Authors: Faith Winslow
Kiss and Tell 3
KISS and TELL
Part 3
Faith Winslow
Copyright © 2016
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
“You’ve got to be one of the stupidest people I’ve ever met,” Anthony said, “and, that’s really saying something, because I’ve met
a lot
of people.”
He was furious and flustered, and his face was so red that it warmed the air around him. But, not all of that redness came from anger. Some of it came from blood, and as he wiped the goopy, congealing fluid from his nose and upper lip, he looked at me and shook his head.
I wanted to apologize to him, to run over to him, take him into my arms, and tell him how sorry I was that he got dragged into this mess. But now was not that time. First, we had to finish what had already begun—and, what had already begun began not too long ago, when Anthony showed up at London’s pool house to “save” me from whatever came next.
So, let’s go back to that point, shall we? Or, better yet, let’s go back just a bit further, to make sure we’re all on the same page.
Flash back to an hour or so earlier… I’d spilled the beans to London and told him all about my late-morning romp with Anthony in his office. After I’d shared the most intimate details of our encounter, London went on to ask some questions that I didn’t expect a young man like him to ask.
Rather than asking me how good the sex was, how large Anthony’s cock was, or anything down n’ dirty like that, London asked more general, practical questions, and they made me very suspicious. My suspicions were confirmed when I answered the seventh “Private” call to my phone. It was Anthony, calling to tell me what I’d just figured out on my own: It wasn’t Willard Preston, London’s gay lover, who was trying to blackmail him; it was London, my only friend and “beard,” who was behind the scam.
Anthony said he’d be right over, and I was supposed to play it cool until he got there. But, the moment I hung up my phone, London knew something was up, and I knew that he knew. There was no avoiding the elephant in the room, so I decided to face it head on.
I turned the tables and started asking my own questions, and the first one I asked was, “Why?” Why? Why? No matter how many times I said it aloud to him, and despite whatever else I asked or said, that one question kept firing over and over again inside my head. I wanted so badly to know why someone who I’d trusted would attempt to use my secrets against me.
London surmised that Anthony was on his way and asked me to sit down on the couch, so that he could answer my question. I did as I was told and took a seat, and prepared myself for what he had to say.
“At first,” London said, still sporting a crooked grin, “this whole beard idea sounded really good. I thought we both could help each other a lot. We both had big secrets we didn’t want our parents knowing about, and playing boyfriend-and-girlfriend could help us cover them up… for a while.”
The beer that London had given me was warmer than I would have liked, but I sipped at it anyway, just to calm myself down and give me something to do as he went on.
“But the more I thought about it,” London continued, “I realized, we’re not on even playing fields. Yes, we both have secrets—but, mine’s a lot bigger than yours.”
London looked at me as if he expected me to understand, but, really, I didn’t. I guess you could say it was because of my young, modern mindset. Like most people my age, I don’t really judge people based on their sexual preference. I mean, I was a little burnt when I found out London was gay, but that was only because of the awkward sexual encounter we’d shared a couple weeks before, and because he’d suggested that we date.
But, at the bottom line, it didn’t faze me that London was gay. I simply didn’t care. His business was his own, and I didn’t think it was a big deal. I could understand why he’d be reluctant to tell his parents though—but, since I’m not gay, there really was no way for me to understand exactly what that type of disclosure meant firsthand.
“Do you remember Jasper Kent?” London asked, sensing my inability to fully comprehend his position.
“Barely,” I replied. I remembered the name from high school, but that was about it. All I could recall is that he went to the same school that London and me, and that he was in London’s grade.
“Jasper and I used to hang out in the same group,” London explained. His voice was a little softer than it had been just a few moments earlier, and he had a sad, sentimental look on his face.
“We used to be pretty good friends, and he spent a lot of time at my house,” London added. “Senior year, he told me he was gay. I knew I was too, but didn’t want to admit it—to him or to myself—so, I just shrugged it off and said, ‘Whatever.’ I told him I was cool with him no matter what he was, and he seemed really appreciative of that.
“I guess he thought that everyone else would be cool with it too, ‘cause he told a few other people… And, I don’t have to tell you what happened after that. One person told another, then they told another, and, soon enough, rumors started to spread.”
This all happened a year after I graduated, so I wasn’t there to witness any of it. But, as London spoke of Jasper, I faintly recalled hearing some of the rumors when I was home visiting my parents the summer after my freshman year of college. I didn’t think much of them at the time, since, as I said earlier, I don’t really care about a person’s sexual preference. Plus, Jasper was never
my
friend and wasn’t in
my
social circle, so what did his gayness matter to
me
?
“When the rumor finally reached my parents, they hit the roof,” London said. He looked from me to the kitchen, then back again, obviously considering whether he should keep talking or go get another beer. I wasn’t a flight risk, if that’s what he was concerned about, but, nonetheless, he chose to stay nearby.
“They told me I couldn’t hang with Jasper anymore,” London said, picking up where he left off. “They didn’t say why, just that he was bad news. He wasn’t welcome in our house anymore, and I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere where he’d be, unless it was a school event or big gathering where there’d be many other people.
“I agreed, of course. But, hey, you know what they say—kids will be kids. I listened to what they said about not having him over, but ignored the rest. I still hung with him in small groups, even though I wasn’t supposed to.
“But, then, one night, the shit really hit the fan. I was at Henry’s with Jasper, Kyle, and Lydia, when my dad just happened to show up. Dad came in to get a pizza to go, and, when he saw me, sitting at a table with Jasper, he blew a gasket. He came running over to the table, grabbed me by my collar, and demanded that I come home with him right then. I told him to chill, but he wouldn’t let up. He actually pulled me out of my seat and started dragging me away. Everyone in the place was staring. It was a total scene—and, it was probably the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me in my whole life. I was 17, and my Daddy was treating me like a little kid.
“But, as embarrassing and painful as it was for me, it was nothing compared to what Jasper must have felt. As my dad dragged me away, I looked back at Jasper, and he had this really hurt look on his face. It was the look that someone has when they know that they are hated. I’ll never forget that look as long as I live… And, poor Jasper knew exactly why my dad was doing what he did. So did Kyle and Lydia, and probably a half-dozen other people in the joint. It was horrible.”
I took another swig of my warm beer, which was much easier to swallow than London’s tale.
“As soon as we got to the car, Dad basically shoved me into the passenger’s seat,” London went on. “He slammed the door, and, once he got in and started driving, he really let loose. ‘No son of mine is gonna hang out with a fag,’ he said. ‘I won’t have some sick fuck-up try and turn
my
son gay,’ he told me. He went on and on, shouting about how wrong it was to be gay and how he didn’t want me involved in that lifestyle in any way.”
London had a distant look in his eyes as he recounted what happened that night, and it looked like he was about to cry. Hell, I felt like I was about to cry too. What his dad did and said
was
horrible—brutal, in fact—and, if we hadn’t been in the situation we were in, I probably would have felt bad for London and understood how an experience like that could really screw someone up, especially when that someone was gay. But, despite whatever sympathy I felt, I couldn’t justify the situation we were in. Two wrongs don’t make a right after all. Just because he was screwed up, that didn’t mean he had the right to screw me over.
“After that,” London said, regaining some of his composure, “I knew two things for sure… Jasper and I were done—we couldn’t be friends anymore—and, I could never let my parents know I was gay. If my dad acted like that because I was hanging out with a fag, how do you think he’d respond if he knew I was one too?”
Again, I felt more than a tinge of sympathy for London. It must have been so painful for him to have to hide and deny a part of who he was from the people who were supposed to love him most—and, I could finally see how his secret was, indeed, bigger than mine. But, still, why did that mean he had to betray me and try to rob an innocent man?
“Okay, London,” I said. It was the first time I’d spoken since he began his oration. “I get it. Your parents—or at least your dad—would have a hard time accepting that you’re gay. But, why would you do this to me and Anthony? Why would you do this now? Why ask for money? Why betray
me
?”
That last question was the one I wanted answered most. Call me selfish, but it’s true. I might have asked a few more. But, if I did, it doesn’t matter. They weren’t nearly as important.
“No, Kirby,” London said, raising his voice. “You’ve got it wrong. My parents wouldn’t have a ‘hard time’ accepting that I’m gay. They wouldn’t accept it at all. They’d disown me. I’m certain of it… So, that’s what it all comes down to. If
my
secret comes out, that’s it—I’m done for! My parents would disown me, and I’d lose everything I had.
“Now, think about it… What happens if
your
secret comes out? What? Your secret may be a little sick, but it’s not nearly as subversive. There’s still a greater stigma that attaches to homosexuality than there is to some old fart chasing a co-ed.”
I was a little impressed by what London was saying, and by how he was saying it. It was as if he’d obviously thought out his whole spiel before and was repeating it as he’d rehearsed, verbatim. He must have seen this moment coming and prepared for it. He knew I’d ask me why, and he was giving me the long end of his reason.
“You’ll get a slap on the wrist, and be grounded,” London’s monologue continued. “Maybe your car privileges will be revoked for a month, or your folks will tell ya’ to act your age, not your bra size; but, at the end of the day, you’ll still have a place to call home, and parents who still love you, who disapprove of something you did, not of who you are.”
Could it be? Was London Gallagher
actually
making sense?? Indeed, he was, though only to a certain point. The way compared our situations and what we each had at stake was pretty accurate, but that still didn’t explain why I needed to suffer because of my relative advantage.
I thought about what I should do, and decided that I should do something. So, I asked London a question. “What’s your point?” I asked him. “What’s the point that you’re trying to make here? Can you just get to it? Do we really need to go through all this bullshit?”
London looked at me. He looked sad, perhaps ‘cause his monologue had been interrupted. He focused his eyes in on mine, smirked, and raised his eyebrow.
“Money,” he said.
“Money?” I asked.
“Money,” he repeated.
There was a pause—a moment of silence—before London went on.
“If my parents find out, I need something,” he said. “You know, to fall back on. I figured this billionaire you’d been bumpin’ around had some money to spare. I looked him up on the internet; I know what he’s worth.”
London glanced at the window as if he saw or heard someone coming. For some reason, I couldn’t look. I just sat back, waited, and listened.
“I made a big mistake when I hooked up with Willard,” London went on, despite being distracted. “I don’t normally do that kind of thing when I’m at home. When I’m at home, I’m the son my parents wanted. I go to school two states away, and that’s where I take care of my personal business. But, even there, I keep it under the radar. I don’t ‘date,’ I just hook up with guys, mostly from online sites.”
As bad as I’d felt for London at any point in our conversation, I felt the worst for him at this moment. It sucked to hear him talking, before, about how he knew his parents (namely, his father) could never accept that he was gay, but, now, here he was showing me the ways he, too, was unable to accept it. He was hiding who he was not just from his parents, but from himself as well, and he was living life in the shadows, treating his instincts as if they were shady, not natural. Poor guy. Pity he was such an asshole.
“This thing with Willard didn’t hit close to home. It hit
at
home,” London said. He was still staring at the window, and I finally realized why. It wasn’t because he was looking at anything in particular; it’s because he was looking away from me. “You walked in on us. Who knows who else saw us leave the party together! Willard is local—who knows who he’ll tell?
“I’m in danger. I’m in jeopardy. I’m at risk of being exposed. There’s too many loose ends to tie up, and, since I can’t tie them up, I need something else to hold on to. I was sloppy, and I needed a lifeline—and your pervy old boyfriend’s money is perfect.”
There were so many things about London’s statement that were wrong. But, obviously, I didn’t have time to correct them all. So, instead, I tried to get a better grasp on the entire situation.
“So, you want Anthony to give you $250,000 to stay quiet about what you know?” I asked.
London looked at me and nodded.
My beer was disgustingly warm at this point—and, I was well aware of that when I decided to drink it. I put on my best poker face, took a swig, and then laughed.
“And how far do you think
that’s
gonna get you?” I asked, swallowing back the swill lager. London looked at me curiously, and with anger.
