Fifteen Shades of Gay (For Pay) (10 page)

Still bleary-eyed, Andrew squinted at the bedside clock. It said 8:45. No wonder Cormac was upset. His plane had taken off more than an hour ago.

Yawning mightily, Andrew got out of bed and started gathering his clothes. He’d finally located his shoes when Cormac turned around, phone still pressed against his ear and listening intently. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed at Andrew.

“Me, too,” Andrew mouthed in return. Taking advantage of the empty bathroom, he dressed, combed his hair and brushed his teeth using Cormac’s toothpaste and his index finger. When he emerged, Cormac was off the phone and buttoning up his shirt.

“Are you in trouble with the conference organizers?” Andrew asked.

“I should be.” Looping his tie beneath his collar, Cormac knotted it with quick, expert motions. “Except instead of telling me to get stuffed, they’re insisting I come anyway. Sending a private jet for me. I must be the only U.S. Republican they’ve got with a decent green record. Of course, I didn’t have the heart to tell them, burning all that jet fuel to transport one man isn’t exactly green principles in action.” He shrugged. “Baby steps.”

“You’re a Republican?”

Cormac looked surprised. “Thought you Googled me.”

“I did. I just didn’t pay attention to the political stuff. Never been into that. I just figured, since you’re gay….” Andrew stopped, remembering something he’d seen on TV during Marie’s last chemo session. “Hey. You’re not one of those nutbags, are you? With the hats and the misspelled signs, always holding rallies about bringing back the 1950s?”

“No. I am not a nutbag.” Cormac smiled tolerantly. “As Republicans go, my stand on the environment doesn’t make me too popular. I’m on record as believing in climate change. To lots of people, that makes me a RINO.”

Andrew waited.

“Republican-in-name-only,” Cormac explained. “A heretic some people would like to see purged from the party. Luckily for me, my last two opponents have been so far to the left, an actual rhino could have run against them and won.”

“Okay.” Andrew was already losing interest. “I figure all that stuff can go on without me. The world’s way too screwed up for one person to do anything about it.”

“Never underestimate the power of one.” Cormac wagged a finger at him. “In fact, that was my first campaign slogan. Cormac Donovan. The Power of One,” he announced, sounding like a TV voiceover.

“And you got elected?”

“Nope. Got elected the next time, though.”

“What was your slogan?”

“Cormac Donovan. Defending Tradition.”

Andrew chuckled. “I wouldn’t have voted for that.”

“Hell,
I
wouldn’t have voted for that. But advisors convinced me it would work, and they were right. Besides, my mom loved it.” Sliding into his jacket, Cormac brushed lint from one shoulder. “I need to leave right away. No time for breakfast or even coffee. But Andrew. Last night….” He trailed off.

Andrew smiled. He’d experienced a few walk of shame mornings when he’d been so busy making his escape—not to mention desperately psychoanalyzing himself—he’d botched a polite goodbye. This wasn’t one of those mornings. “Last night was different. Good different. Sorry I made you late. But I’m not sorry about what happened.”

“Did I live up to the dream?” Cormac asked hesitantly.

Andrew didn’t understand.

“You said you dreamed about kissing a man and it didn’t make you sick. I figured it must have turned you on. I just wondered … was the reality okay, compared to the dream?”

Andrew grinned. “Cormac. You were the guy I dreamed about. And yeah, I prefer the real thing.”

Cormac started to color, though he kept his tone dignified. “Can I call you again? When I’m back in New York?”

“Of course. Wasserman’s so eager for clients, he answers his own phone half the time. Besides, I put my number in your mobile, remember?”

Cormac nodded. He seemed determined to keep his face blank.

“Look. I’d better catch the train. Don’t want my sister to worry. Give me a kiss,” Andrew said, coming close.

Cormac looked frozen. “I haven’t brushed my teeth….”

“Closed lips, then.” Rising on his toes, Andrew kissed Cormac’s mouth lightly. “Have a good flight.”

He expected Cormac to embrace him, maybe even force a tongue-kiss despite his own objection, but he didn’t. Still half-frozen, Cormac barely managed a wave as Andrew let himself out.

“Have a safe ride home,” Cormac called at the last moment. With one foot already over the threshold, all Andrew could do was nod and go.

* * *

“If you’re not into this, I can read something else,” Andrew told Marie, hoping she’d say yes. It was late afternoon. For the last half hour, he’d read from book two of the “mommy porn” trilogy aloud. Currently the narrative was mired in a fairly standard blowjob scene. It wouldn’t have bothered Andrew, except certain trigger words kept taking him back to his encounters with Paresh and Cormac.

“It’s fine.” Marie sounded vague. “I’m just thinking of something else.”

“Dad’s visit? We still have three days. And the place looks great.” Andrew planned to give the apartment a final once-over a few hours before their father’s plane was due. After all, he’d promised to be nice no matter what. If Jake Reynolds started bellyaching over a dust mote, Andrew knew he’d get angry, and once that happened, Marie would feel let down. Best to never give their hypercritical patriarch a reason to complain.

“Nope. This.” Marie withdrew a spiral notebook tucked beneath her pillow. “My bucket list.”

“What?” Andrew was startled. During the earliest days of her diagnosis, Marie had decreed that neither of them would ever turn maudlin or fatalistic. She’d specifically forbidden any discussion of memorials, eulogies, last wishes or bucket lists.

“I know I said I wouldn’t do this.” Marie smiled. Pale, puffy from steroids, and hairless, she looked like a ghost of her true self. “But I can’t help it. I keep waking up in the middle of the night. Can’t get back to sleep ‘cause I keep thinking I’ve wasted my life. Hardly lived at all. So I finally decided to write down all the things I still want to do.” She thrust the spiral notebook at Andrew, who accepted it reluctantly.

The notebook’s cover, doubtless designed to appeal to middle-school girls, featured flowers, rainbows and a glittery unicorn. Marie had written on the first page with a pink Sharpie: MY GOALS FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE (IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER). The list followed in different marker colors. Swim with dolphins. See Paris from the top of the Eiffel Tower. Adopt a shelter dog. Kiss a girl….

Andrew looked up, startled. “Kiss a girl?”

“Yeah. So.” Marie grinned. “Not everyone’s as big a homophobe as you.”

“How do you know I’m still a homophobe? Maybe I’ve evolved.”

She snorted.

“Anyway. Maybe you’ve never kissed a girl, but I’ve kissed a guy.” He lifted his chin proudly.

“Yeah, in acting class. After moving heaven and earth to try to get out of it. Big deal.”

“Maybe I kissed a guy last night.”

“Yeah, and maybe I did Dr. McSteamy for real and not in my dreams. Gimme your arm. You’re getting an Indian burn for lying.” Marie’s threat harkened back to their grade school years. Andrew, who’d suffered many such burns, yanked his arm away.

“I’m not lying. His name is Cormac. He’s a friend.”

“Oh, my God. Andy—for real? How drunk were you?”

He laughed. “Sober. I swear. We just had a moment.” Pleasure at his confession fading fast, Andrew affected renewed fascination with Marie’s bucket list. “You want to watch all three
Lord of the Rings
movies? Because I’m on board. We can start tomorrow if you want….”

“You’re turning red,” Marie said, ignoring his attempt to change the subject. “So what happened next? Anything else?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Just a kiss, one kiss, that’s all. One of those things. Like girls kissing each other to see what it’s like.” Andrew realized he was still shaking his head. With an effort, he made himself stop.

Marie’s eyes narrowed. “Indian burn….”

“Jeez, I try to tell you one thing and you turn into the FBI. I kissed a guy. End of story.”

“Fine.” Marie sat quietly for all of ten seconds. “Can I tell Mom?”

“What? No!” Andrew stared at her, aghast. “Why would you do that?”

“She’s been worried about you for awhile. Thinks you have unresolved issues.” Marie chuckled. “This might set her mind at ease. If you’re willing to experiment, you can’t be a closet case like Dad.”

Andrew reeled off a string of profanity so foul, Marie laughed until tears came to her eyes. “Oh, good, no unresolved issues
there
.”

“I’ve dated girls since I was thirteen. I lost it at fifteen,” Andrew burst out, feeling his face grow even hotter. “I don’t think I’ve ever been without a girlfriend more than six months. What did I ever do to convince Mom I’m gay?”

“Oh, Andy, you know if we talk about this, you’ll get mad and pout. And I’m too tired to kick your ass.”

“I won’t get mad,” Andrew said. His pulse thudded in his ears; for all practical purposes, he was mad already.

Marie sighed. “Fine. It’s bad enough you caught Dad with Hugh. I know it must have been horrible. Nobody ever wants to see a parent having sex, much less under those circumstances. But—”

“Wait. I never—how’d you know about that?”

“Dad told Mom. Mom told me. Before she had her little intervention with you. Anyway, it would have been better for you if Dad had fallen in love with someone else. You had such a crush on Hugh back then. It was always ‘Mr. Branson’ this and ‘Mr. Branson’ that….”

Andrew’s throat closed. He stared at Marie.

“Don’t look like that. I’m not making fun of you. But did you really think none of us knew?”

Andrew blew out his breath, covering his face with his hands.

“Andy?” Marie’s tone changed. “Hey.
You
knew, didn’t you?”

Andrew stood up. “I have to go. Late rehearsal tonight.” And for the first time since her diagnosis, he left Marie’s bedroom without looking back, pretending not to hear as she called his name.

* * *

“So.” Paresh placed a champagne flute in front of Andrew. “When the clock struck ten and no one rang at the gatehouse, I feared you’d stood me up.”

“Subway cable fire,” Andrew lied. “Had to disembark and walk part of the way. Didn’t realize I’d be so late.”

“It happens. And here I thought you’d lost your nerve. That only the promise of cold, hard cash brought you back to me in the end.” Removing the bottle’s wire guard, Paresh popped the champagne cork in one smooth motion, never spilling a drop. Filling each glass until the bubbles threatened to overflow, Paresh returned the bottle to its ice bucket and sat down across from Andrew. Oddly enough, the man was dressed like Cormac: blue suit, white button down shirt, dark red tie, and wingtips.

“So what do you do?” Andrew lifted his flute but didn’t take a drink. “Are you a politician?”

Paresh raised his elegant brows. “Do you imagine I invited you here to satisfy your curiosity?” His tone of sweet reason made his naturally authoritative voice all the more compelling. “Andrew. Let’s be clear. When I invite men like you for a private engagement, I promise them safety. Anonymity. Payment in cash. In return, I expect obedience. I insist on maintaining control.”

As if on stage, Andrew took a faux sip of champagne. True, he’d seen Paresh uncork the bottle, but he wouldn’t risk being drugged. “Define control. I won’t let you cuff me, Paresh, or tie me up. Not even with a safe word.”

Paresh’s dark eyes widened. “I never suggested anything of the sort. Not yet. I meant only this: for the duration of this encounter, I am your employer. You are my employee. No insubordination. No impertinent questions. Obey me throughout, or leave.”

Andrew took a deep breath. “Fine. Mr. Choudhari.”

Paresh laughed. “
That
won’t be necessary. I love to hear you say my name.” Clicking his glass against Andrew’s, Paresh drank the champagne in one swallow. “Andrew, if you’re afraid to drink yours, by all means, put it down. I have the room all set up. Why delay?”

Following Paresh out of the vast living room, Andrew passed through a long hall he vaguely remembered. Taking a right turn, Paresh led Andrew to a room with a dark, ornately-carved wooden door. Its brass handle was shaped like an elongated tongue. Glancing at Andrew’s face, Paresh chuckled.

“Needn’t look so serious. It’s meant to be lighthearted. Fun.”

Nodding, Andrew took in the door’s medieval-style carvings. It reminded him of pre-Renaissance triptychs, the kind that always seemed devoted to Hell and its myriad torments. The people, all naked, had such ugly, goggle-eyed faces, he recognized the men only by their exaggerated phalluses. One man waited on his knees for another to mount him as a devil loomed above, sword poised ominously. A woman suckled a devil at each breast as a man poked his face between her legs. Another man gripped his member with both hands, pleasuring himself as devils hacked apart sinners nearby. Andrew found the whole thing dizzying and repulsive.

Paresh pushed open the door. “Go inside, Andrew. Have a look around.”

A huge bed, larger than a California king, dominated the room. Even at a distance, Andrew could tell the figures carved in the dark headboard matched those on the door. The sheets were crimson, the pillows black.

“Is that satin?” Touching the sheet, Andrew gave a nervous laugh. They were indeed satin and the pillows were velvet. If Dante’s Inferno boasted a whorehouse, surely the beds looked something like this.

“Andrew. Is that a hint of impertinence?” Paresh’s tone was stern. “I’ve gone to a lot of trouble for you. Tell me you like it.”

“I like it.”

“
And
appreciate it.”

Biting his tongue, Andrew studied Paresh. They were roughly the same height; their eyes were on the same level.

Except Paresh holds the purse strings.

“I appreciate it,” Andrew said slowly, without inflection.

Paresh smiled. “That’s better. Through that door,” he pointed, “is a shower and a Jacuzzi. Across from the bed, a flat screen TV. Sometimes a little cinematic inspiration helps. And there, on the bureau, you’ll find two stacks of money. Go ahead. Count them. Just take care to keep them separate.”