Undeniably Yours

by Jerry Cole

  “You still have one more week to change your mind. I’ll show you,” I called after him. He closed the door firmly and walked away, leaving me to my thoughts.

  I thought about Josh, the only other person I’d ever regretted losing, and how he looked as he walked beside his new lover. It was so obvious that they loved each other, even though they weren’t holding hands and kissing. There were no cringy air kisses or sappy public gestures. They were just two people who loved each other and weren’t afraid to let it show.

  Why couldn’t I do that?

  Chapter Four

  “Honey, this is long overdue,” said Beau.

  The six-foot-tall salon owner was the complete embodiment of his name. He was a Southern Belle, through and through, complete with a love for all things genteel, frilly, and “done up”. So much so that his manicured nails had sparkling tips and his swagger bordered on a switch. I spent a full forty-five seconds staring at his face trying to discern whether his eyelashes were a fortuitous example of nature’s abundance or the best-damned falsies I’d ever seen.

  His specialty was “doing it up”, which I came to understand meant doing just enough so that you knew there was something there and that something took effort, but not so much that it became camp. High-heeled men’s boots; yes. Men in high heels; no. You had to draw the line for “good taste” you see.

  The reason for his exuberance was my Personal Assistant, who was sitting in his spa looking anything but pampered or relaxed. I knew for a fact that Marcelo was no stranger to the wonders of a good spa treatment. As a matter of fact, one of the few annoying habits he had was to disappear for a few hours whenever we were away on business and treat himself to whatever spa packages were available at the hotels where we stayed. He’d done it all; hot rocks, kelp wraps, massages, facials, even the occasional manscaping. So, I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out why he was so perturbed when we detoured to Beau’s Day Spa for a manicure.

  “I’ve been busy,” Marcelo said.

  “Doing what? Breaking rocks with your fists? Honey, look at your cuticles. They are so dry!” Beau tsked and shook his head. He was moments away from taking out a fan and swooning. I knew it.

  Marcelo turned to me with a look that said both “help me” and “I hate you” at the same time. Perhaps this hadn’t been the heartwarming gesture that I had hoped it would be. Still, it was a good start. My heart was in the right place and Beau had come highly recommended. He was known as a bit of a miracle worker who could take somebody who was barely a seven in the looks department to a towering nine. His spa offered the works; mani-pedis, facials, colonics, and something that looked like you were wrapped in plastic and tumble dried until you shrunk.

  “Go easy on him, Beau, he’s a first-timer,” I said lightly.

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Dunlevy,” Beau stood up gingerly and then glared down at Marcelo. “But you, sir, should never let your hands get into this condition again. Especially if you are going to be representing this man.”

  Beau snatched my hand up in his large, unusually soft one and turned it over for Marcelo to inspect.

  “This is the hand of a man of elegance and refinement. Do you see how well moisturized it is? Do you see how healthy and happy these cuticles are? His nails even have a soft shine.”

  I was beginning to share Marcelo’s discomfort. I tried to pull my hand back gently but he released it so quickly that it jerked back and I ended up knocking over a jar of cotton balls with my elbow instead.

  “Well, ah, I wouldn’t go quite that far,” I said.

  “No, it must be said.” He turned and cast a look at a young lady who scampered over to pick up the cotton balls I’d knocked over without looking either of us in the eye.

  “I’ve been doing a bit of a clean out,” Marcelo said.

  “Clean out? Are you moving?”

  “I’m transitioning,” Marcelo said, looking me in the eye.

  “Well, that’s no excuse for poor grooming habits,” Beau said. He flipped his hair and dropped a pair of gloves wrapped in cellophane into Marcelo’s lap. “Wear these while you are at home. They will help to keep your hands moisturized. In the meantime, let’s see what we can do about these Crypt Keeper paws you’ve got here.”

  Beau pulled a stool with a rose-colored cushion and three-tiered lace skirt up to the workstation.

  “Lee-Anne, could you get me a bottle of my special formula for this one,” he said to the young girl, who scampered behind a curtain and emerged seconds later with a bottle of purple goo. Once again, she avoided eye contact and, save for the sound of her feet shuffling, made no noise whatsoever. It was actually very disconcerting.

  Beau put Marcelo’s hands to soak in a bowl of water and slowly stirred in the contents of the bottle, making sure that it dissolved enough to disperse evenly throughout the water.

  “This will start the process,” he said with a sense of satisfaction. Convinced that he’d given his best he got up and walked away. Well, maybe walk wasn’t the right word. Sashay? I’m not sure but it was definitely much more than a walk but less than a shuffle-ball-step.

  Just enough.

  As soon as he disappeared into another part of the building Marcelo pulled his hands out of the purplish mixture and wiped them on his pants.

  “What are you doing?” I cried.

  “Leaving!”

  “But why?”

  “Why are we here?” Marcelo demanded.

  “To get mani-pedis. I thought since this was your last week and all, we’d do something fun together. You like this kind of thing, don’t say you don’t.”

  “Do I?”

  “Sure you do. I see the hotel bills. Every time we go away on business you get a spa treatment.”

  Marcelo nodded.

  “That’s true.”

  “See? I pay attention,” I said.

  “And do you know why?”

  I could tell by the look on his face that I did not, in fact, know why. And, if our previous conversation is anything to judge by, I would not like the answer once I found out.

  “Your appearance is important to you?” I sounded like a man who just woke up to find his balls in a sling.

  “Because your...friends, shall we call them, often enjoy a little pampering after a night of...entertainment. And, keeping you out of the gossip pages is a whole lot easier if they walked away with something of value.”

  I was right. I would not, in fact, like what he had to say. I would hate it in fact. I’d made it a habit not to pay for sex. That was a crime in most places. I didn’t want to intentionally run afoul of the law; not when there were so many people willing to provide the exact same service for free. Only now, I was finding their services weren’t so free after all. And Marcelo had been forced to do all of the clean-up for me, for years.

  “Really?” I was dumbfounded. How was I ever going to convince him of my true feelings after this? I’d basically turned him into a pimp. How long had he been escorting those discarded young men down to the spa for a few hours of pampering and personal attention before sending them on their way?

  “I didn’t expect you would notice,” he grumbled.

  “Did you...I mean, did they enjoy themselves?”

  “With you or at the spa?”

  “Honestly? Both.”

  “You get seven out of ten stars for your performance. The spas usually pushed your overall score up to a nine.”

  “Really? Why? I mean, how?” I sputtered as I spoke. I didn’t usually try to rate myself but I’d always assumed that I was above average in that department. A seven was still impressive but far below what I felt I deserved.

  “You really want to know?”

  No, not really, but I was on the verge of losing my only friend on account of all of the things I’d been willfully ignorant of. Perhaps now was the time to start saying yes to the things I’d always worked so hard to avoid.

  “Yes!”

  “You lack the one thing that spas do really
well.” He leaned forward and looked me in the eyes. “You don’t have any personal touch.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means,” he exhaled and took off his glasses, giving me an unrestricted view of those beautiful brown eyes and full sensuous lips. It was the wrong moment to be thinking about sex, but how long had it been since I’d kissed those lips? How long had it been since I’d touched him inappropriately? I’d always assumed we would get back to those things one day. Until then I was happy to entertain myself with whoever was willing. I never thought he would leave. I never thought the last time would be the very last time.

  “I mean, if you asked the last dozen men you went to bed with to give a play by play account of your night together, they would all give an almost identical report.”

  I thought about it for a second and was shocked by how right he was. I had a playbook when it came to my love life. There were certain plays that I ran consistently because they worked. I was good at them and my partners, by and large, enjoyed them as well. Everybody won. I’d never considered that there was anything more to it than that.

  “You know, people...normal people, can tell when you are just going through the motions and when you actually care about their pleasure. Beau, God bless him, wants to make his clients feel beautiful. He’s a little bit of a Nazi about it, but he really wants to please. That’s his personal touch.”

  “But they enjoyed themselves,” I argued.

  “Yes, but it was more important that you enjoyed yourself, so you did what you wanted and tried to make it as enjoyable for them as you could.”

  “Well, I’m not an asshole.”

  “Yes you are, you’re just too arrogant to allow anybody to say you were a bad lay,” he said. He was right. I looked at him again and realized the last time I’d seen him this emotional was when we were still, well, us. God, he was beautiful, and I ached to see him like that again. I wanted more than anything to see him looking at me with the kind of naughty affection that had made crossing the line and risking a serious lawsuit worth all of the risk.

  “Was I, uh, like that with you too? I mean, was it…” I wasn’t really sure where I was going with this or if I really wanted to know, but I couldn’t seem to help myself.

  Marcelo’s mouth dropped open and then snapped shut as he stood up, slung his jacket over his arm, and walked out of the spa without a look backward. I followed behind him quickly, paying for the incomplete treatment on my way out of the door. By the time I got back to the Hummer, he was no longer unguarded. His jacket and glasses were both back in place and the cold exterior that had kept our relationship humming along was back in effect.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “It was an inappropriate question,” he said, diverting his gaze.

  “For my Personal Assistant, maybe, but what about for my ex-lover?”

  “We are on the clock.”

  “Oh, fuck the clock, Marcelo! What about you and me. You are leaving to get away from me. Fine. I accept that. I fucking hate it and everything about it, but I can’t legally stop you from going. So fine! Leave! But, at least do me the courtesy of answering my questions. Because apparently the way I remember things and the way things were, are two different things.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Did I make you feel ANYTHING? Was there ever a moment when it was more than just a bit of fun with your spoiled boss? Was there ever something...more?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Because, there was for me,” there, I’d said it. “I mean, we weren’t like star-crossed lovers or anything, but I thought...I thought we were at least friends.”

  “We were.” His flat tone sent a chill up my spine. “We were friends and that made everything more complicated.”

  “Complicated?”

  “You’re my boss and my ex-lover, and you still wanted to be my friend? You wanted to be the center of my universe but you couldn’t promise me anything. Everything was on your terms and you weren’t offering anything in return; not even that shriveled up prune you call a heart. So, I simplified it. I secured what I had to secure. And now I’m moving on,” he said.

  “Oh,” I turned away from him and climbed into the truck on rubbery legs. For what felt like the millionth time I felt like I’d been hit in the face by a snowball. I couldn’t tell if I was more surprised by the fact that he’d felt something deeper for me than I’d assumed or that I’d missed it.

  Either way, one thing was clear. If I wanted any shot at keeping Marcelo in my life, buying him expensive spa treatments weren’t going to be nearly enough. I was going to have to try harder.

  Chapter Five

  The small army of cleaners that I’d hired pushed past a shirtless, bleary-eyed Marcelo just as I’d instructed them. I assured the crew chief that he would be unarmed and would not, in fact, press charges. It was a surprise. My contribution to the cleanup effort and my way of showing Marcelo that I was handling his departure like an adult.

  Paradoxically, it was also my way of trying to hold him back. I knew it made no sense, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

  “Patrick! What the hell?”

  He was understandably irate but I had a plan and I wasn’t taking no for an answer.

  “I just want to help, I promise,” I said, holding up a bag of donuts that Helen had assured me were his favorites.

  “This is how you help?”

  “Okay, I can admit I’m not good at it,” I set the bag down on the table in the front room of his very neat, very orderly home. “Cut me some slack here, Marcelo. I’m TRYING. That has to count for something, right?”

  He shook his head and looked at me from under heavy lids.

  “I have to admit, I haven’t seen you try before.”

  “Exactly,” I took a step closer to him and smiled my most charming smile. “And for my next trick, I am going to make you a cup of coffee.”

  “Do you know how to do that?”

  “No, but Helen gave me some notes and pointers so I think I should be able to figure it out. It will probably taste like shit, but —”

  “You’re trying, I get it. You know you don’t have to try so hard, Patrick. You could just let this go and move on,” he said.

  “If I could do that, trust me, I would have. I’m not a martyr. You know that. I’m here because I can’t just sit at home and let this all happen. Especially when I know that it’s at least partially my fault.”

  “It’s all your fault,” he corrected.

  “Okay, damn! You don’t have to be so blunt.”

  “But,” he smiled at me, the first real smile I’d gotten from him in months. “I didn’t realize that you cared this much.”

  “Well, still waters run deep.”

  We both chuckled and for a moment I felt close to him. Closer than I remember feeling to anybody in a very long time.

  “So, what are they doing?” He looked over my shoulder at the team of cleaners who had gotten right to work.

  “I told them to start with windows and floors and then I would give them more instructions once I worked it out with you. They brought some boxes for packing. I figured we could sort through what you’re going to keep and what you’re going to donate or throw away.”

  “We?”

  “Yeah, you and me.”

  He looked skeptical again.

  “I WANT to help, Marcelo. Please let me.”

  He opened the bag and pulled a jelly-filled donut out and bit into it. His eyes rolled in his head and he let out a sound that was positively orgasmic. I immediately became very aware of the fact that he was shirtless and his abs were things of majesty and wonder. I was hoping that a few droplets of the jelly would escape from his lips and land on his torso so I would have an excuse to run my tongue along his….

  “They can do the bathrooms as well. Just tell them not to run the vacuum cleaner upstairs,” he said.

  “Huh? Yeah, no problem. Why don’t you go
ahead and shower and put on a shirt.”

  He looked down at his bare, chiseled, amazingly bronzed chest, and smiled sheepishly. I guess it only just occurred to him that he was shirtless and tanned. Asshole.

  “Be back in a flash,” he said, turning on his heel and disappearing up the stairs.

  Left to my own devices, I began wandering around his living room. There were plenty of photos everywhere. Not the kind you get staged or shot by a professional photographer. They were snapshots taken by family and friends and stuffed into cheap frames from box stores. They showed Marcelo and people I assumed were members of his family doing the kinds of things normal people did. Some showed small kids in swimsuits on the beach, others showed older people celebrating something that required a cake. There were plenty of photos of Marcelo, his mother, and a woman I assumed was his sister standing together holding diplomas, trophies or certificates. From the looks of it, both he and his sister had been overachievers as kids.

  “You were a good-looking kid,” I called up the stairs.

  “What?”

  “YOU WERE A GOOD-LOOKING KID!”

  “Oh,” he said.

  Oh, was right. What the hell was I saying? I sounded creepy. But, this was the first time I’d ever looked at anybody’s family photos with any interest. I wasn’t really sure what to say. Hey, nice overexposed photo of your baby cousin’s belly fat!

  Jesus, I really was a monster. And hearing the water running in the shower up the stairs wasn’t helping the matter. All I could think about was his naked body and the rivulets of hot water that were definitely running down his chest and then converging around his navel before streaming down...lower…

  I wondered if he was still shaved smooth like he was before and if he was hard because I was certainly heading in that direction. It was definitely time to put down the photo of a very pubescent Marcelo and walk away. A grown man with an erection carrying a photo of an underaged kid was grounds for assassination. Even I knew that.

  But still, I couldn’t seem to pull my mind out of the gutter. That was until I heard the sound of a very large, very dependable upright vacuum cleaner powering up.