—”
Peter slid out of the booth. “Never dreamed. That sure as fuck describes you to a T.” He grabbed money from his pocket, threw it on the table, and ran out of the restaurant and down the sidewalk toward the subway. Maybe he heard Wen calling him from behind, maybe not, but he just ran like he had wings.
Yeah, if “never dreamed” described Wendell Darling, then the caption under Peter’s life description could also be summed up in two words. Flew away.
Wen walked slowly out of the subway station toward the apartment. Eddie waved, and he waved back, but he didn’t stop. Not sure I can get words out.
He’d called and called until his fingers hurt from pounding buttons.
Laila, what the hell happened?
We just made those tiny changes.
Don’t you remember he wanted to stay anonymous?
Oh, sure. We won’t tell anyone his name.
Sigh. Pound his fists on the ground. Tear his hair.
No matter.
When he got to the front of his building, he stopped and stared at the fire escape. Slowly, he crossed under the low branches of a big tree in front of the building and leaned against the trunk.
Now he had to go upstairs and tell the kids. The kids. He loved them so much—literally more than his life—but was that all his life was about? Being their big brother/dad? If that was it, that was okay. There were way worse jobs.
The earlier conversation drifted through his brain.
You’re such a kid.
Is
that bad?
No, it’s wonderful.
Had he meant it? Did he love that Peter was childlike when he already had two kids? Wen chewed the inside of his cheek. Yeah, childlike meant innocent, optimistic, creative, and loving. Sometimes snarky and sometimes petulant, but childlike wasn’t synonymous with childish. Loving. Yeah.
He pushed away from the tree and dragged his feet up the steps into the apartment. The four flights usually felt like eight since he wanted to get home and see the kids. Today, he’d like the eight flights. Despite walking slowly, he arrived at his front door immediately. Well, shit. Here goes.
Chapter Eighteen
Wen opened the door. The kids should be asleep since it was nearly midnight, but no such luck. Two young faces turned to him from the couch where they sat eating popcorn and watching something on TV.
Michaela’s eyes widened, but John frowned instantly. “Why are you home? Didn’t you like your date?”
John was daring Wen to answer. Okay. “I had a great time.”
John looked surprised. Not what he expected. “Aren’t you early?”
“Yes, well, we finished eating.” He slowly inhaled. “And Peter got mad at me and ran off, so I came home.” He spit out all those words like a shotgun, then waited for the enemy to fire back.
“Why did he get mad? Were you comparing him to Mom again?”
“No.” He walked through the tiny living room toward the bedroom, feeling John’s laser scowl focused on his back. As he pushed the door closed, Michaela was saying, “Leave him alone and let him get undressed.” Good. A minute’s peace before he faced the wrath of the eleven-year-old. Michaela didn’t look all that happy either.
Unfortunately, hanging up his clothes and putting on sweats could only be stretched out so long. Hell, I should just go to sleep and ignore them. But they were sitting on his bed and had the whole next day to hound him, since it was Saturday. Might as well get it over with.
He walked slowly back into the living room. Both kids stared at the TV, but John sat with his arms crossed and his lips pressed together. Bad sign.
