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Authors: Scott Sherman

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BOOK: Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery)

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“Did I mention my boyfriend’s a cop?” I asked him. I’ve found that tends to act like the anti-Viagra on even the most determined suitors. Knowing the guy you’re trying to cuckold has a gun is more deflating than a cold shower.

“Coffee it is, then,” he said, dropping my hand. “When should we—”

We were interrupted by the trumpeting voice of Mason Jarre. “Would you look at them?” he boomed.

He was walking over with Kristen LaNue at his side. “Magnificent,” Kristen whispered. “Like two angels.”

“Almost twins,” Mason marveled. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That we need to get these two together on film?” Kristen asked him.

“I can picture the DVD cover in my head already.
Brotherly Love Two,
” Mason suggested. “Or,
Adventures in Twincest
.” His eyes darted from one of us to the other, back and forth. I was pretty sure he was imagining the climactic scene at that very moment. His voice was thick with excitement. “We can work out the details later.”

Mason pissed me off. I’d already made it clear to him I wasn’t interested. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a guy who won’t take no for an answer.

I would have told him off right then and there, but I couldn’t think of a way to express my aversion to appearing in porn without sounding like I disapproved of Brent for doing it.

It was Kristen who saved the scene from getting ugly. But then again, he was a director. “Now, don’t pressure the boy,” he advised Mason. Then, he turned to me. “You have our cards. Think about it, okay? We could at least talk. I promise—we could make it worth your time.”

Brent gave me an evil grin. “You really should, Kevin. You know, if we do it on film, it isn’t cheating. It’s work.”

Having made similar distinctions in my own life, I couldn’t blame Brent for trying.

“Sure,” I said, figuring it was a good time to make my exit. “I’ll think about everything. And maybe we
will
get together.”

But I said that last part to Kristen, not Brent. For some reason, I had a feeling it’d be better if Kristen and Mason didn’t know that Brent and I planned to meet. I’d keep that to myself.

Just like I wouldn’t tell Tony about the flirting between me and Brent.

Walking away, it struck me that in the past half hour, more lies had been told, secrets revealed, and new ones made than I’d have thought possible in such a short time.

It didn’t seem like a good basis on which to start a new friendship. Maybe I’d be better off if Brent
didn’t
call.

Speaking of which, I’d better not go home with a guy’s number scrawled on my arm. Even a guy without Tony’s professional investigative training would be suspicious of that. I went to the bathroom to wash it off.

I was about to start scrubbing when I thought,
What the hell?
I took a picture of the number with my iPhone. Who knows? Maybe I’d have a reason to call Brent someday.

A perfectly innocent reason. Yeah, Brent might be delicious, but I had no doubt I’d be able to resist taking a bite.

Does it count as another lie if you only say it to yourself?

Best Friends

A month later, I was in my apartment watching the “Kinks for Cash” episode with my best friend, Freddy. It wouldn’t air until later that week, but he’d been bugging me about seeing it since he found out Brock Peters was a guest. I got a DVD of the final cut from one of our editors so Freddy would forgive me for what he’d considered an almost unforgivable slight on my part.

It was the night after the taping of the show. Freddy and I went out to dinner, and I told him about meeting Brent Havens and the other weird experiences of the day.

“Wait,” Freddy interrupted me. “Let me make sure I understand you. You threw a party for a roomful of gay porn stars and didn’t invite me?”

“I didn’t exactly throw a—”

“How long has it been that you’ve hated me?” Freddy asked.

“I don’t—”

“Because the only thing I love more than a party is porn, and the only thing I love more than porn is actual sex, and it sounds like you somehow managed to keep me from all three at the same time!”

It was true that Freddy loved sex. I knew that firsthand. We’d started as lovers back in college, but the idea of a committed relationship was about as appealing to Freddy as sunbathing is to a vampire. His idea of monogamy was sleeping with only one guy in the same day. Once he knew your last name, it was a sign the two of you were getting too serious.

So, we became friends. Besties, as the Brits say. There was still a sexual tension between us, but over the years it’s faded somewhat. Whether that was due to time or to Tony is hard to say.

It took me a few minutes to convince Freddy there was no “party” and that I had no idea so many of Brock’s friends and co-workers would show up. Even so, I admitted, I should have told him that Brock would be on the show.

“If I knew you were a fan, I would have invited you,” I explained. “But I had no idea you’d even heard of him.”

“Heard of him?”
Freddy asked incredulously. “I’ve done a lot more than
heard
of him. I’ve
seen
him. I’ve
studied
him. I’ve
sullied
myself to him, in all his throbbing muscly goodness.”

“So, you like his movies?”

“I’m talking about at the gym. In the steam room. We’ve gotten it on four or five times there.”

“Oh my god,” I marveled. “Is there any man in New York you
haven’t
slept with?”

If so, it wasn’t for lack of trying. Freddy was one of the best-looking guys I’ve ever known, and that includes men who got paid $2,000 for an hour of their time. A beautifully built African American with perfect features and the piercing eyes of a professional Casanova, Freddy exuded a sexuality that made me believe in the power of pheromones. Men were drawn to him like no one I’d ever met, and Freddy enjoyed his gift to its fullest potential.

“I haven’t slept with your husband, darling. At least not yet. So, stop pissing me off before I decide to steal your man, blondie.”

“As if,” I answered, channeling Alicia Silverstone from
Clueless
.

“Haven’t fooled around with Brent Havens, either,” Freddy continued. “Although I wouldn’t mind. That’s one sweet-looking kid. And probably as close to sleeping with you again as I’ll ever get.”

Huh. Freddy had noticed the similarities, too.

I told him about our awkward flirtation.

“He probably did it just to get on the show,” Freddy offered.

“Why,” I asked sharply, “would it have to be about
that?
Is it impossible to believe that he found me attractive?”

“Of course not,” Freddy said, enjoying this opportunity to yank my chain. “For a man in your late thirties, you’ve held up remarkably well.”

Freddy knew I was twenty-four, the insufferable bitch. “As have you,” I countered. “And I don’t care what anyone says, I think you look great with that extra weight. There’s nothing wrong with a little muffin top.”

Despite the fact he knew we were teasing, Freddy couldn’t help glancing at his perfectly flat belly.

“Ha!” I said victoriously. “Made you look!”

Freddy decided to ignore my triumph. “I’m just pointing out that Brent Havens sounds like a manipulative little thing who knows how to hook a guy. You said he wanted to get out of the porn business. Maybe he thought that appearing on your mother’s show could be the first step to a legitimate career.”

“You think he was playing me?”

“I think he’s a player. The problem with being a player, though, is you don’t always know yourself what’s a game and what’s real.”

“One real thing,” I said, “was that the guy who runs his studio, Mason Jarre, was a total sleazebag. He practically raped me with his eyes. He pushed me hard to consider working for him—too hard, if you know what I mean. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. I can see why Brent feels like a slab of beef.”

“This guy Mason is
forcing
Brent to make movies?”

“No,” I answered. “Not exactly.”

“So, he wouldn’t accept Brent’s ‘no’ when offered, then? When he said he wanted to get out?”

I tried to remember our conversation. “I don’t think Brent’s asked yet.”

“Huh. But you think Mason pressured Brent to work for him in the first place, right? Coerced that innocent-looking sweetie into a life of onscreen debauchery?”

I couldn’t say that, either. In fact, I distinctly recalled it differently. “Actually, I think it was the opposite. Now that you bring it up, I don’t know that Brent’s ever said ‘no.’ ”

“My kind of boy.” Freddy grinned. “I don’t know, Kev. I’ve watched some of Brent’s work—he seemed to be having a pretty good time. I’ve seen him in interviews and read articles, too. Feels to me like that kid’s doing exactly what he wants to. Not by accident, either. He gets himself where he wants to be. And my feeling is, if he wants to move on to something different, he’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen.”

“I don’t know,” I answered. “You didn’t meet him like I did. He seemed very sweet. Genuine. Not the Machiavellian figure you’re painting.”

“Machiowhatnow?” Freddy asked. “What does a Starbucks drink have to do with anything?”

Freddy was what you call street-smart. Let’s just leave it at that.

I’d been a psychology major at NYU. Despite my ADHD, what I
did
learn stuck in my head like glue. “ ‘Machiavellian.’ From the sixteenth-century Italian writer and philosopher Nic-colò Machiavelli. He wrote about immoral men in a way that seemed to endorse the unethical use of power to get ahead. He’s become a symbol for selfishness and greed. Psychologists even have a test called the MACH-IV that measures a person’s likeliness to deceive and manipulate others for his personal gain.”

“Thanks for the lecture, Doctor IQ. Put simply: Brent’s power is his sexuality, right? So, that’s what he’d use.”

See? Street-smart. Not an insult after all.

Had Brent been planning to use me? Was I really so naïve that I fell for it?

Of course, I hadn’t told him I worked for the show until midway through our conversation. On the other hand, maybe he noticed the ID his boss missed and figured it out when I first bumped into him.

Assuming he hadn’t planned the whole thing and been the one to bump into
me
.

My head was spinning out of control. I either needed to take more Adderall or get off this train.

Disembark, I decided. What did it even matter? Brent hadn’t called me and I hadn’t called him. Whatever happened, or might have happened, was behind us.

Except, I felt it wasn’t. We’d made a connection. I was sure of it. It didn’t feel “over” at all.

So, why hadn’t we been in touch?

I knew why
I
hadn’t called. Too much temptation.

Why hadn’t he?

“There’s only one thing I don’t get,” Freddy said, sounding genuinely puzzled.

I leaned forward. In his own way, Freddy could be very insightful. I felt lost in the dark trying to figure this out. Maybe Freddy would shine just the light I needed.

“Why,” he asked, squinting with the effort to understand what could very well be the question that would clear this all up for me, “would Starbucks name their delicious milky coffee treat after some old Italian guy everyone hates?”

Or, maybe not. “That’s a ‘macchiato,’ honey. Not a ‘Machiavelli. ’ ”

“I
thought
that sounded wrong,” Freddy said, shoving me in the shoulder like I was the one who’d made a mistake. “I just didn’t want to embarrass you by correcting you. I’m considerate that way.”

The funny thing is that made perfect sense to him. Freddy’s self-confidence in the face of even his obvious mistakes was his one perfect defense.

“Yeah,” I said, “that’s me. Always confusing my caffeinated beverages with reviled Renaissance-era writers. It always pisses off the baristas when I order a grande skinny Michelangelo.”

“Not to mention confusing boys who want to get on TV with those who want to get in to your pants,” Freddy added. “You know, that’s something you might want to look at if you’re going to continue working as a casting director.”

Damn that Freddy. Maybe he
had
shed some light. I just didn’t want to see what it revealed.

“Well . . .” I began when the DVD was done. We were sitting on the couch in front of my too-big-for-the-room fifty-five-inch TV, and I turned to see his face. “What did you think?”

“It was great. Like one of those jokes you’d hear from old comedians,” Freddy said. “A dominatrix, a gay porn star, and a purple dinosaur walk into a bar. Only the bar is really a TV talk show, and the bartender is a Long Island hausfrau who somehow wound up as its host.” He stopped.

“That’s a decent set-up,” I conceded. “But it needs a punch line.”

“Yeah, but the only one I can think of involves the reveal that the hausfrau’s son turns out to have done more kinky shit than the three guests put together, and I’m afraid if I say it, you’re gonna slap me on the head.”

I slapped him on the head anyway.

“So very big ‘ow,’ ” Freddy whined, rubbing his close-cut hair. “I hate it when I’m right.”

“Lucky for you it hardly ever happens,” I said.

“You know, you’re not too old for a spanking,” Freddy said. Faster than I could react, he reached out and threw an arm around my neck. “Come here, you little . . .”

“Would you cut it out?” I said, laughing.

“What, you think Mistress Vesper is the only gal in town who knows how to treat a bad boy?” He pulled more strongly and I pushed my hands against his chest. Pecs like granite pushed back. I might have felt his nipples swell under my touch, but everything about Freddy was so hard I really couldn’t tell.

Entwined as we were, it would have been tough for someone watching to tell if we were embracing or wrestling. We were both breathing hard. From exertion, I told myself. Between that and the grunting we were making a lot of noise.

Which is why we didn’t hear the door open.

“Ahem,” Tony said, his voice coming with no warning from the doorway. “Am I interrupting something?”

He didn’t sound friendly.

BOOK: Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery)

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