Speechless (2 page)

Travis found himself in a small living room with a polished wood floor and a few pieces of comfortable-looking furniture. There were three bookshelves, all of them jammed full, and a small TV. It was a cozy room, he thought. Not sterile like his own bland apartment, in which Elwood and his hairball du jour were the only things of interest.

“That’s a lot of books,” Travis observed. Oh, brilliant, he told himself. Sparkling conversation. “Did you used to be a teacher or librarian or something?”

Drew shook his head, then beckoned Travis over to one of the bookshelves. He pointed, and Travis peered at the books. They all appeared to be spy thrillers.
The Fatal Memo
.
The Loophole
.
Penultimate Sacrifice
.
The Incident at Sea
. And half a dozen others, every one of them by the same author: Andrew Clifton.

“You wrote all these?” Travis exclaimed.

Drew pulled one off the shelf and opened it, showing Travis the back flap of the dust jacket. Sure enough, there was Drew, looking a few years younger and more relaxed, wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket and leaning back against a brick wall.

“Wow,” Travis said, taking the book so he could look more closely. It was a good picture. “I never met a real author before. That’s…. Oh, fuck. You used words for a living.”

With a tiny shrug, Drew looked away.

“Well, look. I stopped by ’cause… well, because I was wondering if you wanted to get some grub. I mean, after I go home and wash up.”

After a pause, Drew nodded. Travis breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Great! So, I could be back in, say, an hour? And in the meantime, you decide where you want to go.” He tried to hand the book back, but Drew wouldn’t take it. He pointed at Travis.

“I can keep it? Really?”

Nod.

“Thanks, man! Okay, home to degrime. I’ll be back soon, bright and shiny.”

While he showered and shaved and brushed, he tried to remind himself that this was not a date. It was just two guys going out for burgers or something. But the reminder didn’t help, especially because he’d eaten every fucking meal alone since he’d left Bakersfield, and even platonic company was a cause for celebration.

He practically trotted back to Drew’s house.

And Drew must have cleaned up too, because although he had on those same tight jeans, he was now wearing a silky blue sweater that matched his eyes, and his hair was tamed back with some kind of gel, and he looked good enough to eat. Travis swallowed. Hard. “Um, did you decide on a place?”

With a nod, Drew led him to the detached garage, which proved to house a gorgeous old T-Bird with gleaming black paint and towering tail fins. Travis whistled in appreciation, which made Drew smile.

The restaurant was a couple of miles away. It was in an old house, and there was a soggy-looking patio off to one side, packed with empty tables. They entered the warm interior, and a pretty girl with a low-cut black top and a tattoo of Bettie Page on her arm greeted them. “Reservations?”

To Travis’s surprise, Drew nodded and held out a card. This one had just his name printed on it.

“Oh, Mr. Clifton.” She dimpled. “Follow me, please.”

They did, with Travis wondering how the hell Drew had managed to make reservations, then noting that this place was considerably fancier than the brewpubs that constituted his occasional splurges.

They were seated at a small table in a quiet corner of the restaurant, a flickering candle and a white rose in a simple vase between them. Almost as soon as they were seated, a tall, skinny guy with a goatee ambled over and handed them each a menu. “Hi. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Widmer,” Travis said right away, and the waiter nodded.

Drew pulled something out of his jacket pocket. It looked like a bunch of laminated cards held together by a metal ring. He flipped quickly through them and held one out for the waiter, who leaned over slightly to read it in the dim light.

“Jack straight up. No problem, sir,” the waiter said, and then walked away.

“You have cards?” Travis asked.

Drew handed them over. There were quite a few. One of them was the same as the card Travis had initially received, and one had just Drew’s name, but the rest contained phrases that someone might need to order things or to navigate through the world:
I have an appointment
.
Jack Daniels.
So rare it moos. Bugger off
.
The bloody furnace is broken again
.

“How come you don’t use something high-techier? Like an iPad.”

Holding his hands far apart and miming lifting something heavy, Drew indicated that he thought tablets were too bulky. Then he pretended to search the walls in vain for an outlet for the imaginary plug he was holding. Maybe cards were easier, Travis thought. They fit easily into a pocket. No worries about dead batteries. And Drew’s collection seemed to cover most contingencies.

The final card showed a name—Eleanor Hayden—and a phone number with an LA area code.

“Relative?” Travis asked, pointing at the card.

Drew made a sour face and rocked his hand back and forth.

“A sort of relative? Hmm….”

Drew huffed and pulled out his wallet. There was a photo in there of a much younger Drew standing next to a man who looked remarkably like him and was obviously his father. On the other side of him was a tall woman in glasses and a wool suit.

“Your mom?” Travis guessed.

Drew shook his head and made a “keep going” gesture.

“Oh! Stepmom!”

Nod.

“Is your dad….”

Drew shook his head sadly.

“Oh, man. I’m sorry.” And then he hid his face with the typewritten menu.

When the waiter came back, Travis still hadn’t made up his mind. Everything sounded great—but after a steady diet of frozen burritos, anything would. Then Drew pointed to corn bisque and some kind of pork dish with mustard and pickles, and Travis ordered the same.

They talked as they waited for their food and continued when the meal arrived. And the funny thing was, while Drew couldn’t actually say any words, he somehow managed to communicate quite a lot. Sometimes Travis felt almost hypnotized by those long, strong fingers and those ever-moving eyebrows. And, oh God, that full lower lip….

With some difficulty, Travis managed to keep himself under control.

He swallowed the last of his chocolate gateau and watched as Drew spooned the last of his mandarin orange sorbet. Travis felt as giddy as if he were drunk, but he’d had only two beers. He was probably grinning like a loon. He didn’t care.

When the bill came, Drew shot his hand out and snatched it away.

“Hey!” Travis protested. “This was my idea, you know.”

Drew shook his head stubbornly and pulled out a Platinum MasterCard. Travis didn’t have a MasterCard, but if he did, it would be something way less precious. Asphalt, maybe.

“I’m not a total deadbeat.”

Drew rolled his eyes. He held up one finger and pointed to himself, then added a second finger and pointed to Travis. Okay, what the hell did that mean? Drew tried again. One finger, himself. Then a rolling motion with his hands, two fingers, and Travis.

“Next time’s on me?” Travis hazarded, wondering if his interpretation was more optimistic than accurate.

But Drew grinned and nodded.

Twenty minutes later, Drew was driving around in circles near his house. Travis finally got the hint and gave directions to his ugly apartment building. Drew didn’t cut the engine as he pulled to the curb, and Travis hesitated after he climbed out, then walked to the driver’s-side door. He felt like a sap, but part of him wanted to look again into those eyes, just to make the evening complete. Drew’s window was rolled down. Feeling a bit awkward, Travis said, “That was really nice, Drew. Thanks. But next time I pay.”

Drew crooked a finger at him, and Travis leaned down, at which point Drew grabbed his collar and pulled Travis forward into a firm kiss that tasted of whiskey and citrus. For a change, it was Travis who was speechless when Drew let him go. Drew smirked delightedly and roared off.

T
WICE
during the following week it was dry enough for Drew to be out, and Travis sat next to him for a while, amiably bumping shoulders, blathering on about whatever came to mind. When he paused to take a breath or two, Drew would play a song. Once Travis asked, “How come you do it?” He received a puzzled look in return. “Stay out here and play, I mean.”

Drew gestured toward the sidewalk, where a group of teens laughed loudly as they passed by, and a young mother pushed a stroller, and an old lady lugged a plastic bag full of groceries. Nothing all that exciting, but it was the bustle of life, and Travis realized that it was probably Drew’s closest human interaction on most days. Christ, what would it be like to be stuck always as an observer, unable to communicate anything beyond the basics?

They went out again on Saturday. This time Travis chose the place, and they had burgers and onion rings and stout—all of which he paid for—and afterward Drew kicked Travis’s ass at pool. “No fair.” Travis pouted. “There should be some kind of handicap for the depth-perception challenged.”

Drew smirked and played the next game with one eye squeezed shut. He still won.

When they got to Travis’s place that night, Drew still didn’t cut the engine, but this time Travis leaned over before getting out of the T-Bird, and he kissed Drew. He tasted of onions and beer, but then so did Travis.

The following Wednesday it was raining again, but Drew popped out of his house as Travis walked by. He’d obviously been waiting for him to arrive, and that made Travis’s heart sing. Drew had a postcard in his hand, the type used to advertise art exhibits and concerts, and he dragged Travis up onto the relative dryness of his porch and handed the card over.

The Back Ward
, the card said. Apparently that was the band’s name. There was a photo of three people: a big, handsome man with leather pants and a frown; a skinny brunet in goth-wear; and a busty blonde in a sexy schoolgirl outfit. They were playing at a downtown club that Saturday. Drew poked his finger at the date and looked at Travis with his eyebrows raised.

“Seriously? Sounds like fun. Um, if you’re willing to put up with my dancing, that is.”

Drew laughed and gave Travis a one-armed hug and a smooch on the cheek. Then he used various gestures to let Travis know he would pick him up on Saturday at eight.

T
RAVIS
had no idea what to wear. He felt like a total girl as he considered and rejected one outfit after another, finally settling on his tightest jeans and an even tighter white silk T-shirt. Okay, not very exciting, but at least he wasn’t wearing the skull and crossbones T-shirt, a present from Sara on his last birthday. People tended to give him dirty looks when he wore it, like he wasn’t allowed to make fun of his own infirmity.

When he heard the Thunderbird pull up, Travis loped out of the building and toward the car. Maybe Drew approved of his choice in clothing, because he gave an appreciative wolf whistle as Travis climbed into the passenger side. Drew was wearing his usual jeans, this time with a black T-shirt that showed off his lean torso. Travis licked his lips.

The club was already packed when they arrived. Drew paid the cover and grabbed Travis’s hand, towing him toward the stage and somehow managing to find a vacant tiny table. This time they both ordered Jack.

It wasn’t long before the band started up. They were loud and raucous, sort of old-school punk with a good twist of grunge and, inexplicably, occasional infusions of what Travis was pretty sure was Celtic stuff. The brown-haired guy did most of the singing and the blonde played the guitar, while the big guy pounded away on drums. They weren’t bad. They weren’t good either, exactly, but it was fun. Three songs in, Drew dragged Travis onto the dance floor, apparently not caring that most of this crowd seemed pretty straight. Travis stopped caring too as he and Drew jumped and bumped together. And when the band sometimes switched to something slow and crooning, Drew scooped Travis into his arms and they rocked their bodies together tightly enough that Travis could feel Drew’s cock harden against him, and he knew that Drew could feel his.

It didn’t matter that Drew couldn’t speak. Travis wouldn’t have been able to hear him over the din anyway.

After the Back Ward played their final song, Travis and Drew stumbled out into the cold night, their arms around one another’s waists. They weren’t drunk—they’d been too busy dancing—but they were high on adrenaline and, most likely, a whole cocktail of fun hormones. Drew had parked the T-Bird a few blocks away in a secure lot, and the streets they walked were mostly deserted.

“I haven’t had that much fun in
years
,” Travis said.

Drew beamed.

They were only about a block from the parking lot, making their way past a sandwich shop that had long since closed for the night, when a pair of men stepped into their path. Young men, and the taller one had a swastika tattooed on his forehead. Nice.

“Faggots,” spat the other Hitler Youth, a short kid with acne.

“Morons,” Travis shot back, because he knew there was no point in running.

Swastika-Face squinted at him. “What’s this? Fucking Pansy-Ass Pirates Day?”

“Yeah, like I’ve never heard a pirate joke before. Man, you’re so clever! Now how about you toddle on home and practice your goose-stepping or something? Or, you know, find some other way to sublimate your urges to fuck each other silly.” Oh yes, he’d learned a thing or two from Sara, who’d done a psych minor in college. Beside him, Drew snorted with amusement.

The brownshirt wannabes were not amused, however. The Clearasil Kid came rushing forward. Swastika hung back a second longer before joining him. Travis and Drew had time to only exchange a quick glance, and then the fight began.

The thing was, Travis had spent some time in the army right after high school—beginning when he couldn’t think of anything more gainful to do and ending when he decided the whole Don’t Ask Don’t Tell thing was a giant crock of shit. He’d been in long enough to learn some hand-to-hand combat skills, and he’d polished those skills after the eye incident, figuring it never hurt a slightly disabled dude to be handy with his fists. He was both strong and a pretty good brawler. As he soon learned, so was Drew, who certainly wasn’t a big guy but was all hard, wiry muscle. Their attackers didn’t have a clue, and within minutes Acne was out cold, and Swastika was sitting on his ass, crying over a busted wrist.