Handyman (13 page)

“No. We’re—we’re taking a break. From each other. She needs”—his voice twisted into a sneer though Jack was sure it was to hide his pain—“her
space
for a while, she says. Whatever the hell that means.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack offered, sorry for his son, but glad for the momentary distraction of someone else’s problems.

Eric waved his hand dismissively. “Forget it. We’ll work through it. That’s hardly the issue now. I want to know what the hell is going on
here
, Dad. Have you lost your mind? I can hardly believe the sickening display—”

“That’s enough, Eric.” Jack’s embarrassment was replaced, or at least partially offset, by rising irritation. Who was Eric to judge him? What did he know of Jack’s life since his wife had died? What did he know of life, period?

Still, he knew it must have come as a terrible shock, to see your father, of all people, with another man. He looked at his son. Eric had always been the more intense of the two boys, taking life’s random foibles personally. Where Jason could laugh off bad fortune, Eric absorbed it into himself. Privately Jack and Emma used to wonder how they’d ended up with such a serious, sometimes morose boy. He’d been surprised but pleased to learn of Eric’s engagement two months before. Lisa seemed good for him—cheerful and gentle, easing him out of funks where no one else could.

“Look, son, whatever you walked in on, you did come in uninvited—”

“Oh, so now I need a personal invitation to my own house,” Eric retorted heatedly. “When Mom was alive I didn’t need an invitation. I grew up here. I guess I always thought this would be my home.”

“Stop it, Eric. Of course it’s your home.”

“Well, I don’t expect to come to my own home and see my father sucking off some—some male prostitute.” Eric’s face twisted again. He looked as if he might cry.

Jack tried to stay calm, reminding himself he had twenty-three years of experience on the boy. “That wasn’t a prostitute, Eric. He was my friend. Is my friend.”

“Your
friend,
” Eric sputtered, his voice rich with disdain. “He looked my age, for God’s sake.”

“He’s thirty, if it’s any of your business.” Jack spoke sharply. He forced himself to take a deep breath. He needed to find a way to explain things without upsetting Eric further.

“Oh, so it’s not my business that my father’s turned into a fucking
faggot
—” Eric’s voice raised to a squeal.

“That’s
enough
!” Jack shouted, smashing his fist onto the table between them. Forgetting for the moment about his son’s feelings in the matter, he went on, “You don’t know what it’s like, Eric. To be alone after spending your life with someone. I didn’t plan on getting involved with another man. It just sort of—happened.”

“You just sort of happened to have your mouth on his dick, is that it?”

Rage hurtled up through his gut like a bitter fire. Barely able to contain it, he said in a soft, dangerous voice, “Eric, I’m going to ask you to leave now. We can talk again when you’ve calmed down. I will not have you sit in my house and insult me.” The tips of his ears burned. He knew he must be crimson. He pressed his nails into his palms to keep from screaming.

Eric pushed back from the table, sending the chair behind him crashing to the floor. “Thank
God
Mom didn’t live to see this. Wait until Jason finds out. Jesus, my own
dad
.” He stumbled from the kitchen. Jack made no effort to follow him. The front door slammed and tires squealed in protest down the driveway.

For several minutes Jack sat slumped over the table, his head in his hands. Though he knew it was unfair, a part of him wanted to blame Will—if only he hadn’t followed Jack home. If only he hadn’t seduced him in the first place. No. That wasn’t fair. Jack was a grown man. He hadn’t been seduced—he’d gone willingly into whatever the hell it was he and Will shared.

Will…

With a start he realized he’d left Will alone the workshop. Jumping from the table, he hurried through the living room but when he got there, Will was gone. Jack spied the pale green T-shirt he’d practically ripped from Will’s sexy body in his lust. It lay on the floor in a puddle, the only proof Will had been there at all.

Jack stepped toward it, bending down to grab it. He clutched it in his fist, dragging it over his face. He could smell Will on it—his particular citrusy, spring soap sort of scent with an underlay of pure masculine musk. The scent evoked Will’s presence so strongly Jack nearly cried out his name. He bit his lip instead, so hard he almost drew blood. With a heavy heart he walked to the door that led outside and opened it. Will’s fancy sports car was nowhere to be seen.

“What have I done?” Jack said aloud.

He reached into his pocket and flipped open his cell phone. He punched in Will’s number and waited, his heart beating jerkily. Instead of Will, he got his voice mail. Having no idea what to say, he hung up.

He moved slowly, feeling as if he’d been a fight. He felt battered and bruised as he hauled himself through the room. He was heading toward the liquor cabinet, which he hadn’t touched since he’d confessed to Anna he might be a drunk.

He opened the cabinet door, reaching behind ancient bottles of tonic water and bitter lemon for the unopened bottle of bourbon a customer had given him along with payment for a job. Not even bothering with a glass, he took the bottle with him to his recliner and sank into it. He twisted off the cap and tipped the rim to his lips, glad for the burn as the liquor went down.

When Will got home, he retrieved his forgotten cell phone. He saw the missed call from Jack and sighed with relief. He’d called. He pushed the button to call him back, pressing the phone to his ear as he sank onto the sofa in front of the fireplace.

“You’ve reached Jack Crawford of Affordable Improvements. I’m sorry I can’t take your call at this time…”

On the twenty-minute drive home, he’d had time to collect his thoughts somewhat. He realized he shouldn’t have run away. Jack was definitely going to be in need of a sympathetic ear once his bigoted son quit the scene.

He stopped himself. The two of them had gotten themselves into trouble in the past by not calling first. Better to let Jack know he wanted to come back. Better to gauge if Jack even
wanted
him to come back. For all he knew, Jack might have done a one-eighty, succumbing to his son’s invective—claiming temporary insanity for his lapse of heterosexuality.

Before he could think himself out of it, Will flipped open his phone and called Jack again. Again it went to voice mail, Jack’s gravelly, sexy voice apologizing for being unavailable. Damn it. Where was he? This time Will left a message.

“Jack? It’s Will. I’m worried about you. Please call me.”
I love you.
He wanted to add those words. He very nearly did, biting them off at the last second. Maybe Jack wasn’t ready to hear them, especially not now. Will wondered if Jack was ready to
feel
them, but he knew it was too late for that.

He sat, waiting, too jittery and distracted even to go get a fresh shirt from his bureau. He sat for ten minutes, for twenty, for an hour. Still Jack didn’t call him back. He thought of calling again. Maybe he hadn’t gotten the message? Maybe Eric had only just finally gone. Or maybe he was still there?

Will punched in the number one more time, telling himself this was it. He wasn’t going to sit like a lovesick idiot, pining for someone who might no longer want anything to do with him.

He glanced at his watch. It was nearly nine o’clock. He hadn’t had any dinner but he didn’t feel hungry. He felt numb. And angry. Where the fuck was Jack?

His cell phone rang and Will’s heart flip-flopped. Without looking at the Caller ID, he answered. “Hello? Jack?”

“No,” the person on the other end said slowly. “Who is Jack? Is he the one you had plans with tonight, eh?”

Will recognized Paul’s voice. Embarrassed, he admitted, “Yeah.”

“Well, maybe you can bring him too. Francois has four tickets. I thought I’d give you another chance. God knows when you’ll get another one. Want to come to Torch with us? You can bring your new boy toy, I promise I won’t be jealous.” Paul laughed, a long, musical trill along a scale.

“No. No thanks,” Will said dejectedly.

“If you change your mind, we aren’t leaving for another half hour or so. Francois is
dying
to meet you, darling.” Again the musical peal of laughter and then Paul rang off.

Will tried once more, pushing the speed dial for Jack’s number. After the fourth ring it went to voice mail. The bastard, he thought, anger rising at last to obliterate the sadness.
He could at least call me. Let me know what the hell is going on. He owes me at least that.

Anger felt better than sorrow, a lot better. Grabbing onto the emotion like a lifeline, Will again flipped open his phone. “Paul? If it’s not too late, I’d like to take you up on that invitation. Just me, though. Jack can’t make it.”

The room pulsed with a techno beat, colored lights flashing in time to the music. The place was packed—wall-to-wall men, most clad in denim, silk or leather, some with no shirts, showing off their Bowflex bodies to any and all who cared to ogle them.

Will felt at once at home and entirely alien. Had it really only been a few weeks since Jack had entered his life, capturing his emotions and stealing his heart? There was nothing particularly special about this club, except that it was the hot spot this week or this month.

Next month a new place would crop up, or an old place would be recycled and all these beautiful people would stampede off in that direction, eager to be on the cutting edge of the latest trend.

Paul was wending his way toward Will, his hands held high, some kind of fruity martini in each. Francois was just behind him. Francois was swarthy, his hair dark and cut long, his eyes nearly black in an olive-toned face. He was good-looking, in a desultory, dangerous sort of way, his mouth twisted in a perennial sneer some might regard as sexy.

They stood together, watching the crowd as they sipped their drinks. “Francois and I are going to check out the pit in a while. Want to come?” Paul laughed, adding, “No pun intended.”

Will managed a smile, though he didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he was in the mood for random sex with strangers. On the other hand, maybe it was just what the doctor ordered. He downed his drink and said, “Next round is on me. More of the same?”

“No more for us, thanks,” Francois interjected, his accent rich and pleasing. Paul looked at him with adoration as he continued, “Paul and I want to savor the moment, you understand,
cher
. To keep our blood free from too much alcohol, if you comprehend me.”

“What he means,” Paul said with a sly grin, “is we want to be able to get it up, eh, Francois?” He nudged Francois in the ribs with his elbow. Francois looked momentarily confused but then smiled and nodded.

“
Exactement.
” He cupped the crotch of Paul’s tan leather pants.

Paul pressed against his hand, speaking in a loud stage whisper into Will’s ear, “Isn’t he simply
fantastique
?”

“You two go ahead. Maybe I’ll join you later,” Will said. “I’m going to get another drink.”

He pushed his way to the bar and raised a finger to catch the bartender’s attention. While waiting for his second martini, a man beside him spoke. “I know this sounds like a line, but you have the most beautiful green eyes I’ve ever seen.”

Will turned toward the voice, which was low and sensual, the accent British. The man had dark auburn hair and a luxuriant curling red mustache beneath a long, slightly hooked nose. He was probably in his late thirties and wore a tailored jacket of raw pale blue silk over a black silk T-shirt. His eyes were periwinkle blue beneath heavy brows.

“Thanks.” Will smiled. “I love your accent.” The bartender set his drink before him and Will took a sip. How familiar this felt—the old pick-up routine. They’d chat a while about what they did, who they knew, where they’d been. The talk would become increasingly filled with innuendo and sly hints that carried the promise of sex.

If the conversation managed to last more than twenty minutes without Will succumbing to boredom, and if the guy was good-looking or interesting enough to capture his imagination, he would end up in bed with him before the night was over.

“I’ve never been here before,” the man offered. “I’m not from New York. Just here on business.”

“So I guessed.”

The man held out his hand. “I’m Andrew. Andrew Cunningham-Winchester, at your service.”

“That’s quite a mouthful. I’m Will,” he added, shaking the man’s offered hand. “Will Spencer.”

“Spencer, hmm?” Andrew’s smile broadened considerably. “Are you related to the British nobility of that name?”

“I seriously doubt it.” Will laughed. “My great grandfather’s name was Spelzinksi or something like that when he arrived at Ellis Island with one suitcase and a hundred Zlotys sewn into the hem of his jacket. The immigration officer asked him how he’d like to be Spencer from now on and he smiled and nodded, with no idea what the guy was saying. Or so the family lore goes.”

“You don’t say,” Andrew answered, lifting an eyebrow. “A nugget in the melting pot that is America, eh?” Leaning close, Andrew’s voice suddenly dropped into a low, suggestive register. “I’m going to go down and check out this pit everyone’s talking about.” He looked Will slowly up and down, his intention clear. “Care to join me?”

Will thought about it. He was mildly curious to see the setup. Francois and Paul had gone on about it at some length as they’d driven into the city—detailing the sumptuous feather mattresses covered in swaths of velvet and lots of gorgeous naked men, muscles shining with sweat and body oil, waiting on hands and knees…

He doubted the actual experience was quite so exotic. These sorts of scenes tended more along the lines of horny, lonely men with hairy asses desperately humping one another in corners, their eyes squeezed shut as they rutted and grunted in their lust. He’d never personally gone in for public scenes, though he had nothing against sex with strangers.

Still, he was here, after all, in
the
trendy underground gay club of the month, so why not at least check it out? He shrugged. “Why not?”

He downed his drink and followed Andrew toward the back of the room to a large swinging door. They pushed their way through and descended a rather steep staircase. The music here was softer, the room backlit by wall sconces designed to look like flickering candles. Will spied Paul and Francois in a corner, Francois’ pants already around his knees, his cock in Paul’s mouth, a third man still fully clothed standing behind Francois attempting to kiss his neck.

The room was crowded, the air ripe with the odor of spilled semen, male sweat and a riot of mingled colognes. Men in various stages of undress were huddled in groups, gyrating and groaning. “Reminds me of a place in Amsterdam I used to frequent,” Andrew said quietly. Will startled, having almost forgotten Andrew’s presence beside him. He turned to him, watching as Andrew took off his jacket and looked around for somewhere to hang it. Hooks had been provided along one wall of the room, already heavy with jackets, shirts and pants. Will found himself wondering if people sometimes ended up with the wrong clothing when they went to retrieve their things.

Andrew returned and pulled Will into an embrace. He’d taken off his shirt as well. His chest was broad and covered with a mat of reddish frizz. Will could feel his erection pressing hard against his thigh. Shorter than Will by several inches, he lifted his face, bringing it as close as he could to Will’s, his lips parted beneath the curling mustache, his intent clear. His breath smelled like stale whiskey, cigarettes and onions. Will pulled away, unable to hide his flinch of disgust, suddenly yearning so intensely for Jack he felt faint with it.

“What’s the matter?” Andrew said, knitting his brow. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m sorry. I need some air. This isn’t my thing. Catch ya later.”

Stepping over three men engaged in some sort of complex maneuvering that looked more like a game of Twister than any sex Will was familiar with, he hurried up the stairs and back into the club proper.

Paul and Francois remained in the pit for God knew how long. Andrew, it seemed, had also found a partner or partners, as he too had yet to reemerge. Will glanced at his watch. It was nearly midnight. What an idiot he’d been to do this. Once upon a time he would have drowned his sorrows in meaningless sex, but he found he couldn’t do that anymore. Or rather, he didn’t want to.

He thought about Jack, alone in his house, or worse, still being harangued and interrogated by his outraged offspring. He shouldn’t have left him. He shouldn’t have abandoned him as soon as the emotional going got tough.

Maybe I’m just not cut out for this relationship stuff
, he thought with a sigh. The two martinis had done their work. Will was tired and depressed. He wanted to talk to Jack. He wanted to see him. Again he glanced at his watch. He pulled out his cell phone, checking for any missed calls or messages. There were none. Jack hadn’t called him back. For whatever reason, Jack needed his space tonight. Well, Will would give it to him. If one embarrassing confrontation with his son was enough for Jack to chuck the whole thing, then maybe Will had been fooling himself about what was happening between them.

Though Jack was the older of the two, maybe when it came to this he was still a teenager, too tentative and uncertain to follow his feelings. For the feelings were definitely there, no matter how circumstances contrived to mess with them. Will closed his eyes, recalling how hot Jack had been as he’d ripped Will’s shirt from his body, his lust palpable, his desire fierce. How he had thrilled to Jack’s newfound assertiveness.

That was no experimenting on Jack’s part. The time for that had passed. Jack had wanted Will as much as he wanted Jack—of that he was certain. And beyond the sex—they were friends. He’d left his friend in a time of need, turning inward to nurse his own wounds, forgetting how scary all this must be for Jack.

He flipped open his phone again, sending a text to Paul saying he was going to take a cab home, and to have fun. Outside as he waited to hail a taxi, he tried once more to call Jack. Again he got voice mail. A part of him wanted to go straight to New Rochelle, but his pride got the better of him. If Jack didn’t want to see or hear from him, he was damned if he’d force himself on him.

Things would be clearer in the morning. He hoped.

***

Jack squinted one eye open. His two sons were peering down at him, Eric with a frown, Jason with a look of concern. “Dad? You okay? Did you fall asleep here?”

Jack shifted in his recliner and groaned. A stab of pain shot through his left shoulder as he moved. He must have fallen asleep on it.

He sat up, pushing his hair from his forehead. His head throbbed and his mouth was dry as cotton. “Boys. What are you doing here? What time is it? I didn’t hear you come in.”

“It’s ten o’clock,” Jason answered. “We actually called first, but it went straight to voice mail.”

“No, of course you didn’t hear us come in,” Eric said huffily, talking over his brother. He picked up the empty bourbon bottle from the floor and waved it toward his father. “What’s this? We’re lucky you didn’t give yourself alcohol poisoning or drink yourself into a coma.”

“Shut up, Eric,” Jason said, taking the bottle from his little brother. “Dad’s a grown man. If he wants to tie one on now and then in the privacy of his own home, it’s none of your business.”

Jack’s bladder was bulging uncomfortably. He stood, pushing his way past his sons with a gruff, “Excuse me. There’s fresh juice in the fridge. Put on a pot of coffee, will you? I’ll be right down.” He walked stiffly toward the stairs, refusing to give Eric the satisfaction of anything less than a ramrod-straight back and purposeful stride.

Once upstairs he peed and then turned on the water in the sink. He dunked his head beneath the faucet, letting the cold water wake him up more thoroughly. Jesus, had he really consumed that entire bottle of booze? Was he sliding back to where he’d been those first few months of mourning after Emma’s death?

What was he mourning now? The loss of Eric’s innocence? Or of his own?

Obviously Eric had filled Jason in on all the sordid details of what he’d witnessed the evening before. Jason, who lived two hours north in upstate New York, was single and a research scientist for a pharmaceutical company.

Jack could just imagine Eric’s outraged, frenzied call the night before. “Jason, Dad is a faggot. A filthy, perverted faggot who hires male prostitutes he brings to the house for sex.”

Jack was saddened by the realization his youngest son was a bigot. He and Emma had consciously strived to make sure their children not only tolerated but accepted other people’s differences. He’d thought they’d done a pretty decent job, but evidently not.

Though he knew this wasn’t necessarily fair. Eric was still in shock. Even if he were theoretically tolerant of others’ differences, it was quite another thing to see your own father kneeling before a naked man, that man’s spunk splashed on his face.

With a sigh, Jack turned off the water and grabbed a towel. He was only putting off the inevitable. Though he didn’t plan to tolerate any more of Eric’s attitude, he owed his boys some kind of explanation.

In the kitchen the smell of brewing coffee greeted Jack like an old friend. Gratefully he accepted the mug Jason poured for him. “Would you like some eggs or something?” Jason asked. “Or I could make pancakes.” He was behaving solicitously, as if his father had been ill or suffered a loss. Eric, on the other hand, was scowling, his arms folded across his chest, stern as a judge.

“No thanks, Jason. There’s bread in the bread box. Maybe just a piece of toast, if you don’t mind.”