Fifteen Shades of Gay (For Pay) (3 page)

“You love New York,” Andrew said.

“I love New York. Good, bad, and in-between.” Cormac smiled again.

“So why don’t you live here?”

Cormac ignored that. “What about you, Andrew? Think you’ll stay?” He leaned closer at the same moment the cabbie took a hard left. The effect was that he came in for a kiss. Andrew, startled, jerked his face away.

“Sorry.” Cormac shifted back, putting a good six inches between them again.

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean to seem jumpy, I was just caught up in what you were saying. I wasn’t expecting…” He stopped, at a loss as to what his character, Happy-Go-Lucky Gay Escort, would say next. Cormac was tall and handsome, with what was almost certain to be a fit body inside that plain blue suit. Surely Happy-Go-Lucky Gay Escort would be expecting a little physical interest by now? A kiss? A hand on the thigh?

“I wasn’t…” Cormac took a breath and squared his shoulders. “This is all going a little fast for you, am I right?”

Andrew nodded, despite Wasserman’s promise re: ass and foot.

Cormac’s fingers brushed Andrew’s forearm again, just the faintest connection, like a candidate reaching out to a potentially hostile voter. “I like you. If things get weird, tell me. Otherwise, let’s just dance. Have a few drinks. Have fun.”

“Okay.” Impulsively, Andrew took Cormac’s hand in both of his. It was large, warm, and not so odd, not after their linked hands back at the Sea Witch.

He’s just another guy
, Andrew realized.
Gay, but—just another guy. It’s stupid to be so scared of him.

* * *

The Blairmont club was nothing like Andrew expected. He’d imagined strobe lights, half-naked young men in loin cloths, and a percussive dance beat strong enough to shatter ordinary human eardrums. Instead, the taxi pulled up in front of a three-story brownstone. An older woman in a dress, pearls, and pumps waited by the door.

“Good evening, Senator,” she said to Cormac. Extending a white-gloved hand to Andrew, she added, “And you are very welcome as well, Mr. Reynolds.”

Andrew let the greeting, “Senator,” pass. On that score, he obviously wasn’t meant to show interest. But he couldn’t help asking, “How did she know my name?”

“I called ahead. When you were in the can,” Cormac said, meaning the Sea Witch’s restroom. “The Blairmont insists on the full name of all non-members. Go on.” Opening the door, he ushered Andrew through.

Passing through a narrow hall, they entered a ballroom with a highly polished heart-of-pine floor. The leaded-glass windows were uncovered, letting in bits of distorted starlight. The ballroom was illuminated only by candlelight. Wide chandeliers hung overhead, each laden with at least twenty-five tall white tapers. Candelabras stood like mute footmen along the walls, fashioned from scrolled brass and ornate as something from a fairy tale.

“I’m amazed they aren’t dripping wax on the dance floor,” Andrew whispered to Cormac.

“They aren’t real,” the other man said in his ear. “The
flames
are real, but the candles aren’t. The White House uses the same faux tapers. All the effect with none of the mess. And no need to replace the candles every three hours.”

Away from the dancing, plush loveseats and S-shaped two-seater chairs were arranged around a large round table. In the latter, one man sat on the front while another took the back. Facing one another, the men were ideally situated for conversation.

“I’ve seen those. They’re called…” Andrew struggled for the correct term, which he’d read in stage directions. “Tay… um, tay….”

“
Tete-a-tete
.” Cormac looked impressed. “It’s French.”

“No shit. I might not be a senator, but I’m not a complete idiot.” The words were out before Andrew could second-guess them.

Cormac chuckled. “Of course not. I apologize. My job obligates me to keep company with idiots, and not one in ten would know what to call that chair.” He indicated the bar, a lovely affair decorated by deep pink tropical flowers and an ice-sculpture swan. “Want another gin and tonic?”

“Sure. Thank you.”

As Cormac headed for the bar, Andrew glanced around the ballroom. At the far end, a quartet sat on a raised bandstand, playing something that sounded like Mozart, or Vivaldi. Andrew could never keep those two straight. Except for one member of the quartet, a delicate blonde, every single person in the ballroom was male. Most were over forty and at least half wore tuxedos. The other half was attired in plain suit/tie combos like Cormac. Andrew was suddenly acutely conscious of his outdated ensemble. But nothing could be done about it now. Best to brazen it out.

The men were ballroom dancing—waltzing, to be specific. It looked corny and weird to Andrew, still trying to jettison his earlier assumptions about flashing lights and a driving dance beat. He felt uncomfortable watching all those men, many white-haired, fatherly, and in varying degrees of physical condition, dancing together like normal lovers. It was worse than unsettling. It made him angry, anxious, frightened. He forced himself to look at his shoes.

“Are you all right?” Cormac asked, suddenly beside him. Andrew nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Fine.” Accepting his drink, Andrew downed half of it in a gulp. “Aren’t you having one?”

“Later.” Cormac smiled. “Don’t you like this place?”

“I like it.” They made stilted conversation while Andrew finished his gin and tonic. It was twice as potent as the Sea Witch’s version. Grateful for the warmth spreading though him, Andrew felt a rising bravado. Tonight he was Happy-Go-Lucky Gay Escort. That five hundred dollar cash bonus would be his. He was staying by Marie’s side and keeping his shitty little apartment, so help him God. If sacrifices were required, so be it.

“Ready to dance?” Andrew gave Cormac his most charming smile.

The quartet shifted to another waltz as Andrew allowed Cormac to guide him onto the floor. He thought he was doing well, replicating those classic dance moves he’d learned for a role that never materialized, until Cormac laughed.

“What?”

“You keep pushing me backwards. If you want to lead, just say so.”

“Oh. Sorry. Never learned to do the steps in reverse.”

“You mean you never dance with other men?” Cormac’s eyes narrowed.

“’Course I do. But I always drive.” To Andrew’s relief, the other man didn’t object. They shifted hand positions and before long Andrew was maneuvering Cormac around the dance floor like they’d been partnered for years.

“You’re good,” Andrew said.

“Plenty of practice.”

“I guess so, being a senator. Lots of fancy parties and—” Andrew stopped himself, mentally cursing the potency of that second gin and tonic. “Whoops. Not supposed to go there, right?”

“Not unless you want us both to die of boredom. My mom taught dance and piano for thirty years. I was her first student for both. I gave up the piano ages ago, but she insisted I meet her for dance practice once a week. Thought knowing the rumba and the foxtrot would help me land a wife.”

“Moms.” Andrew chuckled. “Mine tells everyone I’m studying for a real estate license. She doesn’t want folks to know what I actually do.” That anecdote was true, even if it pertained to Mrs. Reynolds’s despair over her son the actor, not her son the purported gay-for-pay escort. “How did your mom take it when you said you weren’t looking for a wife?”

“I never told her.”

“Oh. Well. The right moment will come, someday.”

“Not in this life,” Cormac said. “She died last year.”

Face growing hot, Andrew mumbled the usual response. Although Cormac accepted the condolences gracefully, something in his light green eyes told Andrew he’d touched a sore spot.

“Oh, God.” Andrew sighed. “I’m the worst escort ever.”

Cormac ignored that. “Slow dance,” he said as the band began a new song. “Up for it?”

“Sure.”

Soon Andrew found himself pressed close to Cormac, cheek against dark blue lapel as the other man began to lead. They were much too close. At first Andrew quelled his rising panic by forcing himself to breathe slowly.

In, out. In, out. This is just a job. Just a job….

Cormac kept their bodies close as they swayed. Rationally, Andrew knew he had no reason to panic or even be repulsed. Cormac smelled good. He was warm, handsome, and a good dancer. He was—

Hard
, Andrew realized, suddenly aware of the bulge in Cormac’s trousers. He couldn’t get away from it; it pressed against his belly no matter how he moved.
Well. Maybe I’m not the world’s worst escort, after all.

But try as he might, Andrew couldn’t feel triumphant. Just slightly nauseous. To endure the rest of the slow dance, he thought about Marie. Tomorrow he’d pick up some of her favorite Chinese takeout and try to coax her into eating….

“You’re gorgeous,” Cormac murmured in his ear. “I could dance with you all night.”

“Me, too,” Andrew managed, still uncomfortably aware of the other man’s erection.
Jeez. How big
is
he?

Another slow dance followed, which clearly suited Cormac just fine. Remembering the grope-a-thons from his high school days, Andrew waited miserably for Cormac’s hands to travel down. But they never moved below his waist.

“You still seem a little nervous.” Cormac released Andrew as the song ended and the quartet rose to take a break.

“I’m not. Really, I’m not,” Andrew said too rapidly. “I’m having a great time.” The phrase sounded even lamer aloud than it had in his head.

Cormac grinned. “Oh, I can see that. Want another drink?”

Andrew nodded. As Cormac went to the bar, Andrew conducted another inner pep talk, infuriated by his own squeamishness. He’d known he’d have to feign interest in another man, accept some touching, probably some kissing. The only way out was through.

The third gin and tonic tasted crisper and was possibly even stronger. Andrew knocked half of it back, determined to make better conversation as they waited for the music to resume. Cormac was a good listener, nodding and frequently grinning as Andrew talked and talked. Starting with a funny story from acting class, Andrew segued into a long description of New York City as viewed by a native of Fort Scott, Kansas. Cormac didn’t hide his amusement. Once or twice he touched Andrew’s forearm again, a gesture Andrew began to suspect was more a politician’s habit than a gay pass. Even after the quartet started again, Andrew kept talking. He had another drink—had he asked for it?—and told a very dirty, riotous story about his first real date. There was something indiscreet about it, he wasn’t quite sure what, but Cormac seemed to enjoy every word. They laughed together all the way to the curb, where Cormac steered them to a waiting cab as if by magic.

“Where are you taking me?” Andrew asked, slowly and carefully, to avoid slurring.

“I thought we’d spend a little time at my hotel.” Opening the cab door, Cormac helped Andrew inside. Settling into the dark, Andrew closed his eyes, but just for a moment. He was tired enough to sleep, but he had to follow this through to the end. When Cormac slid in beside him, Andrew put a hand on the other man’s shoulder.

“That’s fine. Whatever you want. Except I… I’m not supposed to….” Andrew stopped, wondering what had possessed him to nearly quote the state law regarding escorts to Wasserman’s most prized client.

Gently detaching Andrew’s hand, Cormac placed it on the seat between them. “Just spend time. Talk. You have a better gift of gab than most politicians. Tell me more about your sister.”

Andrew pinched the bridge of his nose. Why had he brought up Marie?

“Okay. Well. Before she got sick, she worked as a massage therapist. And the other therapists used to call her the Sasquatch magnet, because every single shift, she got the client with the hairy back….”

* * *

Groaning, Andrew snuggled deeper beneath the blankets, fighting to stay unconscious. He had been sleeping face down, nose and mouth pressed against the pillow, belly lurching with every breath. He needed to piss and he needed to puke. The only question was, would the events occur separately or simultaneously?

“Oh,” he groaned, sitting up and clenching tight to keep from losing it on either end.

“You’re awake.” Cormac’s voice came from across the room. A lamp snapped on. “Need the bathroom?”

“Yeah.” As Andrew stumbled out of bed, Cormac switched on the bathroom light and flipped up the toilet seat. Andrew was already positioned over the bowl and digging in the front of his boxers when he realized he wore nothing
but
boxers. Fortunately Cormac was already leaving, closing the door behind him.

Andrew glanced at his face in the mirror. He looked like hell. And there was no time to wonder when he’d undressed, or under what circumstances. He’d barely managed to empty his bladder when the need to empty his stomach took over. Unable to get on his knees before the toilet in time, Andrew vomited into the shower stall instead. He was heaving for the third time when Cormac knocked, waited a few moments, and entered.

“I feel guilty. I’m the one who kept buying you drinks. I thought you could handle it until—well, you couldn’t.” At the sink, Cormac turned on the tap and held a washcloth under the flow. “You done?” he asked, passing the wrung-out cloth to Andrew.

“I think so.” Andrew’s voice shook. The stink of his vomit was as disgusting as it was humiliating. “I’m so sorry. Just give me a minute. I’ll clean up, I promise…”

“Nope. You’re coming back to bed. I can take care of that by turning on the shower and letting it run. But first I’ll go down to the gift shop and get you some Alka-Seltzer.”

“I’ll be fine. Just give me a sec to—”

“Bed. Now.” Cormac’s tone was firm.

Returning to the room’s vast king-sized bed, Andrew closed his eyes until the furniture stopped spinning. He felt better, now that some of the poison was out of his system. Still, his head thudded with every breath. Alka-Seltzer was a good hangover remedy, assuming he could keep it down.

“Be back soon,” Cormac called. The room door shut behind him.

Pressing his hands to his face, Andrew tried to remember. He couldn’t recall entering the hotel or accompanying Cormac up the elevator. Across the room, the closet door was open; Andrew’s suit jacket, shirt, and trousers hung inside, alone in the otherwise empty space. That must have been Cormac’s doing.