Spencer Cohen Series, Book One (The Spencer Cohen Series 1) (5 page)

I looked straight at Lola. “He’s lying. He has compulsive lying disorder and makes shit up all the time.”

Andrew laughed, but when Lola, Daniela, and Gabe all turned to look at him, he just slowly shook his head. “It was the truth.”

“Okay,” I said, clapping my hands together. “On that note, we’ll just be going.”

I tried to usher Andrew out the door, but he looked around me to Gabe’s stretched nipple and frowned. “That looks painful.”

Lola held up the piercing cannula and batted her eyelashes. “It only hurts until the pain goes away.”

This time, I grabbed Andrew’s arm and pulled him with me toward the back door of the shop. “Is she really going to pierce his nipple?”

I put my hand on the lock, and before I could pull the door open, Gabe’s cry rang out from cubicle two. “Ow! Jesus H. Christ!”

Andrew’s mouth fell open and I nodded. “That would be a yes,” I said. Andrew paled a little, so I opened the door for him. “After you.”

I pulled the door shut behind me and headed up the external stairs that led to my place. I was used to the fire escape stairs. Most people probably thought it was a piss-poor entrance to someone’s apartment, but it worked for me. I started up the stairs and heard Andrew climb up behind me. “It’s okay if you want to check out my arse.”

He stopped. “Do you say that to all the guys you bring up here?”

I laughed and looked back down at him. “Only the really hot ones.”

He shook his head and didn’t say anything else until I’d unlocked my door and walked inside my place. The truth was, I didn’t bring any of my clients up here. I usually opted to do the whole getting-acquainted thing in a café or at their place. It put a buffer between my personal and professional life. I didn’t know why I’d offered to bring Andrew into my home. I just didn’t know.

My flat, or apartment as the Americans called it, was a small one-bedroom place. But the kitchen and bathroom were good, the combined living and dining area was long, and a huge window framed the far wall out onto Abbott Kinney Boulevard. When the sun went down, the nightlife of LA lit my living room, and during the day the sunlight was perfect for reading. Which was why there was a big papasan chair in front of the window. Near the window I had makeshift bookcases filled with mostly second-hand books. Actually, most things in my place were second-hand, scored from thrift stores or vintage markets, but somehow, when all put together, it worked.

“Nice place,” he said, looking around. He nodded. “If there was a magazine called
Retro-Vintage-Bachelor Living,
this would be on the cover.”

I laughed. “Emilio and Daniela used to live here,” I told him. “They renovated the kitchen and bathroom while they were here, so it’s pretty good. They moved out when Daniela’s mum got sick; they wanted her to live with them but she couldn’t manage the stairs.”

Andrew nodded. “They seem like nice people.” He said it like it was a question.

I stared at him for a long moment. “Even though they’re covered in tattoos?”

His eyes shot to mine. “No, that’s not what I said. I said they seem like nice people, given I’ve met them for a whole twenty seconds.”

“You won’t find more decent people,” I told him. “Regardless of what they wear on their skin.”

“I don’t have anything against tattoos,” he said. “Or the people that have them.”

“Good,” I said. “Because you and Emilio would get on really well. You’re both artists, you both draw for a living. Only your drawing board doesn’t move or bleed.”

He conceded with a smile. “True.”

I was glad the tension was gone. I didn’t want to have to give him the “people with tattoos are people too” speech. He didn’t seem the kind of guy who would be prejudiced against anyone for anything. Not that I knew him
that
well, but he seemed genuine. And it had been a while since I’d worked with someone who was.

In the short silence between us, he walked directly over to the vinyl record player. It was in a big wooden cabinet with a hinged lid that opened up to where the turntable was. “My grandparents had one of these,” he said. He was smiling again. “Does it work?”

I walked over to it and stood beside him. I nodded to the vinyl record covers on the bookcase. “Yep.”

“What have you got?” he asked, though he didn’t wait for an answer. He simply helped himself to look. He flipped through them, considering each one. “Rather eclectic collection.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Everything from the Ramones to Billie Holiday.”

He stopped flipping and slowly pulled out the record that had made him stop. “Can I play this?”

I nodded and smiled when I saw which one it was. It was a compilation of blues and jazz: Otis Redding, Bill Withers, Percy Sledge, Miles Davis, and Aretha Franklin. Andrew slid the record out of the cover like it was the most precious thing in the world, then carefully put the needle on the vinyl. The room filled with that familiar, perfect crackle that only vinyl gave, and “Ain’t No Sunshine” started to play.

Andrew closed his eyes, lost in the music, and a slow smile spread across his face. He whispered, “It’s incredible.”

“So much is lost with modern music,” I said quietly. He looked at me then, so I explained. “I mean, I like contemporary music, but this—” I paused as Bill Withers sang. “—this is classic.”

Andrew smiled at me, then shook his head disbelievingly. “So you curl up in the sun with a book while you listen to vinyl records?”

“Some days,” I said. “Some days I use my iPod and belt out the Top 20. Depends what I’m in the mood for.”

“What do your playlists look like?” he asked, genuinely interested.

I pulled out my phone, selected the music, and handed it to him. “Have a look.” I left him to it, walked over to my dining table, and opened my laptop.

He took his time scrolling. “I’ve not heard of half of these,” he said, his brow furrowed.

“Most of them are Aussie bands.”

He made a thoughtful face. “I’ll have to check them out when I get home.”

“You can listen to them now if you want.”

“I’d prefer to listen to this.” He smiled as Otis Redding started to sing.

“So you play classical piano, but you like jazz?”

“Yes.”

“What sheet music is on your piano right now?”

He grinned at me. “‘Yesterdays’ by Art Tatum.”

I blinked. “Who?”

“Just the best jazz funk pianist to ever live.”

“So wait,” I said, putting my hands up. “You learned classical, but you play jazz?” He nodded sheepishly. “And you said you weren’t cool? Or interesting? Jesus, Andrew. If there was a magazine called
Sexy and Cool Cartoonographers Who Play Jazz Funk Piano and Watch Stanley Kubrick Films
, you’d be on the cover. Of every issue.”

He laughed, long and loud, and his cheeks tinted pink. Then he slid my phone back across the table to me and sat down in the seat next to mine. I’d typed Eli’s name into Facebook to see who or what came up. There were a few, so I scrolled down the list.

“That’s him there,” Andrew said.

I let my finger hover over the icon. “Have you checked out his wall lately?”

Andrew shook his head. “No.”

I clicked on his picture and Andrew looked away from the screen. “Everything okay?” I asked him.

“Yeah,” he said, looking at me, but avoiding the laptop. “I just don’t want to see if he’s…”

“If he’s posted pictures of himself with someone else?”

Andrew nodded. “I hadn’t thought about that until you asked me if he was seeing someone else.” Then he shook his head and narrowed his eyes. “And here I am trying to bait him into coming back to me. Kinda sad, huh?”

“No,” I said gently. “Above all, you want answers. And that’s what we’re doing.”

“Getting answers?”

“Yep.”

“That I may or may not like to hear.”

I sighed. “It’s a possibility,” I told him. “You might not like what he has to say, but wouldn’t you be better off knowing?”

He nodded.

I scrolled down Eli’s timeline. “He really should change his security settings.” I could, as a complete stranger, see almost everything about him. Other people had tagged him in memes or jokes. He’d made a few posts over the last few weeks. “He never mentioned moving out or your separation,” I said, and only then did Andrew look at the screen.

But then, posted earlier in the week, he was tagged in a conversation about this weekend. “Who’s Terri Santos?”

“Eli works with her. They’re friends though. We’d go out with her sometimes.”

“She says here they’re going to the Basement for her birthday drinks and asked him if he wanted to join them.”

“When?”

“Tonight, at eight.”

“What did he say?” he asked, as he leaned in to read the post and comments in question.

I paraphrased Eli’s reply. “Said he doesn’t want to be sick for work tomorrow, but he might call in for a few.”

Andrew looked from the screen to me, and I realised how close we were. His blue eyes had flecks of grey in them, which I’d not noticed before. He was so good looking, he smelled damn good, and he was so, so close.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

Shit. “About what?”
Because what I was thinking about was sliding my hand along your jaw and kissing you. I bet you taste as good as you smell…

“About Eli, of course.”

“Oh, right, yes. Of course,” I said, shaking my head of the stupid thoughts I’d just had. “We should go. You and me, to the Basement, tonight.”

“Oh.”

“If we want Eli to see you on a date with another guy, then we need to actually go out.”

“On a date?”

“We know it’s not real, but he won’t.”

He seemed to think this over, as though he was wondering if he wanted to do this at all. “Okay.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

He looked at me with those soul-seeing blue-grey eyes. “Well, yeah.”

He didn’t sound very convinced, and I wasn’t sure why that pleased me. We had hours before our first public outing in front of our intended target audience, but even so, we had some work to do. I wasn’t sure which of us would struggle more. Normally I could get close to my clients and not think anything of it. Andrew was different. I looked at my watch. “Well, we have a while yet, but maybe we should practice a little?”

“Practice?”

“Yeah,” I swallowed hard. “You know, our story for the public, how we met, holding hands, that kind of thing.”

He blanched. “Oh.”

“I’m not that repulsive, am I?” I half-joked, half-not.

Andrew blushed. “Ah, no. Definitely not.” He stood up from the table and walked into my small kitchen. He leaned against the counter and folded his arms, then unfolded them as though it was a habit he was trying to break, then shoved his hands in his pockets instead. He cleared his throat and asked, “So, what do we tell people about how we met?”

“Your sister and my best friend met at a wedding last weekend,” I said

“Well, technically they did,” he said, confused.

“Exactly. It’s best to stick to the truth as much as possible,” I explained. “That way, if Eli runs into Sarah in the street or the store and puts her on the spot with questions, no one has to lie.”

“I really don’t think he’ll buy it,” he said quietly. “This whole you and me thing.”

“Why not?”

He stared at me like I’d missed the obvious.

“Don’t start with that
but look at me
crap,” I said with a smirk. “Unless you have a problem with tattoos and Eli knows that. Is that what you mean?” I showed him how my ink never went past my wrists. I had no tattoos on my hands or my neck, or my chest or back for that matter. I was strictly a sleeves-only guy. “Because I can wear a long-sleeved shirt and he won’t even be able to tell.”

Andrew shook his head. “No, don’t change a thing,” he said quietly. Then he shrugged one shoulder. “It’s just the whole, you know, you’re trendy and I’m not thing.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” I said standing up. “I’m just some random guy on page four of
Gay and Trendy
, and you’re the cover model of
Cool
.”

He laughed at that and shook his head at me. “You know what I mean.”

“No I don’t. But you know what? It doesn’t matter. If he is inclined to think us being together is out of character, then at least we know we have his attention.”

He considered this. “True.”

I stood up and walked to stand in front of him. I was closer than what would probably be considered polite, but that was my point. I held out my hand between us, palm up. He obviously didn’t know what I meant, so I explained. “Your hand?”

Slowly, he put his hand in mine. I held it, feeling the warmth and smooth skin of his palm, then traced my thumb over his knuckles. Then I held his hand in both of mine and gave it a squeeze. “This okay?” I asked.

He nodded.

“So when we’re out together, if I grab your hand, you won’t pull it away?”

He shook his head, and he whispered, “No.”

I could feel his body heat, I could feel his nervousness. Or maybe it was mine. Either way, the air between us was electric. Sure, I’d been close with other clients—held hands, danced, even kissed—but it was no more than acting. I was playing a role, no more, no less.

So why was I nervous? Maybe it had been too long between drinks, so to speak. Maybe I needed to go out and let loose. And maybe when this job was done, that’s exactly what I’d do.

I didn’t know why Andrew was different. He was interesting, sure. He was smart and made me laugh. At first I thought he was just humble about his job and his musical talents, but the more I got to know him, the more I realised he wasn’t humble at all. He was oblivious.

I had to wonder what the fuck was wrong with Eli to want to walk away from him.