Read Fifteen Shades of Gay (For Pay) Online
Authors: T. Baggins
Fifteen Shades of Gay (For Pay) (30 page)
Guthrie leaned forward. “Would you like to retract some of those statements, Sen. Donovan?”
Cormac lifted his chin. “I’d like to retract all of them.”
Guthrie looked at the camera operator again. “Go ahead. The floor is yours. Speak directly to California voters, Sen. Donovan.”
“The fact is, I didn’t know Martin was gay until a week before the story broke. He was my political mentor, but he never said a word about his sexuality. Neither did I. Gay men have a very short shelf life in conservative circles, so we learn to keep our mouths shut.”
It took the reporter an extra second to process that oblique revelation. “Sen. Donovan, I don’t understand. Are you saying—”
“I’m gay. Is that clear enough?
I’m gay
,” Cormac said, looking right at the camera. “And yes, I would have lied for Martin if I could have. The press just wanted another sex scandal. When we talk about saving the redwoods or protecting vulnerable ecosystems or raising taxes to maintain critical state services, no one wants to hear it. But when a U.S. Representative has extramarital sex, it’s big news. And when he and his lover have the same plumbing, it’s bigger than the Beatles. If you people are so obsessed with gay sex, rent a video. Men have sex with men. It happens.”
“So.” Opal Guthrie was flailing now, in full
are-you-seeing-this?
mode. “To clarify: you are, yourself, homosexual and you do, in retrospect, support Rep. Fontaine. Doesn’t this put you at odds with the California Republican party?”
Cormac didn’t conceal his disdain. “Um, sweetheart, what do you think? I’m a conservative. In fact, I’m a conservative right down to my bones. I believe in family values, but they should include gay families. Everyone should be allowed to marry. Everyone should be allowed to lift children out of orphanages and give them loving homes. This anti-gay
jihad
needs to end so our country can focus on what really matters.”
The reporter, who had chilled considerably after being called “sweetheart,” fixed Cormac with a steely glare. “Sen. Donovan, I think a lot of voters who see this interview will feel disappointed, even cheated, to discover you’ve lied to them all these years. You have a reputation as an alpha male. A, well—”
“Real
[bleep]
man?” Cormac raised his eyebrows.
“Why blow a hole in that image?”
Cormac’s smile was cold. “Because I wasn’t living up to my own press. I
am
a real [bleep] man. And real men don’t conceal who they are, or who they love.”
* * *
Google maps navigated Andrew to the office building, a poured concrete monstrosity that looked like a junior high school, or perhaps an outpatient mental health facility. His rental, a newish hybrid vehicle, was surprisingly fun to drive. By next year, certain commercial vehicles in California would be driving themselves, powered by the same technology that guided Andrew to 1220 Pecan Street.
Wish I could tell Marie that
, he caught himself thinking, then tried to sublimate the idea into something more positive. Maybe Marie already knew? Or perhaps wherever she was, self-guided cars were no great shakes? Andrew knew his sister hadn’t literally called him. That had been Paresh, just as it was Paresh who’d paid for Andrew’s flight across the country, eager to repay Andrew in some tangible way. Still, Andrew felt certain the brief communication he’d shared with Marie had been real. Not because of how she’d looked, or what she’d said. He simply knew it, the way he knew he was right-handed.
He'd expected to run a security gauntlet, but the overweight rent-a-cop behind the reception desk barely glanced up from his e-reader. Unchallenged, Andrew took the elevator to the fourth floor. When the doors slid open, Suite 402 was on his right.
Are Republican offices ever on the left? Would that be considered a huge political
faux pas?
“We’re not taking questions,” the woman sealing cardboard boxes said. Catching sight of Andrew’s face, she stood up straighter. “Hang on. Are you from the Bear-Twink Alliance?”
“No.”
“Good. That guy was a jerk. I told him if he sent a reporter, I’d punch his lights out.” The woman, short and chunky with the sort of violently red hair only middle-aged women seemed courageous enough to wear, smiled at Andrew. “Are you lost? What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for Cormac Donovan.”
She rolled her eyes. “With regards to…?”
“I’m a friend. From New York. My name’s Andrew Reynolds. Are you—Marjorie?”
“Yeah.” Marjorie pressed her lips together. “I’m Sen. Donovan’s personal assistant. Well, I was. Maybe when he gets back on his feet, he’ll hire me again.”
“Can’t believe he had to resign,” Andrew said truthfully. “I had the idea people supported him. All the cool people, anyway.”
“All the cool people did. Unfortunately, they were outnumbered. Mr. Reynolds.” Marjorie seemed to be striving for an appropriate tone. “I handled everything for Cormac. I know who you are.”
Andrew came closer. The phones were unplugged; almost everything Marjorie owned had been packed or relegated to the recycle bin. “That’s okay. Can I see him?”
Marjorie’s eyes narrowed. “Look, he’s not just my boss. He’s my friend, and he’s been through hell. If you’re here to—”
“Marjorie, I’d like to print a few more hard copies, but the copier’s gone tits-up again. Can you work your magic and—” Halfway from office to reception area, Cormac stopped. His tie and jacket were missing; his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He looked even thinner in person than he had on TV. “Andrew.”
The look on Cormac’s face, the instant wariness in his pale eyes, stabbed Andrew to the bone. What had their last conversation been like? He couldn’t remember the words; he’d been too distraught, drunk off cheap beer and seeing death everywhere he looked.
“I come in peace.” Andrew held up both hands. “Please don’t sic Marjorie on me.”
Cormac’s smile was slight but genuine. “I never sic Marjorie on anyone unless I intend to kill. Come into my office. It’s still mine until the close of business. In other words, for about three more hours.”
Andrew followed Cormac into the spacious, sunny office. The bookshelves were already empty, virtually every personal effect sealed in a cardboard box.
“I’m glad to see you,” Cormac said slowly, sounding like Judicious Sound Bite Man. “I didn’t like how we left it. I hoped we could be friends, or—”
Throwing his arms around Cormac, Andrew lifted himself on his toes, pressing their mouths together. The kiss was wet, sloppy, more about emotion than finesse. He’d forgotten how wonderful Cormac tasted, how their bodies craved connection.
“When you apologized on TV,” Andrew said. “You told that woman you wanted to retract all your statements. Well.” Kissing Cormac again, Andrew kept it up until he had to pull away, had no choice but to breathe again. “Those things I said when I broke up with you. I want to retract them. Every word.”
Cormac stared into Andrew’s eyes. “You mean it?”
“Of course. I love you. I’ve severed all ties in New York City. Given up a new job in Wichita, too. I’ve come to California to be with you.”
Cormac uttered a short laugh. The sound was odd, almost hysterical. “You’re kidding.”
“Not kidding. It’s true.” A terrible fear swept over Andrew, an idea he’d never allowed himself to entertain. “You haven’t moved on, have you? Found someone else?”
Cormac’s chuckle sounded human again. “Of course not. It’s just—I’m finished in California politics. If you’ve turned on a TV in the last three days, you know that. So I’m pulling up stakes. Moving to my second home, a place I love more than California. New York City.”
Andrew made a strangled sound. Trying to laugh, he found himself embracing Cormac all the harder. “You’re kidding.”
“No. To be honest, I thought since I came out, you might give me another chance. If I went to New York and, well. Stalked you in a non-threatening, attractive manner….”
“Cormac.” Andrew buried his face against the other man’s chest. He’d cried too much since Marie’s death. There would be no tears today, not even tears of joy.
“I love you,” Cormac said softly. “I can’t turn it off, that’s not how I’m wired. Sex isn’t enough for me. I want to marry you. Make a life with you.”
“Then it’s settled. We’ll go back to New York,” Andrew said. This happiness was new to him, a terrifying lightness, a bliss as deep and mysterious as death.
Is this how Marie felt when she moved on? When she heard the light?
“We don’t have to,” Cormac said, still holding Andrew tight. “If you prefer California, we can stay here. It doesn’t matter to me.”
“I’ve never seen Christmas in New York City. It’s supposed to be amazing,” Andrew said. “Besides, didn’t you say there was always some green fête or other? If the West Coast is done with you, it’s time to give the East Coast a try.”
Epilogue
It didn’t take long for Cormac to find work as a Green advocate and lobbyist. His longtime friends, including Tommy and Peggy Laguire, were shocked that Cormac could accept a future that didn’t include running for public office. But they’d known the young Cormac, driven by internal pressures few understood, including the ambitions of his fiercely conservative mother. Adult Cormac cared about environmental conservation and green laws more than any other facet of public life. Those occasional flashes of passion Andrew had glimpsed when Cormac discussed wind turbines or protecting the redwoods soon became part of their daily life. Four years after his resignation from California’s state legislature, Cormac Donovan was widely expected to be the next president’s Cabinet choice for head of the Environmental Protection Agency.
“If you become head of the EPA, what will my title be?” Andrew asked.
“Parasite. Or, you know, barnacle.” Cormac looked up from the computer. He now required reading glasses in dim light, something Andrew found endlessly amusing. “‘Barnacle’ sounds a little more politically correct.”
“I’m your husband.” Placing his hands on Cormac’s shoulders, Andrew kissed the top of the other man’s head.
“That and eight bucks….” Cormac jerked his head in the direction of the closest Starbucks.
“Speaking of money—” Andrew, about to drop another inelegant hint about his latest royalty payment, noticed what Cormac was reading:
Fifteen Shades of Gay (For Pay)
, the first book Andrew had written, but the third he’d published, choosing to let the manuscript mature before releasing it to the cold, cruel world. Not because it detailed his early relationship with Cormac, but because it disclosed so many personal details about Marie and her death. Four years after her passing, Andrew still missed her. But when it came to honoring the beloved dead, the living had few options. As far as Andrew was concerned, his only recourse was to remember Marie and hang onto those he loved, especially Cormac, as if there was no tomorrow.
“Do you like it?” Andrew couldn’t hide the unattractively needy note in his voice. He didn’t much care what strangers thought of his writing, but he cared what Cormac thought. All too much, as a matter of fact.
“I love it.” There it was, the softness that Cormac reserved for Andrew alone, revealed only behind closed doors. “I’ve read the ending three times. How do we top that? What do we do now?”
These types of questions always led to the bedroom. Smiling, Andrew reached over Cormac and tapped a button.
Fifteen Shades of Gay (For Pay)
disappeared.
“We close the book,” Andrew said, kissing Cormac’s lips, “and make up the rest of our lives as we go.”
THE END
About the Author
Orphaned at birth, T. Baggins was raised by wolves until age fourteen, when the pack moved on one night without a forwarding address. Returning to human society, Ms. Baggins taught herself to read and write by studying fan fiction. Cutting her teeth on Kirk/Spock (
Star Trek: The Original Series
, baby!) she soon began slashing rock stars and X-Men. Despite a lifetime spent in the southern U.S., T. Baggins considers herself a citizen of the cosmos and a freethinker, which is good, because no one has offered so much as a penny for her thoughts. In her spare time she enjoys blogging at
Shades of Gay
, emptying gin bottles and tweeting into the void as
@therealtbaggins
.
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