Authors: Lane Hayes
I slowly navigated the narrow street that led toward Pacific Coast Highway and turned the car radio on as loud as I could stand. I didn’t want to hear myself think anymore. It was too damn depressing. I let Katy Perry serenade me with lyrics that seemed to resonate with my fragile state of mind instead and wondered why everything seemed harder than it should.
“H
ONEY
,
IT
’
S
gonna be okay. We’ll think of something. Don’t worry. You can stay with me and work at the store until you get yourself up and running. It’s going to work out. You’ll see.” Brandon rubbed my back, offering words of comfort. The poor guy had been at it for half an hour. His hand had to be getting tired.
I gently pushed him back and shifted on the sofa cushion so I could look at my best friend. Brandon Good was my rock and easily the nicest guy I knew. He was also a witty, sassy, classy fashionista with a wicked sense of humor and an unapologetic flair for all things fabulous. We’d been best friends since high school when we were two awkward boys painfully different from everyone else. Brandon always claimed it had been harder for him because he was half African American on top of obviously gay. What he failed to remember was he could talk his way out of and around some of the most difficult situations using his unique brand of disarming humor. I, unfortunately, was just awkward. By the time we were seniors, he’d made good friends with some jocks and other guys who’d been the nastiest of bullies our freshman year. If it wasn’t for Brandon, I was sure I would have had my ass kicked on a regular basis. I was too skinny, too timid, and a little too pretty as a teenager.
Thankfully things changed when I left for college. I realized I wasn’t one of only two gay young men in the entire state, which was how I sometimes felt growing up. I found my groove and finally became comfortable in my own skin. I also blossomed a little too. I was a respectable five foot nine with blond hair, blue eyes, and golden California-sun-kissed skin. I was never going to be an overly muscular type, but I wasn’t frightfully thin anymore.
Brandon was built almost exactly the same way. He was lean like me but a smidge taller with light brown skin and black hair he kept closely shaven. His gorgeous hazel eyes were what most people noticed when they stopped to get a good look at him. With his high cheekbones and graceful presence, he certainly could have modeled if he hadn’t liked the interior design business as much as he did. Basically we were very similar… one light, one dark. I just wished I could get my shit together the way my best friend had.
“Bran, I love you, but c’mon, you and Trevor don’t want a third wheel and—”
“Trev doesn’t mind at all, baby. And we aren’t talking forever. Just until you’re back on your feet.” Brandon soothingly brushed my long bangs away from my forehead.
“Thank you. I… I’ll work at your store while I figure out what my next move is. I can’t… I can’t believe this wreck is my life. I know I’ll survive and….” I slapped Bran away when he began to sing Gloria Gaynor’s famous anthem, knowing I had to keep talking or potentially lose him to a diva-esque songfest from the disco era. “I promise to—”
He stopped suddenly and gave me a piercing stare. Brandon rarely got too serious, so when he did, I listened. “Luke, it’s over. Shit happens and we move on. So the job you thought was going to be waiting for you here turned sideways. It sucks, but something else will come up. I’m sorry. I had no idea Jamie and her man were on the outs. You are talented and baby, you will find something else. This crap—lousy ex-boyfriends, money blues, and job issues—doesn’t define you. They’re bumps in the road. You’ll get through it all, Lukey. I know you will. And if you’re in my guest room for a while, so be it. We’ve always been there for each other, and that’s not changin’ anytime soon. Am I clear?”
I nodded as I brushed at my wet cheeks and offered my friend what I hoped was a convincing smile. Brandon rolled his eyes as he stood and dragged me to my feet.
“Best cure for the blues is tequila and a little ass shakin’. Let’s go, baby.”
W
E
DIDN
’
T
actually end up going anywhere. Instead we opted for an in-home dance and drink-a-thon. I rolled the industrial-style coffee table on caster wheels up against the sofa to clear enough space for us to dance without having to compromise our moves. Brandon got out a bottle of Patrón, salt, and limes, as well as chips for snacking and turned our favorite dance music on at top volume. The room was spinning two hours and many shots later when Brandon’s boyfriend du jour, Trevor, opened the front door.
Trevor grimaced and immediately went to adjust the sound. As he looked back over his shoulder at us, his shrewd blue eyes scanned the scene in the living room. He set his man bag on the bench near the front door and loosened his tie as he checked his reflection in the mirror. I didn’t really know Trevor well since he and Brandon were a relatively new item, but I thought there was something very Hollywood about the out-of-work actor slash waiter. A little plastic. He was nice enough, but he had a rather unhealthy obsession with beauty and physical perfection. He was a very good-looking guy in his late twenties with a thick head of dark blond, perfectly coiffed hair, pretty blue eyes, and a killer body he spent hours at the gym to maintain. When he wasn’t staring at himself in the mirror pumping iron, he was a waiter at a cute little bistro on Melrose, which is where Brandon met him a few months ago.
Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t have a problem with Trevor. After all, he lived in West Hollywood, the land of beautiful young gay boys and those who tried hard to keep up with them. Everyone was obsessed with good looks and a hot bod in WeHo. He was friendly and he treated Brandon well. I wanted to give him a break but I couldn’t help thinking my best friend deserved someone… more deserving.
When I had broached the subject of how serious he was with his live-in boyfriend, Bran rolled his eyes dramatically and laughed.
“The man is divine in bed, so I am seriously satisfied. After that, who knows? I’m a big believer in living in the present, sugar. And for now… I’m happy.”
Since I heard evidence of just how happy Trevor made Brandon on a nightly basis, I decided not to say anything more. Besides, Brandon probably had the right idea. I would do well to take a page from his book and concentrate on now. I looked up at Trevor and tried to school my features to mimic his more serious countenance. Bran caught sight of me and copied my straight-lipped, wide-eyed look. Unfortunately when we saw what the other was doing, it sent us into a round of tequila-inspired giggles. Trevor rolled his eyes and made his way toward the sofa to greet his boyfriend. I leaned forward and grabbed a tortilla chip and stole a surreptitious glance at Bran’s blissed-out expression as Trevor licked a line across his lips and shoved his tongue inside. Lovely.
Number one on my agenda was to get a job so I could tackle my second goal. I had to get a place of my own. Brandon’s Spanish-style bungalow in West Hollywood was perfect for two, but it was on the small side and the acoustics weren’t great. I had to seriously be cramping their style, though they didn’t seem to be slowing down in the bedroom, I mused as I peered at them over the rim of an empty shot glass.
Should I have another? No. I set the glass down and leaned back against the colorful pillows on the sofa and stared up at the ceiling.
“What’s goin’ on, boys? Are we happy or sad?” Trevor took the armchair next to the sofa where Bran and I sat at opposite ends with our legs entwined.
“A little bit of both, honey.” Bran filled Trevor in briefly.
“Sorry, Luke. That sucks.”
“Yeah. It does. His place is a candidate for a television-show-worthy makeover, but the soccer boy seems… resigned to let things slide into a worst-of-last-century’s decay. It’s awful. The house has great bones and the setting is divine. Ocean views to die for, but….” I sighed deeply and closed my eyes. “I’ll find something else.”
A poignant silence filled the small living area. The music was still playing in the background but the quiet spoke louder. I opened my eyes and found my friend giving me a concerned look.
“I’m okay. Or I will be.” I tried a smile but it was tepid at best.
“I know. I’m the one who keeps telling you that, but… Luke.” Brandon bit his bottom lip thoughtfully, and I cringed a little, knowing he was about to say something I wouldn’t like. “Will you at least call Mara? Just to—”
“No.”
“Can I? Just to let her know you’re fine and—”
“Please leave her out of this. If she calls you, tell her I’m fine. But don’t tell her anything else. I don’t want her to know anything more about Neil or my money woes… nothing. I can’t deal with my issues and try to figure how to talk Mara off the ledge too.” My voice rose in pitch as I worked myself up.
“Okay, okay!” Brandon sat up and leaned over to peck my cheek. “I won’t say anything. Yet. But your mama comes into the store every once in a while, baby, and as much as I like a little drama, I don’t want your mama’s style of drama when she finds your skinny self workin’ there.”
“It won’t happen. I’ll figure something out before she swoops down to terrify your customers.”
Trevor’s attention had moved on to his cell phone, but he looked up and eyed me thoughtfully. “Luke, everyone makes mistakes and misjudges. You have nothing to be ashamed of.” He stood abruptly and brushed a careless hand over Bran’s shoulder as he left the room announcing he was changing out of his work clothes.
We watched him leave and turned to stare at each other for a moment. Hmm. Maybe he wasn’t completely narcissistic after all. Bran and I didn’t say anything. There really wasn’t any new ground to cover. My life still sucked, and nothing monumental was going to change tonight. So when Bran picked up the tequila bottle and sent up a mock toast, I chuckled softly and held out my empty shot glass. I would pay dearly in the morning, but for now, I didn’t give a damn.
Sometime after midnight, I was awakened by a telltale moan followed by a steady thumping sound and then “Oh God, yes! Fuck me, Trev. Harder, baby!” I breathed a heavy sigh and buried my head under my pillow. If I needed any further encouragement to get my act together, that was it.
I
WAS
busy arranging a display at BGoods the following morning when my cell phone vibrated in my back pocket. I didn’t recognize the number, so I got back to creating my autumn vignette around a new set of designer picture frames and bookends as I listened to Brandon gush over a young popular Hollywood actor who’d come into his store. He was telling him how much he loved everything from his shirt to his television show to the adorable toy Yorkie he carried in the bag he had slung across his left shoulder. Bran couldn’t help himself. He was theatrical and always had been. Everything was big in his book. He talked in exclamation points. He loved or he hated, and only rarely fell somewhere in between. If nothing else, he entertained me as I fussed with my configurations.
When my phone buzzed a second time with the same number in less than five minutes, I decided I should answer. I’d spent the morning leaving messages for fellow designers and realtors in the area. I didn’t think I’d get any response so quickly, but it was time to start networking. Ideally I wanted to stay in the LA area, but I was open to other options too. I wasn’t in a position to be too picky.
“Hello?” I stepped into the back office area and leaned on Brandon’s retro wood-and-steel table that doubled as his desk.
“Hey. Luke, right?”
“Yes?” I didn’t recognize the voice but it was deep and kinda sexy.
“Hey. This is Michael Martinez. We met yesterday when you came out to the house.”
“Oh. Right. Of course. How can I help you?” My heart was suddenly beating halfway out of my chest.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said, you know, about there being some things that were maybe unsafe in the house. I don’t want to do anything crazy but… I think since I’m stuck here for the time being, maybe I should do some basics. Are you still interested?”
Fuck yes! I willed my breathing to normalize before I addressed my potential new employer.
“Absolutely. When are you available to meet?”
T
HE
NEXT
day I found myself on the 405 freeway stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic near the Los Angeles airport. It was midmorning and I was naively surprised by the sheer number of cars on the road. Weren’t people supposed to be at work already? The trip to Orange County from West Hollywood should have taken me an hour and fifteen minutes factoring in a little traffic delay, but at the rate I was going, I would be late meeting Michael Martinez for sure.
When I finally pulled up in front of the home on the quiet cliff overlooking the Pacific, I was so stressed out from my drive I was practically vibrating. If he had any significant work in mind, which I sincerely hoped was the case, I would have to find another living situation close by. A daily commute between Brandon’s and Corona del Mar would put me in a mental tailspin. Caffeine could only take care of so much.
At least he was expecting me this time. I left my portfolio, which included some material samples, in the car. I decided to hear what renovations he wanted to concentrate on first. I didn’t want to overwhelm him or be presumptuous. The house needed a total makeover, but I sensed stating the obvious wouldn’t get me the job. I checked my reflection in the car window before I turned to walk up the path toward the house. I was going for California casual with a blue-striped designer shirt and well-fitted jeans. I didn’t know Michael Martinez at all, but I got the impression on our first meeting that he was an informal kind of guy. One piece of sound advice my mostly wacky mother gave me was to dress your part. Since I didn’t know my role, I went with instinct. I removed my dark sunglasses, brushed my bangs out of my eyes, and raised my hand to knock on the discolored red door. I hoped painting was part of his plan.