The Right Words (9 page)

“Yes. Actually I did. I tried for a short time, but it’s hard to make a living as a writer.”

“Not if you enjoy it.”

“Sadly that’s not true. It was never a question of enjoying it. It’s that I enjoy eating too. Basic necessities win every time. I didn’t make a good starving artist.”

“Hmm. So what’s your favorite type of literature? Are you a classics snob? Or are you into science ficti— No, don’t tell me. Erotica?”

My eyes widened as I struggled to swallow the wine I’d just sipped. I coughed and gave Michael the dirty look he deserved, though maybe not the answer he expected.

“Yes, I love erotica. Gay erotica, naturally. You?”

He chuckled as he raised his glass in a mock toast. “Naturally. Do you write any?”

“No. It gets tiresome trying to find new ways to say
cock
,
dick
,
prick
. You know?”

“Well, there’s
penis
for the anatomy freaks.
Schlong
works for something a little different.”

“
Schlong
? I don’t think I’ve ever called my dic—never mind.”

“What’s the matter? Don’t get shy on me now. This is getting good. So no to
schlong
but yes to… what?
Weiner
?
Pecker
? Or
tool
….”

“Are you done?”

“No more dick talk?”

I shook my head.

“Fine. Then tell me your favorite genre. Do you prefer fiction, nonfiction, poetry—”

“You don’t want to hear—”

“Yes, I do. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.” He scowled at me playfully.

“Okay, okay. I’ll wake you up if you nod off. I love poetry.” I paused to gauge his reaction. Michael made an impatient gesture with his hand, indicating I should continue.

“I don’t appear to have fallen into a catatonic state yet, so go on. What do you like about it? Do you have a favorite poem?”

I was grateful for my dark glasses because this was a surreal conversation for me. It might be innocuous to most people, but I hadn’t had a discussion with anyone about literature and poetry in many years. It had begun to feel like a secret, as it had when I was in grade school. Brandon knew I was a hopeless bibliophile, but he didn’t share my interest. Nor did anyone else I knew. I was used to talking about colors and design or even music and movies. Not the one thing I loved more than any other. Books.

“Well? Aren’t you going to answer? I’ll go first.” He laughed at my expression. “Oh. You think I’m just a dumb jock, don’t you?”

“No! Of cou—”

“I’m teasing you. I don’t know a lot about poetry, but I love some of Pablo Neruda’s work. Do you know it?”

“Yes. Absolutely. What’s your favorite?”

“‘Es tan corto el amor, y tan largo el olvido.’ It means ‘Love is so—’”

“Short, forgetting is so long,” I interrupted. “I know that one. It’s very sad.”

“It is. Your turn.” He gave me a lopsided grin as he reached over to grab a cracker nonchalantly.

“Um, okay. ‘Beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins.’ Oscar Wilde.”

“That’s a good one.”

“It is, and there’s truth in it. I love that a few simple words can evoke such an incredible depth of meaning. It’s… sublime. It’s true beauty.”

I set my wineglass down and sprang from my chair feeling suddenly restless. Talk about oversharing. I floundered for a change of topic like an acrobat on a tightrope.

“It turns out I have an eye for color and perspective too, so you’re in luck!” I winced at my flirty tone. I felt Michael’s gaze as I wandered to the stone ledge and then pivoted around. “Shoot! I forgot to tell you I brought your mail in. Let me grab it for you!”

“Don’t bother—”

“It’s no bother at all!” I practically sprinted to the sliding-glass door and was immediately irritated with myself. Why was I freaking out? Was it the wine or was it the company? I’d had three sips, so I couldn’t blame it on the pinot. Awkward. I counted to ten, grabbed the stack of letters, and headed back outside.

He glanced over his shoulder at me and set his glass aside when I handed him the mail.

“Thanks.” He shuffled through the letters distractedly. “You know there’s a set of—whoa.”

“What? What is it?” I stood nearby, too restless to sit, but something in his tone made me turn around.

“What the fuck? This. That goddamn fucking….” He switched to Spanish and waved the offending piece of paper in the air.

“English,
por favor
.”

I reclaimed my chair and watched Michael for clues. I wasn’t sure he was going to share the contents of the letter, which was fine. It was his business. He handed over a single sheet of paper with a one-line request demanding he arrange for the immediate deposit of $25,000 to the account of James L. Wilson.

I gasped in shock and flung the offending paper at Michael as though it were laced with anthrax as well as extortion. “Oh my God! You have to call the police. That’s extortion! He can’t get away with that. He should go to jail, directly to jail, do not pass go. Not okay. Not okay!”

“Hey, calm down, hotshot.”

“Calm? How can you say that? Call your lawyer. You need to—”

“Shh. It’s fine, Luke.”

“Fine! It’s not fine. You aren’t going to give him the money, are you? Do you have it? I’d be floating facedown in a river if someone wanted that kind cash from me. That’s a lot of—”

“Stop.” Michael took his sunglasses off and massaged the bridge of his nose. The guy looked decidedly pissed. Not scared.

I made a zip-my-lips motion and was pleased to see a ghost of a smile cross his face.

“No, I won’t pay that little fucker a dime. But this was exactly what I thought would happen.” He remained as still as a statue, but tension came off him in waves.

“It doesn’t say ‘or else.’ Maybe he needs a loan?”

Michael snorted. “I doubt it. People like him are motivated by greed and spite. The ‘or else’ is understood, Lukey.”

“Fuck. That’s… I don’t have words.” I didn’t bother reprimanding him for calling me Lukey, a nickname only Brandon or my mother ever used. I was too wound up.

“Hmm. I do, but none of them will solve this problem.”

“You’re right. Action! You need professional help here. Call the police—”

“No. I’m not calling anyone. I need to think things through. In the meantime, my distraction for the night has just arrived.”

“Huh?” I turned to see what had caught his attention.

The gorgeous blond Adonis walking toward us had to be Jovan the masseuse. I was distracted too. I casually checked the corners of my mouth to make sure I wasn’t drooling when we were introduced. Michael was one lucky bastard. A moonlight massage given by the lovely Jovan sounded heavenly. I wondered if this was a “happy ending” type of massage but quickly gave myself a mental smack upside the head. Again, not my business.

Michael handed me the key to the studio over the garage just as the sun dipped below the horizon. I said my good-byes and reminded my boss I’d be going back to LA early the next morning and would see him Monday. As I headed across the property toward the garage, I pulled out my cell phone to let Brandon know not to expect me back tonight. He made a hysterical comment about it being time I got some, but sadly I think he knew I’d honestly only be sleeping. Alone. I didn’t mind. This was the first bit of true privacy I’d had in some time, and I intended to relish every bit of it.

The studio apartment was comfortable and well appointed. Jamie obviously had some skill as a decorator if he was the one responsible for furnishing the small space. Nothing was opulent or overdone. It was tasteful and made me wonder why he wanted to hire me in the first place. It didn’t make sense. Unless he wanted to skim money from my salary to put in his own pocket. My eyes went wide at the very idea. Jamie was a shark. I’d been around people with questionable character. My ex certainly qualified. However, I’d never been exposed to blatant thievery. Sure, I’d witnessed a hip yoga-attired mom sneak a candle into her diaper bag at BGoods, but this was different. This was evil.

I could tell Michael was angry, but I was shocked he hadn’t called someone immediately. Police, lawyer… anybody. Extortion was bad news. Jamie should not get away with it. I was indignant on his behalf and in danger of working myself into a state. Some diversion would go a long way, I decided. I stripped down to my boxers and lay back in the roomy bed with the television remote glued to my hand. I happily caught up on hours’ worth of mindless entertainment before finally falling asleep. Unfortunately I was wide awake a couple of hours later. A quick glance at my cell told me it was midnight. Damn. I turned the television back on, but the thrill of having the flat screen to myself had worn off. I didn’t have a book with me and my battery was low on my phone, so I didn’t dare use it for entertainment purposes.

I stared at the ceiling willing calming, tranquil thoughts to lull my body back to sleep.

It was hopeless. Thoughts of water turned to thoughts of San Francisco, which morphed into thoughts of Neil. When a rush of anxiety made my pulse quicken, I knew I was done for. I kicked the covers off, redressed, and headed for the door. Except, now what? Should I drive back to the city? I quickly dismissed the idea. A breath of fresh ocean air sounded more enticing. I could head back to the main house and sit on one of the lounge chairs on the terrace and let the crashing waves on the shore below soothe me to a more restful state. Done. The Pacific easily won over a midnight excursion on the freeway.

I navigated the darkened overgrown pathway toward the side of the main house with care. It was damn near jungle-like in certain areas. I was engaged in a full conversation with myself regarding an outdoor to-do list when I heard a noise. I stopped dead in my tracks. My heart started pounding and my palms felt instantly clammy. God, I was ridiculous! Or was I? What if Jamie came back to kill Michael in his sleep? What if he— That didn’t make sense, though. He wanted money and a dead man couldn’t pay him. Dead. Oh fuck. Why couldn’t I take a simple walk in the dark without freaking out? It was probably some kind of nocturnal animal, like a rabbit or maybe a raccoon. I didn’t even know if there were raccoons this close to the ocean. I willed my breathing to slow so I could concentrate.

There it was again. A moan.

Oh my God! Was someone injured? Was it Michael? Was Jovan the Gorgeous really Jovan the Terrible? Was he in cahoots with Jamie? Had he done something to Michael and left him bleeding, helpless, and hopeless? I felt my cool slip and spiral away. My flair for melodrama was being tested for sure. I listened and once again heard the moaning noise. But this time I recognized it.

I felt a fit of inappropriate laughter bubble up as I heard the unmistakable sound of lovemaking in progress. A soft gasp, a low groan. Not my business, but I was suddenly in a sticky situation. It was so damn dark and the foliage was so dense, I was sure to give myself away if I moved too quickly. I needed to let my eyes acclimate and then find the quietest way back to the studio. I silently reprimanded myself. I should have just driven back. Now I was forced to hear sex in progress. I could have stayed at Brandon’s for that. I could hear whispers and an almost-pained-sounding grunt before I heard the first urgent request for more.

“Oh yeah. Fuck. Right there. Oh… yes.”

“You like that? You ready for me? You want it hard? Tell me.”

“Yes. Fuck me hard. Fuck me!”

Neither voice sounded like Michael’s, though. I don’t know what I expected, but it sounded like I was listening to him watch porn. I wasn’t a porn aficionado, but I’d watched enough to tell the nuances between actual sex in progress and something staged. Bed springs creaked, and a steady pounding of flesh accompanied now by louder groans drifted out the open window of Michael’s bedroom. I swallowed hard. My mouth was dry, and I felt suddenly overly warm in spite of the slight chill in the September evening. I heard Michael’s soft laugh and knew I’d been correct. He was watching, not doing. Another voice, probably Jovan’s, answered, and they both laughed. Were they watching together? Maybe he really was a “happy ending” masseuse. When I heard another strangled round of “fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” I turned on my heel and made my move back toward the studio.

I stood like a deer in headlights at the bottom of the steps near the garage attempting to clear my head. Trying to go to sleep now was a joke. Just picturing my handsome client with the tall, hunky Jovan was enough to make me hard. Darker skin on lighter skin and… shit. I reached down to cup my swollen flesh through my khaki pants. This had to be one of the strangest situations I’d ever found myself in. I was confused but wildly turned-on from accidentally eavesdropping on two guys watching two guys have sex. What the hell was wrong with me?

Nothing. It wasn’t me. This was bizarre for sure, but I was only human, and the images conjured from what I’d heard were enough to make me painfully hard. I unzipped my pants as I climbed the stairs. I was so fucking horny, it was ridiculous to question why. Images of Michael’s beautiful muscled body lying on a narrow masseuse’s table while a gorgeous bare-chested Swede with golden skin stood over him ran through my head. I pulled my heavy cock out and leaned against the closed door. My breath hitched as I firmly stroked myself to the vision of Jovan’s sure fingers tweaking Michael’s nipples hard before pouring more oil over his chest. I could see him rubbing the oil in a fluid motion as he traveled over Michael’s taut abs and down toward his gorgeous erect cock. Jovan’s hands would massage his thighs and the curve of his hips before finally taking hold of the hard flesh with a strong grip. I closed my eyes and let my hand fly. My knees felt weak, and I could feel my orgasm approaching at the image of Jovan palming Michael’s balls as he jerked him off at a steady tempo. I could see Michael’s back arch with pleasure in my mind. The thought pushed me over the edge. I gripped my dick in a punishing hold and came hard. When my ragged breathing normalized, I looked down at the mess I’d made. My khakis were around my ankles, and my hands were coated with cum.
So much for going out for a little fresh air to clear my turbulent thoughts.