Fifteen Shades of Gay (For Pay) (24 page)

“I… um… yeah.” Caleb blinked, clearly desperate for the talk to end.

“This is no joke.” The nurse shook a finger in Caleb’s face. “If you don’t bother looking out for yourself, don’t expect anyone else to. It’s a big bad world out there. For every nice guy, there’s a creep just around the corner.”

“Y-yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Now before you go home, let’s go over your discharge instructions.” The RN’s tone switched to sunny and instructional. “Stay hydrated. No strenuous physical exercise for the next seven days. If you become light-headed or short of breath, call this number….”

Caleb went home in a cab with bodybuilder Marc, who insisted on seeing the boy to his apartment. Andrew suspected it would take the big man some time to process his guilt. Which was ironic, given Andrew’s suspicion that Sven, wherever he was, suffered no remorse whatsoever.

“Has he called you?” Andrew asked Paresh as the taxi pulled away from the curb. “Sven, I mean.”

Paresh shook his head.

“He will. It might take a few days. But when he does, he’ll try to blame you.”

Paresh exhaled in one long white plume. Not yet November, it already felt like January to Andrew, who was accustomed to comparatively harsher Kansas winters.

“I feel like I’m to blame,” Paresh said. “Whatever he accuses me of, I deserve it.”

Hold it together
, Andrew told himself for the fiftieth time.
There’s only so much truth anyone can absorb in one night.

“Paresh. Listen to this, if you don’t listen to anything else.” Taking the other man by the shoulders, Andrew put their faces together. “What you and Sven are doing isn’t about love. It’s not even about sex. I don’t who fucked you over and made you feel like shit. But I can tell you this. Finding the biggest asshole in New England and letting him steer you off a cliff isn’t the answer.”

Paresh stared at Andrew. “I know. I know. But—”

“Nope.” Lifting a hand, Andrew flagged down another cab with the assuredness of a native New Yorker. Starting toward it, he called over his shoulder, “There’s no ‘but’ to that statement. If you ever see my point, call me. Otherwise, have a nice life.”

* * *

Andrew didn’t sleep that night. The next day, bleary-eyed and stiff, he went to Marie’s, expecting to read aloud or share some guilty-pleasure TV. Instead, he quarreled with Connie over his insistence on paying her house note, endured a phone lecture from Jake on the same topic, and then made somewhat awkward conversation with Hugh. The other man’s kindness and consideration was embarrassing, driving home to Andrew what a childish ass he’d been over the years.

“I’m so glad you two buried the hatchet,” Marie said as Andrew disconnected. “This year we should have a really nice Christmas dinner.”

“Just Hugh and the two of us would suit me fine,” Andrew muttered.

“Of course. The trick is keeping Mom and Dad away. Were they both reaming you over the mortgage payment?” Marie shook her head. “I can’t decide if they have your best interests at heart or if they just love to find fault. Mind you….” She made a face. “You know how practical they are. Maybe they’re worried this acting job of yours will dry up and you won’t get another break for years.”

He shrugged.

“Andy.” Marie ran her fingers over her scalp. Now that chemotherapy was over, soon to be replaced with the clinical trial drug derived from marijuana, her hair was starting to come in. Touching the new growth was a hopeful action for Marie, an acknowledgement that for the first time in months, she seemed to be moving forward, not back. “Mom thinks your understudy job is bull. She thinks you’re doing something else for money.”

Andrew raised his eyebrows. He had to be careful with Marie. He'd frequently fooled Connie and Jake, but his big sister almost always saw through him.

“She kind of freaked over my weed.” Marie’s voice dropped to a whisper. Although Connie was in the shower, Marie and Andrew still respected their mother’s legendary superhuman hearing. “Asked me if I had a prescription. I’m like, yeah, Mom, Rite Aid gives it to me in Ziploc bags with a complimentary pack of Hempire rolling papers. Anyway. Mom had a meltdown when she realized you’ve been getting it for me. Now she thinks you’re a drug dealer. Asked me if you've started hanging out with strange men and carrying a beeper.”

“So not only am I a drug dealer, I’m a drug dealer from 1993?” Andrew snorted. “That’s it, I’m getting grillz and a flat bill. Gold nugget necklaces, too.”

“Don’t forget to walk with a limp. Seriously, though, Mom was almost in tears. I told her to calm down. I said you were probably just posing for gay magazines like
Playgirl
.”

Andrew stared at his sister. “Why’d you say that?”

“Because telling her I think you’re doing porn seemed a little abrupt. Better to start small.” Marie held Andrew’s gaze, a slow smile breaking across her face. “Oh, my God. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“I-I don’t understand why you think….” Andrew broke off, tired and headachy and unable to concoct a decent lie. “God, Marie. Why porn?”

“Because you have plenty of money, plenty of free time, and you never say one thing about your quote-unquote
role
. You usually deconstruct a role right down to the atoms. Besides, you’re a hottie. Why not porn? They’d be crazy to turn you down.” Marie’s eyes gleamed. “My only question is, which kind of porn? Straight or gay?”

Andrew sucked in his breath. She’d nailed him to the wall. He had a better chance of passing himself off as a dealer to Columbian drug lords than maintaining his understudy cover story to Marie.

“I’m not doing porn. Porn would mean the end of my acting career.” After a quick look at the bathroom door to make certain their mother hadn’t emerged, he added in a whisper, “I’ve been working as a male escort. It’s not prostitution. Not exactly.”

“Escort,” Marie breathed. “Going on dates with random women and men?”

“Just men.”

It took a moment for her to process that. “Jeez. I-I don’t know how I feel. You shouldn’t have to do this, Andy. Not for our family. Not for m—”

“It’s my choice,” Andrew interrupted. “You think I don’t like having new clothes and all my bills paid? Don’t use this as an excuse to go on a guilt trip, Marie. If you do, I’ll tell Dad. Have him back here with motivational workbooks and mantras before you even know what hit you.”

“When you told me you kissed a guy. It was to earn money, wasn’t it?” Marie shook her head, tone incredulous. “For years, you were scared shitless of gay men. And you faced up to that for me? To stay in New York with me?”

Behind them, the bathroom door opened. Glancing over his shoulder, Andrew watched a haze of steam escape into the hall. Then the smell of gardenia hit him, Connie’s one and only scent, a smell he would recognize anywhere, probably till the day he died. Maddening as their mother could often be, Andrew was damn glad she was there.

“Sometimes virtue is its own reward,” Andrew hissed in Marie’s ear. “How do you think I met Cormac?”

“Tell me the truth. Have you two gone all the way?”

Andrew nodded.

The fingers of Marie’s right hand dug into his forearm. “I need details. I’m not kidding. Full details.”

Despite his fatigue, Andrew found himself grinning at his sister. In the course of her illness, many of the normal boundaries between siblings had, of necessity, broken down. He’d bathed her, washed out her vomit bucket, emptied her bedpan when she was bedridden and assisted her on the toilet when she wasn’t. In turn, Marie had comforted Andrew after her stage four diagnosis, holding him against her surgically flattened chest and giving him a safe place to weep, a place where no one, not Connie or Jake or Dr. Czarnecki, would intrude. Of course, it was only natural that Marie, bereft of sexual outlet except for her vibrator, wanted to hear all about his night with Cormac. And Andrew realized he would tell her everything, sparing no physical details, omitting only those intangible elements he still found impossible to define, much less verbalize.

“Tomorrow,” Andrew said. “I’m going home before Mom ambushes me. Talk her off the ledge. I’m serious. Make this okay. And tomorrow I’ll tell you all about our big date.”

* * *

Back in his apartment, Andrew raided his fridge for leftovers, washed them down with tap water, and headed for bed. It was four o’clock in the afternoon. On his way from kitchen to bedroom, he noticed a scrap of white paper on his coffee table. It was the fortune from his last Chinese takeout meal.

Confucius say, he who saves one life saves the world entire.

Andrew considered the statement as he arranged himself in bed, getting his sheets and blankets exactly right. Objectively, it made no sense. Saving one human life in a teeming, overpopulated world was the very essence of the cliché “a drop in the bucket.” Andrew didn’t credit himself with saving Caleb’s life—surely that distinction belonged to the inventors of the automated external defibrillator, with a hefty assist from Federico. But even if Andrew had saved Caleb, if he chose to give himself that much dubious credit, how had he “saved the world entire?” Homes still burned in the Middle East. People still starved in the hottest regions of the planet. Meanwhile, in the developed world’s richest country, young women still got cancer, growing sicker every month while hospital corporations and pharmaceutical companies presented their investors with increasingly rosy bottom lines. And where had the quote come from, anyway? The Bible? Shakespeare?

Andrew fell asleep uncertain about the quote’s origin, or if Confucius were, in fact, a real person. When he woke up, his bedroom was pitch black except for his bedside clock, which read 2:32 a.m. He was fully awake, refreshed, and judging by what was happening down below, more than a little horny.

Cormac answered on the fourth ring, just before his voicemail picked up. “Hey. Everything okay?”

“Fine.” Andrew smiled. How typical of Cormac to sound genuinely concerned. It was past midnight on the west coast, which to Cormac probably indicated emotional trauma or bodily harm.

“This is a booty call,” Andrew said. “I’m hard as a rock and I need you.”

“Well. I can honestly say I’ve, um, never had a booty call before.” Cormac sounded equally embarrassed and pleased. “Never been too sure what the phrase means. Are you calling to say your booty needs me? That you want to get nailed? Or….“ He drew in his breath. “Do you mean you’re ready to nail me?”

Andrew chuckled. “Casper the Ghost isn’t as transparent as you.”

“What can I tell you?” From so many miles away, Cormac’s sincerity came through crystal-clear. “I have a fantasy. I’m on my knees during most of it.” A pause. “Does that turn you off? Am I doing this wrong?”

“Personally,” Andrew said, putting his mobile on speakerphone and placing it on the mattress beside him, “I think it should be fifty-fifty. I like it up my ass. But I’m never going to be satisfied if I don’t get to drill you once in a while.”

“Andrew.” Cormac’s voice went low, that ultra-masculine growl that made the fine hairs on Andrew’s forearms stand up. “Are you touching yourself?”

“Since you said ‘Andrew’ that way, in that particular tone,” Andrew said, sliding a hand between his legs, “yeah. How fast can you be here?”

“Um. Well. Best case scenario, ten hours. Twelve if something comes up. And I’ll have to pay through the nose out of my personal account.”

Andrew groaned.

“I know. Andrew. I’m sorry.”

Something about the other man’s tone pierced Andrew’s simple arousal. Cormac meant what he said. Maybe he was the only man alive who didn’t understand the exaggerations and false promises of phone sex; maybe the programming of a Real Effing Man didn’t include bullshitting a horny friend. Either way, Andrew’s urgency faded. Disengaging speakerphone, he brought the mobile to his ear again.

“I’m just messing with you. Woke up stiff and wanted to hear your voice. Is everything okay? What about your friend? The politician with the bad boyfriend?”

“They’ve reconciled,” Cormac said. “Martin had me in a panic for nothing, I guess. Mind you, this is no boyfriend Martin fell out with. The young man is a professional.”

“Oh.” Andrew was surprised by how the phrase stung him. “Like me.”

“No.” Cormac’s refusal to feign an apology proved he never meant to imply anything of the sort. “You’ve always been clear. It’s not sex for money between us. Martin and his, um, lover, have a different agreement. Beyond his fee, the boy gets pocket money, a guest house, a car. Between you and me, it’s a train wreck. If the press gets wind of this, Martin’s political career is finished.”

“Because Martin’s married? Or because he’s gay?”

“As far as the nation is concerned, because he’s married. As far as the California Republican party is concerned, because he’s gay.” Cormac sighed. “Enough about me. Are you all right? How’s your sister?”

Pleased to change the subject, Andrew filled Cormac in on the promising clinical trial Marie had joined. He wanted to say more, to describe their most recent discussion in depth, but wasn’t sure if he should. Cormac was part of his life now, someone Andrew cared about. Suppose full disclosure led down paths Cormac couldn’t bear to tread?

“What?” Cormac prompted when Andrew paused for too long.

“I don’t know.” Andrew sighed. “This whole escort business, the gay-for-pay thing. I want to spill my guts, I really do. But I never know what’s smart and what’s suicidal. The last time I was tempted to cut loose, it occurred to me if I told you the truth, you wouldn’t like me anymore.”

“I remember.” Cormac chuckled. “You want to know what I assumed you meant?”

“Okay.”

“I assumed you meant you slept with a client. That it was weird or kinky or whatever, but you liked it. So talking about it with me seemed risky.”

Andrew let all his breath out. “Jeez. Yeah. I… damn. No offense, Cormac, but I—I never thought you’d get that. I mean, that stuff like that can happen, whether we want it to or not.”

“Yeah, well, to quote you: I’m a guy. Maybe I was a virgin for way too long, but I’m still a guy. I sniffed out what you meant the second you said it.” Cormac paused. “This other dude. Do you like him?”