Second You Sin (16 page)

“You’d only be in the way. They’l be shooting for hours. We’l watch from the bus.”

Andrew led me back to the mobile studio and ushered me into his makeshift office. He shut the door after us. “There wil be some production assistants coming in and out during the taping,” he explained, “but that shouldn’t start for another few minutes. They may need me for something. But for the next little bit”—he put his hand on the back of my head—“we should have some privacy.”

“Don’t you have to be out there for the taping?”

“No,” Andrew said. “Now that we’re al set up, everything’s taken over by the segment director. My job is basical y done. But I do have to stick around in case something comes up. And,” he added, “to do this.”

He leaned down and pul ed me toward him for a kiss.

“Hey.” I pushed away. “Maybe you better pul into the slow lane for a while, Andrew. I don’t remember the part where I told you I was interested.”

“Uh, how about al those hours you spent staring at me at the those practices, Kevin? Or was that just your overwhelming interest in lacrosse?”

“OK,” I said. “But that was a high school crush. I’m kind of involved right now.”

“Oh.” Andrew frowned. “Sorry. Anyone I know?” Tony was in Andrew’s graduating class. But since he was determined to keep us on the down low, I answered no. I hated having to lie about us.

“Lucky guy,” Andrew said. “And I total y respect your relationship.” He dropped a hand to his crotch and let it rest there. “But I’m not looking to get married, Kevin. I just thought we could maybe have a good time, you know?”

“I know, but . . .”

Andrew squeezed his crotch. “There aren’t that many things in high school I wanted that I didn’t get,” he continued. “You’re one of them.”

I had to admit I was getting distracted by his hand, and the formidable bulge that was rising underneath.

“Thanks, but . . .”

“You know,” he said, stepping a little closer to me,

“if we got it on right now, it’s not like you went out there looking for it. You’d just be wrapping up some unfinished business. Nothing wrong with that.” He took his hand from his crotch and used it to grab one of mine. “Right?” He put my hand where his had been. “You can feel I’ve real y been looking forward to seeing you again.”

Is that a lacrosse stick in your pocket, or are you
just glad to see me?

If you had told me back in high school that I even had a chance with Andrew Mil er, I would have cal ed you nuts. Andrew was unattainable, a jock god.

Saying no to him was going to be quite a chal enge.

I squeezed my hand a little—just a little—to get a sense of what I was about to turn down. Andrew gave a low moan that didn’t do much to strengthen my resolve.

After al , Tony was the one who didn’t want to be in a committed relationship. So, what was my problem?

Andrew took advantage of my momentary weakness and pul ed me toward him. He bent his knees a bit so that our erections ground against each other.
Our
erections? When had I gone hard?

Maybe I should be paying more attention,
I thought.

His lips moved toward my neck. He exhaled lustily and the hot shock of his breath on my skin was wickedly erotic.

“I knew you wanted this,” he whispered lustful y into my ear.

I suppose I should have been glad one of us knew what I wanted, because I sure as hel didn’t.

So, what made him so sure?

Suddenly, I saw Andrew not as the irresistible object of my helpless, hopeless teenaged crush, but as the arrogant star athlete who always got his way.

Although that was the kind of boy I might have been attracted to back then—and who wasn’t?—it didn’t mean I liked him very much. I didn’t even
know
him.

While Yvonne might have been an insufferable bitch, she might have been kind of right, too. How many other boys
had
Andrew brought into this little high-tech cubicle of seduction, confident that his ridiculous good looks and huskily whispered endearments would sweep them off their feet?

And,
I thought, my anger gathering steam,
who
cares that he wanted me all those years ago?
Did I real y want to be just another item checked off his bucket list?

I pushed him away. “You know what, Andrew?

You’re right. I
did
want this.
In high school.
But that was a long time ago. I’ve grown up since then. How about you?”

Andrew eyes opened wide and he looked hurt.

“Wow, I guess I misread you. No harm, no foul, OK?” He raised his hands like a cowboy surrendering a gunfight.

Now, of course, I felt badly for him. “OK,” I said.

“Listen, you know you’re crazy hot, right? It’s not that I’m not into you. It’s just a little sudden for me. But we’re cool. No offense taken.”

“Cool.” Andrew agreed. A few awkward seconds later, he added, “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m a jerk.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m a jerk and I came on too strong and I’m real y sorry.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“So, you don’t hate me?”

“Of course I don’t hate you. I don’t . . .
anything
you, that’s the whole point.”

“So,” Andrew said, dragging out the word and looking down at his feet, “would you maybe be interested?”

“Andrew . . .” I began.

“In getting to know me,” he added. “I mean, would you be interested in getting to know me?”

“Sure,” I said, although I had no idea where he would fit in my life. “That would be great.”

“Great.” Andrew smiled. “Can I apologize again?”

“No.”

“Al right then,” Andrew said, opening the door of his office and flicking a switch that brought al the monitors on his wal to life, “let’s watch the show.” It was weird seeing my mother from three different angles on the LCDs. She was standing by her styling station, busying herself with rol ers, dyes, and hair sprays.

“They’re shooting B rol now,” Andrew said. “We’l use some of this footage behind narration, setting the scene.”

My mother plugged something that looked like a torture device into an outlet and turned to one of the cameras.

“This is a curling iron,” she explained. “I employ it in my efforts to impart wave and body to my customers’ hair. Wil I use it on Yvonne? We’l just have to wait and . . .”

The segment director’s voice came from offscreen. “Mrs. Connor? For the third time, we real y don’t need you to say anything. Just act natural y and don’t talk to the camera anymore, OK?”

“I thought maybe I could build some dramatic tension,” my mother explained. “Keep everyone watching.”

“How about,” the disembodied voice responded a bit testily, “I worry about keeping the audience’s interest and you worry about doing as you’re told.”

“Wel , how wil the viewers know what I’m doing if I don’t explain the tools of my trade?” my mother answered. “You’d be surprised just how interesting the job of a beautician can be. Every day, people ask me, ‘How do you do it, Sophie?’ And I tel them .

. .”

I heard what sounded like a snarl coming from the director, but then a hush as everyone turned and looked toward the door.

“Yvonne,” the director cal ed. “We’re al ready for you. You look wonderful.”

Yvonne drifted into the scene and gave my mother a hug. “I’m so glad to see you again. We haven’t scared you off yet, have we? Are you ready to make me over, my dear?” Her voice was pure honey.

“I’m honored,” my mother said.

Yvonne turned to the director and, in a tone that was al gravel and demand, barked, “Al right, Henry, where do you want me?”

“Let’s get you walking in again, but this time, why don’t you and Mrs. Connor act like you’re meeting for the first time, OK?”

Yvonne put her hands on her hips. “Henry, if you have direction for me, could you please do me the favor of giving it to me
before
I come onto the set?”

“I couldn’t give it to you until you got here,” the director said, his manner long-suffering. “So, if you don’t mind . . .”

Yvonne turned in a huff and walked away. “
Fine.

Let’s try it again.”

My mother turned to the director and shrugged.

“That’s show biz,” she cal ed out.

Everyone in the shop laughed. Andrew turned to me. “It looks like your mom’s a bit of a ham.”

“Oh, she’s loving this,” I assured him.

“Yvonne may have some competition on her hands.”

Andrew and I continued to watch the monitors through Yvonne’s reintroduction to my mother, her shampoo, and the beginning of her haircut. After the first few snips, the director cal ed out, “that’s a wrap for now. Mrs. Connor, why don’t you just finish up the

. . . whatever you’re doing, then we’l shoot some footage when you’re ready to apply Yvonne’s color.

We’l close with the big reveal, where Yvonne wil final y get to see the results of your makeover. Mrs.

Connor, how much longer do you need Yvonne in the chair before you’re ready for the next step?”

“Oh, another twenty minutes at least,” my mother answered. She leaned over to Yvonne. “I give al my customers this kind of treatment, not just the big stars like you.”

Yvonne laughed at this, as did a few others in the shop. I had to say, Yvonne may have been nastier than herpes, but she and my mother did seem to be hitting it off.

“Great,” the director said. “Let’s al take twenty then and give these ladies their privacy.” Two of the three video screens above Andrew’s desk went black, but one, which showed both my mother and Yvonne in a wide shot, remained on.

The walkie-talkie Andrew wore on his belt crackled to life. “Hey, Andy, Gabe didn’t shut down camera three for the break. Do you want us to get it?”

“Naw, leave it running,” Andrew said. “Thanks.” He put the device back on his belt. “If I sent the cameraman back in to shut it down, Yvonne would notice and make me fire the poor guy.”

“Why?”

“Oh, who knows? If she thinks someone’s made a mistake, if she perceives any weakness at al , she goes for the kil . Blood in the water. She’s like a shark, except sharks only kil what they eat, not for sport.”

I smiled and looked at the monitor. My mother stood behind Yvonne, snipping away at her hair, but with a decidedly uncomfortable expression on her face. “Hey,” I asked Andrew, “can we hear what they’re saying?”

“Let’s see if the mike is live,” Andrew said. He leaned across the desk and turned a dial.

“ . . . but they’re al that way, right?” We picked up Yvonne midsentence. “I mean, this new kid, I’m never even seen him on set before, and my producer, Andrew, already has him in his office, ready to pounce.”

I felt the heat coming off Andrew’s face before I noticed how red he was getting.

“Hmmm,” my mother said.

“Faggots can’t control themselves,” Yvonne continued. “Like animals. The only good thing about them is they don’t have children or wives, so they make wonderful employees.” Yvonne chuckled.

“Total y devoted to their jobs, just the way I like them.

I can’t imagine what makes someone choose to be gay, though. Don’t they want to be normal?” My mother cleared her throat. “I hear,” she said, her voice strained and thin, “that most people think they’re born that way. I think I heard it on your show, in fact.”

Yvonne smiled. “So, you
do
watch! Yes, I know, I have on al the experts and the scientists, and I talk the good PC game with the best of them, but real y, Sophie, I can’t believe God would make anyone like that, do you?”

“As a matter of fact . . .” my mother began.

Yvonne cut her off. “What is it about a hairdresser that makes us open up like this, Sophie? You should have been a therapist!”

My mother’s smile was as thin as a razor and only slightly less dangerous-looking. “Thank you, but . . .”

“Just between us girls”—Yvonne winked—“you know what it is I think makes these boys go the wrong way?”

My mother croaked out a “What?”

“Their mothers, of course. Imagine having a mother so awful that she turns you off al women forever. I’ve never met a mother of one of these socal ed ‘gays’ who wasn’t a shrew.”

A sound like glass grinding came from my mother’s throat. She reached over to a table out of the camera’s sight and came back with the biggest pair of scissors I’d ever seen.

“Uh,” I began, “maybe we better get in there.”

“Why, do you have a gun she could use instead?” Andrew asked.

“You’re laughing now,” I told him, “but if she kil s Yvonne, you’re out of a job.”

“
So
worth it,” Andrew said.

“Wel ,” my mother said, “just a few more snips and we’l be ready for your color.” I heard the strain in her voice as she sought to retain her composure.

Truth to tel , I was a little disappointed that she didn’t slit Yvonne like a stoolie in an episode of
The
Sopranos.
It would have been nice to see her stand up for me, and herself, a little. But I guess it wasn’t worth blowing her chance to be on
Yvonne.

“Of course,” Yvonne said, “if you want to be in show business, you better learn to work with the fags. They’re everywhere. The only thing worse than them are . . . what did you say your last name was again, darling?”

“Connor,” my mother answered.