16
Prince Charming
Charlie’s rapidly shifting expression now assumed an aspect of suspicion. His full lips narrowed. So did his eyes.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “But I can get you a drink.”
“I’ll have a cola,” I said. “Then maybe we can talk.”
“I’m working,” he said, grabbing a glass with one hand while reaching for the soda-dispensing wand.
I looked around the near-empty room. “I think you can spare a few minutes. Bring the lemons over. I’ll help.” I gave him the reassuring smile I used to give my nervous, first-time clients.
Charlie was recovering some of his cool. “I’m pretty sure that would break a few health code violations. You’ve already gotten me in enough trouble for the night.” He flushed again. While there was definitely a pecking order here, one which allowed Charlie to treat the working boys, which I knew he assumed I was, with more informality than he’d address the older customers, he still had to behave professionally.
“Not that you did anything wrong,” he added, plopping my drink down as if it were a live grenade he was glad to be rid of. “It’s just, like I said, for a moment . . .”
“You thought I was Brent,” I finished. I knew he’d never say it.
Once again, his expression wavered like the surface of a pond with a rock skimming across it. Sadness, confusion, concern.
The suspiciousness was back, too.
I could see he was considering how directly to confront me. He decided discretion was the better part of valor.
“I better get back to those lemons,” he said with forced good humor. “You have a, uh, productive night. Good luck.”
I was surprised by his reaction. While I didn’t expect to be welcomed with a hug, what was the problem with my expressing concern about a mutual friend? If he was truly worried about Brent, why wouldn’t he be glad that another person cared about his whereabouts?
Then it came to me—I wasn’t a mutual friend. Charlie had no idea who I was or why I was asking about his boyfriend.
Brent had told me about how his fans sometimes confused his public persona with his real one, imagining a connection that didn’t exist. Had there been other times Charlie had been approached by overzealous men trying to get to Brent through him? When your lover made his living getting fucked and sucked on film, did it make you overprotective of whatever privacy you could preserve?
“Wait,” I called, as he turned to leave.
“It’s no problem,” he said, already facing away. “The drink’s on the house.”
“No,” I said. “Can we talk? Just for a minute?”
Charlie didn’t turn around. But he stopped walking away. “Like I said, I’m working.”
“Listen,” I said to his back, “I understand why you’re being careful. But I also know you’re worried. About Brent. So am I. I promise you—I’m not a stalker or anything like that. I really am a friend. I want to help.”
It wasn’t until I saw Charlie’s broad shoulders drop that I realized how tightly he’d been clenching them. He turned around.
“I get off at one,” he said, somewhat begrudgingly. “If you’re still around, we can talk then.”
“I’ll come back,” I said.
Charlie looked around the bar. “I know it’s quiet now, but give it an hour and this place will be bursting. Sure you don’t want to stick around and see what you can drum up? I haven’t seen you here before, but I can tell you you’ll be in the top five percent in terms of looks around here. Fresh meat always does well even when it isn’t as cute as you are. You should do well tonight.”
“I’m not here for that,” I told him. “I just came to talk to you, Charlie.”
He cocked his head. “Did I tell you my name?” His guard was back up.
“No,” I said. “Brent did. In the same conversation when he told me how much he cared for you.”
Another quick shift in character. Charlie’s defensive posture shifted to that of a man overcome with unexpected emotion. Then, his face settled into the expression of a man ready to take action. “One minute,” he directed me. “Don’t move.”
He spun on his heels and disappeared into a door hidden behind the bar. A minute later he emerged wearing a black leather jacket over his uniform and followed by another staffer who took his place behind the bar. Charlie took my arm.
“We’re getting out of here,” he said.
I allowed myself to be dragged behind, suddenly conscious of just how big and imposing a fellow Charlie was.
It occurred to me that if I’d told Tony who I was meeting tonight, which, by the way, I did not, he might have pointed out that when a guy disappears, his disapproving boyfriend, whom he was possibly about to dump, might not be entirely innocent in the matter.
Naw,
I thought. Charlie looked genuinely happy to see me. When he thought I was Brent, I mean. If he’d hurt Brent, or, I might as well just say it, killed him, that wouldn’t have been his reaction.
Unless he was insane, that is.
He squeezed my arm harder as he hurried me out of the bar. Which he was leaving in the middle of his shift. In what, I supposed, could be called an alarmingly impulsive rush.
After I’d come in and started asking nosy questions about his missing partner.
Had I gotten in over my head again?
At five feet three, that happened to me a lot.
Oh well, it’s not like it’s ever gotten me killed.
Yet.
“Did you just quit your job?” I asked as Charlie continued to drag me after him. We had just gotten out of earshot of the guys guarding the door, and it seemed like as good a question as any with which to start.
It was a tough economy. If he’d really walked out that suddenly, it would be the surest sign yet that he was crazy. In which case, I was ready to kick him in the balls and run back to the protection of the bouncers posthaste.
Charlie slowed down, as if the sound of my voice reminded him there was a person attached to the other end of his arm. “Naw. It was a slow night. I asked my buddy Cliff to cover for me so we could talk. I should be good for an hour or so.”
“I don’t want you to get into trouble,” I said. “I really could just come back at one. I don’t mind.” Actually, I kind of did. I couldn’t imagine what I’d tell Tony I was doing leaving at that time of night. Or morning, as it were. But I figured I’d deal with that later.
“No,” Charlie said. “I couldn’t wait—couldn’t work all night—thinking that you might know something about where Brent is.”
He turned to face me and his eyes were wet. “Do you? Do you know where he is?”
His lips quivered with a boyish vulnerability that made me want to throw my arms around him. If he was a killer, he was the sweetest one ever.
“I don’t. I wish I did, though.” The night was getting chilly. I rubbed my hands over my arms.
Charlie’s eyes widened. “Brent used to do that same thing. You . . . you must know this . . . you look
so
much like him.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Charlie was puzzled. “Why would you be sorry?”
It would be totally inappropriate for me to hug him, but I couldn’t resist reaching out to rest my arm on his. “I’m sorry because I know that thinking about him is causing you pain. I’m sorry for hurting you.”
A single tear formed in the corner of Charlie’s right eye. He wiped it away before it fell.
There’s something about seeing a big guy like him cry that just breaks my heart. Even more so when he struggles to hold it in.
“There’s a coffee shop down that block,” Charlie said, resuming his forward march. “We can talk there.”
Over a chai tea and an improbably delicious raspberry/white chocolate chip scone, I told Charlie how I’d come to know Brent and what I’d been doing to track him down.
Charlie listened intently, occasionally sipping his black coffee. “It doesn’t surprise me those bastards at SwordFight weren’t any help,” he observed bitterly. “Brent’s not a real person to them. He’s a thing they made. A product they use and bleed until it runs dry. Then they throw it away.”
“You think they threw Brent away?”
“No. I think they drove him away, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“Brent wants to leave SwordFight. He’s had enough of that life. He wants to be with me, and he knows I can’t stand having other men touch him. Not to mention the thousands who are watching. It’s . . . obscene.
“I love him. I can’t watch him throw himself away like that. He’s over it, too. Too many creepy ‘fans,’ too much exposure to drugs, disease, all kinds of weird shit. It’s not exactly the Disney channel over there.”
“So, what’s the problem?” I asked. “If Brent wants to leave, why doesn’t he just quit?”
“He’s tried. But they have contracts he’s signed and tons of lawyers ready to enforce them. They’ve spent tens of thousands of dollars creating and promoting the product that is ‘Brent Havens.’ They’re not about to let him just walk away.”
“You’re saying that Brent ran away because it was the only way he could get out of making more films.”
Charlie nodded into his coffee.
“But if Brent . . .”
Charlie’s hands tightened around the cup in his hand. I was afraid he’d crush it. “There is no ‘Brent.’ ‘Brent’ is the thing they made him into. My boyfriend’s name is . . .”
He stopped himself and looked at me again. Appraisingly. What did he know about me? Could he trust me? I knew that must be what he was thinking.
What had Brent told me his real name was again? Oh, shit, this trust-building exercise wasn’t going to go well if I couldn’t remember. Ralph. Robert.
“Richie,” I said. “Richie’s the man you love.”
Charlie’s grip relaxed. “I think you’re the only person other than me who’s called him that.” He was getting choked up again.
I didn’t want to be mean, but I couldn’t think of a gentler way to put it than this: “If Richie really did leave to be with you, then why isn’t he with you? Or, at least tell you where he is?”
This time, Charlie did squeeze the cup hard enough to cause an overflow. The steaming coffee ran hotter than blood over his fingers without his noticing.
“I don’t know,” he almost wailed. “That’s the part I can’t stop thinking about. Unless he’s afraid they’d send their lawyers after me. That makes sense, doesn’t it? I mean, don’t they subpoena people in cases like this? I think Richie is protecting me. When their jackals come after me, I’ll be able to tell the truth—I really don’t know where he is. Then, when this all blows over, Richie can come back.”
He looked at me with such need that it was as if he were standing before me naked. “That’s it, don’t you think?”
Um, no. Nothing about that seemed very likely. For one thing, while it was true that Brent was conflicted about having to choose between Charlie and his job, at least as far as I’d last heard, it wasn’t the job he was planning to leave. No, it was big old Charlie who was going to get the heave-ho. Not that I had the heart to tell him that.
Even if Brent had reversed course on that decision, I still couldn’t see why he’d feel the need to disappear—especially from the man he loved. Assuming SwordFight did have enforceable contracts against Brent, what would they sue him
for?
It wasn’t like Brent was a millionaire. It would probably cost them more to take him to court than they’d recover. Not to mention all the bad press.
Lastly, there was the question of whatever dirt Brent had on SwordFight. I never got the details as to what it was, but Brent implied the information was so damning it could bring down the company. Which meant they had more to fear from him than he from them. If he really wanted his freedom from SwordFight, why wouldn’t he strike a deal? He seemed like a smart kid to me.
More likely, Brent got tired of
everything
. Charlie included. So, he ran away.
Only problem with that theory was that, sitting across from Charlie, it wasn’t that easy to believe Brent would do that to him. First, Charlie was terrifically attractive, seemed as sweet as the scone I’d just inhaled at an alarming rate, and was obviously head over heels for Brent. He’d be a hard guy to give up.
Second, even if that were Brent’s decision, just disappearing into the night would be an awfully cruel thing to do to a softie like Charlie. Brent had to know that. I did, and I’d only spent an hour with him. Did Brent have a mean streak like that in him?
I didn’t know Brent much better than I knew Charlie. But I didn’t think so.
Meanwhile, Charlie the gentle giant was looking at me for an answer.
“You could be right,” I said. “I mean, everything you say makes a kind of sense. It’s certainly . . . plausible.” For a moment, I flashed back to Andrew saying something similar to my mother this morning when she presented her nutso plan to investigate the adoption agency. Was this some sort of holiday when you had to humor demented ideas?