Threes Company (23 page)

No, Mr Stanford had no experience in buying or running hotels, but to him it was just a product. A profitable product, selling for an undisclosed figure, which he could purchase and receive returns for, and
that
was a concept he understood very, very well.

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Adam, Simon, and I watched from the bar. Mr

Stanford had said they would be merely discussing potential interest at this point and multimillion dollar decisions are best made with the head, not the heart, so he'd prefer it if we sat out.

But Simon's father had also insisted they sit at a particular table, one that was conveniently close enough for us to hear every word.

They exchanged pleasantries and got straight to business. Simon's father declared outright he was interested in the purchase of the hotel. He didn't even give Hartley time to blink. He asked a slew of questions and I realized then there was a reason he was so successful in business.

Simon's mother was right. Her husband and her son were so alike when it came to business: the quiet seriousness, the professional confidence, how they held their stares but not their tongues.

Mr Stanford requested his accountant be sent all necessary information, which we knew he already had—

courtesy of Simon's reports—but no one else was privy to this. He needed this to look legit. He told the owners it would be his intention to leave the hotel operational, just as it was. He gave his word to them that he had no immediate plans for re-development and that he saw no need to overcapitalize with further development when it was

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already profitable as it was.

I figured there was no other reason for him to mention redevelopment except to have a shot at Hartley. He wanted to show the owners that it was about the business, not about personal vendettas against gay people.

As predicted, when the meeting was over, no actual figures had been discussed, no deals had been done. But contact had been made, and Hartley knew he wasn't the only horse in the race.

As the meeting disbanded, Simon went over to

speak to the two owners, while his father stood and talked to Hartley. "So, branching into the hospitality sector?"

Hartley asked, though he wasn't making conversation. He was fishing for information.

"Considering it, yes," Mr Stanford replied

"So, you married?" Hartley asked, out of nowhere.

Mr Stanford blinked in apparent surprise at the personal question. "Yes. My wife and I have been together for thirty years."

Hartley nodded and smiled, looking pleased. "Ah, for a moment I thought you might have been
one of
those
…"

Mr Stanford lips curled. "One of those what?"

Hartley made no effort to hide his disgust or the volume of his voice. He nodded toward Simon and gave a

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pointed stare to us. "One of those filthy fags."

And I swear the world stood still.

I saw Simon turn to face him, obviously having heard what Hartley had just said, and Adam gasped beside me. But it was Mr Stanford's reaction that surprised me the most.

He moved so quickly I barely saw it, but he was now standing right in front of Hartley, all up in his face.

And he was seething. He spoke in a menacing whisper.

"That
filthy fag
you're talking about is my son. So I suggest you watch your fucking mouth."

Hartley's face paled, and he tried to recover, but couldn't. "That figures," he said weakly, taking a small step back.

Simon's father stared at him for a long, unnerving minute before he walked over to where Simon and the two owners were standing. He spoke to Simon first. "I'm sorry I doubted you when you told me what an ass he was."

Then he spoke to the two owners. "I'll offer you whatever he's offered. I won't offer you any more or any less, but trust your good conscience will know which is the better deal."

Then his lawyer friend was beside him, briefcase in hand, indicating their time here was up. Mr Stanford sighed. "I have another meeting to go to right now, but I'll

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have my legal team draft something up."

Hartley stalked past them, muttering something else about queers as he went.

One of the owners glared in total disbelief to what she'd just witnessed, the blatant hatred inside the man. Then she looked back at Simon's father. "Mr Stanford, I believe we'd be very interested in discussions with you."

They exchanged some contact details, and the

owners left. Mr Stanford told us he'd be in touch. He hugged his son, told me he'd need some paperwork on my finance proposal to buy our way into this deal, and then he told us he'd see us soon and left.

I looked to Simon. His eyes were wide, and a look of disbelief morphed into a grin. I imagined it matched mine.

Three weeks later, we became legitimate partners with a combined ten percent share of the hotel. Simon's father's business owned the rest. We worked together, we lived together, and we played together. The three of us.

Regardless of ownership percentages, we were and would always be equal thirds.

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It had been six months since I officially moved here, started working here, and became a part of Adam and Simon's world. Six months.

It hadn't all been easy. There were some adjustment issues as the three of us got used to being part of a threesome. But the few hiccups we had were minor, and the better we got to know each other, the easier it became. The work was fun, the sex was unbelievable, and the laughs were plenty. It had been, without doubt, the best six months of my life.

Six months.

My God, the time had flown.

It was very fitting how the Key West annual Pride celebration was the same weekend as my six-month anniversary. It was my first. It most certainly wouldn't be my last. But I was so excited.

Nowhere near as excited as Adam, but excited

nonetheless.

I couldn't wait to see the festival, see the crowds and all the people who were out to celebrate who they were. Key West was drowning in rainbow-colored everything, the hotel was booked solid, and there was a

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buzz on the streets. It was like a high.

Yes, we were busy. But there was no way, no way in hell, we were missing Pride. No. Fucking. Way.

The entire guest list of the hotel was going to the festivals anyway, so the fact the restaurant was closed for the evening didn't affect anyone.

The hotel was quiet, eerily so. Nearly everyone had left already. I was just doing some prep work to get a head start on tomorrow, knowing I'd probably be hung over and not too motivated. Simon was in the reception area finalizing next month's rosters or something, and Adam…

well, Adam was being Adam.

He'd gone to collect some shirts for the three of us to wear, so we all matched. He told anyone who'd stand still long enough that he had
two
live-in boyfriends. When we went out, he didn't have to tell anyone; it was written on his shirt.

Literally.

He'd found a shirt online, which he just
had to have
, and wore it to death. He wore it every time we were all together, he wore it out, and he wore it to work. People usually looked twice, and he'd just grin.

Because written on his shirt was "I'm with them"

with two hands pointing in either direction. And the fact that he was usually snuggled in-between us with one arm

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around each of us, and one hand on his shirt pointed to me and the other pointed to Sy, meant we usually got a few stares.

I'd certainly gone from one extreme to the other.

From not being out in public with any guy, to now being out in public with two. At the same time.

But I'd soon learned I had nothing to hide. Maybe back in Alabama I did, but not here.

Most of the guys at the local clubs and bars soon got used to us all being together. Having threesomes was nothing new to gay men in this town, but making it a permanent thing wasn't too common.

I don't know if they admired us, envied us, or thought we were crazy. Possibly all three. But they sure liked to watch us dance.

Tuesday nights were our usual night out. Our only night out together. It was all we could ask for, really, for the three of us to be away from the hotel at one time. So we made the most of it. We went out for dinner, we had a few drinks, and we danced. Then we spent Wednesday mornings out for breakfast, usually at Dee's café.

I smiled at the memories of the last six months and finished cleaning up the kitchen prep area. I looked at my watch, wondering where Adam was so we could go to the Pride festival already. He was supposed to be back by now,

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and when I heard Simon's voice, I assumed it would be Adam with him.

"Wil?" Simon called. "Can you come out here for a second?"

It was a little weird that they didn't come in and see me, but when I walked out to the foyer area, I realized why.

It wasn't Adam with Simon.

It was Rod.

As in my ex-whatever-you'd-call-it from Alabama.

To say I was shocked would have been an

understatement. I looked around to see who he might be here with.

"I, uh, I came by myself," he said quietly. "I came to see you."

I blinked. I was at a complete loss. "Why?"

Rod glanced at Simon, who was looking back and forth between us. "Rod, this is Simon. Anything you have to say, you can say in front of him. I'll only be telling him what you said anyway."

Rod looked seven shades of uncomfortable. "I, um, I saw you when you came back to Dalton. On Main Street, do you remember?"

I nodded. "I saw you."

"You didn't speak to me."

"I had nothing to say to you, Rod." I shook my

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head. "How did you even find me?" There was no way Callie would have told him.

"The real estate office gave me your forwarding address," he said with a shrug. "I told them I had official business…"

I shook my head. "Jesus Christ, Rod, what are you doing here?"

Rod looked at Simon, then back to me. "I, um… I, uh…" He was struggling to say what he wanted; it was almost painful to watch.

"Rod, just say it."

He swallowed, hard. "I want you to come back."

I couldn't help the bubble of laughter that escaped me. "You what?"

"I wanted to apologize," he said quietly. "And I just… I thought maybe we could talk."

I looked at him. "We're talking now."

Rod turned to look at Simon again, so very

uncomfortable having to say this in front of someone else.

"I miss having you—"

"Rod, stop," I said, putting my hand up. "If you're asking me to go back, back to hiding and lying then just stop." I walked over to Simon and slid my arm around his waist. "I'm never going back. I have a life here, a life where I don't have to hide and no one would ask me to."

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And just then, Adam all but ran through the front doors, to where we were. He had a bag in his hand. "I got them all to match!" he cried, before he looked up to see us.

He saw Simon with his arm around me and he could feel the tension in the air. He stopped then walked slowly around Rod over to us. "Who's this?"

"Adam, this is Rod."

I could almost see the name turning over in his head. Rod.
Rod…

Simon whispered, "Wil's ex."

Adam spun to face Rod, and without taking his eyes off him, he stepped closer to us, and put his hand on me. It was possessive and territorial. It was fucking perfect.

Rod looked at the three of us. His brow furrowed, confused. "I thought you were with him," he said, giving a nod toward Simon.

"I am," I said. "And I'm also with Adam."

He blinked. "Both of them?"

I smiled. "Both."

Simon looked at Rod and leaned in and kissed me, right on the mouth. Then like Rod wasn't there, he asked Adam if he got the shirts.

Adam nodded and reached into the bag. He pulled out three blue shirts with "I'm with them" and the two hands pointing in opposite directions on them. He threw

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one to each of us.

I grinned. "Perfect."

Simon took off his shirt, showing off his ripped torso and delicious V that ran under his cargos. "We need to get going. We're supposed to meet at Dee's." He slipped on his new shirt, which I was sure Adam deliberately ordered one size too small.

Ignoring Rod altogether, Simon held out his hand.

"Give me your shirts and I'll run them upstairs."

He was doing this deliberately, so Rod would have to see me half-naked. I shook my head at him, but took off my shirt.

The last six months here had done my body good.

All that running, healthy eating, and fucking-for-exercise, as Adam called it, had me pretty trim, fit, and tanned. Rod noticed, that's for damn sure. His eyes just about fell out of his head. Simon failed to hide his smirk, took our shirts, and disappeared upstairs.

I looked at Rod, who was now looking really out of place, and smiled. "I'm sorry you wasted your time, Rod.

Maybe you should have phoned first?" Considering he'd never called me once to see if I was okay, I knew that was highly unlikely. I considered telling him he should have called me every day, he should have come to see if I was okay when the entire townsfolk turned against me, and that