Strings Attached (28 page)

“Carlo, that’s nice of you to say, really it is, but I’ve known all my life that I don’t have anyone I can count on.”

“That’s
bullshit!
Didn’t you hear what I just said?” He thrust himself forward on the tiny table so their faces were inches away. “I said I love you, and you didn’t say anything back, and I still said I’d be here for you. What kind of monster are you that you can’t trust me?”

“The kind who was
raised by a monster
who used everyone around her to get whatever she wanted. So I guess you’re right—I’m a monster too.
The next generation.
”

“No! You think you are, but you’re not. Can’t you see who you really are?”

Jeremy turned his head in time to see Carmen with her boyfriend, in a dry white T-shirt, laughing as they made their way toward their table. But she must have read the situation, because she grabbed Darius’s arm and switched directions.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Jeremy began. “I’ve never even told anyone what my mother put me through, like how she got pregnant with me only so she could trap my rich dad into marrying her, or that my father was probably murdered and she might have had something to do with it, or how I pretty much raised myself without any love or support or money or sometimes even food, and how each day is a struggle now because of the minuscule amount of confidence I have to stumble through life with. The truth is, Carlo, that I don’t trust anybody, least of all someone who wants to get into my pants!”

“Is that all you think I want from you, you asshole?” His voice peaked suddenly above the music, and a few faces turned their way. “You’ve just proved my point; that you’ve never had anyone in your life that loves you the way I do—and yes, in my mind that might include a friendly screwing or a blow job once in a while. But for your information, I’ve also spent night after night dreaming about what it would be like for us to just hold each other…to walk on the beach together at sunset and make plans for our future, to have your voice be the last thing I hear at night and the first thing I hear in the morning. I…I
love
your sadness, your smile, your goofy walk, your shyness, your laugh, even the minuscule confidence you stumble through life with.” He sighed deeply, closed his eyes, then wiped his nose on the back of his wrist. His eyes fluttered open through sudden tears. “When, Jeremy Tyler, are you going to open up to someone, even if it’s not me, and start making up for the life you haven’t been living?”

Jeremy stared down at his hands clasped together atop the table, at once comprehending that his fingers might as well be made of wood, for they’d never caressed anyone or been held lovingly, at least that he could remember. And the possibility dawned on him that the young man in front of him might actually see him not as the tangled puppet he’d been, but as the glorious man he most certainly would be. The smack of Carlo’s confrontation revived something nearly dead within him, and he knew that this was a soul he might actually trust, and maybe…maybe even allow himself to love.

They sat together in silence for several long, drawn-out minutes, the partylike atmosphere spinning around them seeming a stark contrast to the depressive mood at their table.

“Carlo,” he began gently, “I think you’re right about me. Again.”

Their eyes lifted to each other.

“Like your e-mail said?” Carlo muttered.

“Just like my e-mail said.” He nodded. “And you’ve definitely given me lots to think about.”

“Like what?”

“Like maybe I’m ready for some of the things you’re talking about. To trust someone finally. Maybe to even love someone back.”

“Don’t get my hopes up,” Carlo warned, “because if you’re saying this only for tonight, I’ll make your life miserable.”

“I need some time, Carlo, but yeah, I mean it.” Jeremy gave him a careful smile.

“So where do we go from here?” Carlo asked finally.

“Well…I don’t know how to dance, so maybe you could show me, because this song sounds like the kind gay boys like to dance to. And I’m almost officially a gay boy now.”

“Come on, then. There’s a teeny dance floor in the next room.”

Carlo grabbed his hand and was leading him toward the thundering music when Darius intercepted them along the way.

“Where’re you guys going?” he shouted over the din.

“I’m gonna teach Jeremy to dance!” Carlo yelled.

“Great! I’ll call my dad and tell him I’m gonna be later than I thought. Like an hour?”

“OK!” they both yelled and then disappeared into the squish of gyrating men.

Minutes later, he was back, tapping them on the shoulders.

“My cell phone’s dead. It must’ve gotten wet!” Darius hollered. “Can I use yours?”

“Sure, but I left it in the glove box! The keys are in my jacket at the table, and wear my stuff so you won’t get wet again!” Jeremy returned his concentration to mimicking Carlo’s simple, repetitive footsteps.

“Thanks! Carmen’s gonna stay here. I don’t want her getting drenched,” he laughed. “And make sure none of the guys pick up on her!” Darius turned, then snatched Jeremy’s jacket from the back of the barstool and pulled his cap on. The boys giggled as they watched the distinct white letters advertising
TYLER
across his broad shoulders disappear into the crowd, as he threaded his way toward the exit.

Carlo nudged him. “He kind of looks like you, with your stuff on.”

Jeremy nodded. “Now I know what I look like in a gay bar,” he laughed, shoving him playfully.

“So do you think you look like you belong here?”

“I never thought I’d say so, but yeah. I do.”

Carlo put his hands on Jeremy’s hips. “Then you have to move these. You can’t dance unless you’re willing to shake your ass!”

With the storm beginning to wane, Darius strode easily up Robertson toward the alley where Jeremy had parked. The sidewalks were unusually deserted, no doubt because of the rain; in fact, the only other people he saw were a couple of heavyset men across and down the street who had stopped to check him out as he strutted along.

West Hollywood. He figured that if he were gay, he could get laid by a different guy here every day.

As he walked, an icy chill stung his cheeks, and he longed for summer; it seemed like forever until it would be that time again. Then after summer would come autumn, and with it UCLA, which he would attend thanks to his hard-won football scholarship.

He stopped to admire a huge oil painting that had been displayed prominently in an antiques store’s window—an oversize landscape of amber California hills dotted with orange poppies and olive-green oaks under a turquoise sky. It looked like the countryside outside of Agoura, where he’d grown up, before his father had bought the gas station on the highway and moved the family to the flats of Oxnard. He smiled, thinking of the wood-sided house between the rolling hills where he’d played hide-and-go-seek with his brothers and sisters during the endless evenings of July and August. Was the house even still there? He’d recently seen a sign for a new development down the same road where they’d lived. Maybe he could take the car this weekend and find out. That would make a nice Sunday trip for Carmen and him.

Finally, he made his way up to the alley, then turned into it, trotting now at a faster clip toward the Rover while splashing through the puddles, listening to his steps ricochet between the garage doors facing the narrow roadway.

But his echoed steps sounded too fast.

Something wasn’t right.

He stopped, and his heart seemed to stop as if it, too, were trying to listen.

Someone’s chasing me!

He jerked his head over his shoulder and saw the two men he’d seen only a few minutes before bearing down on him—one wielding a baseball bat and the other some object he couldn’t make out.

Bashers!

He sprinted for the safety of the Rover, pressing the key fob in his hand to unlock the doors. The parking lights instantly flashed orange twice, and the interior lit up like home. But should he keep running down to the open end of the alley or hop in the car? What if one of them had a gun—was that what was in the other one’s hand? No, he reasoned quickly, they would’ve used it already. If he could just get himself inside and start the car, he might even run them down.

He was only a couple of feet from the front of the car when the footsteps stopped. He looked back and saw the two men standing five or so garages back, one of them swinging the bat like he was warming up for a blazing curveball while the other stood motionless. Maybe they’d given up the chase because he’d made it to safety. His hand shot out to grab the door handle.

He hadn’t a clue that a third was standing in back of him until he heard the whistle of the bat through the air. Jeremy’s black cap flew off him, and the skin on the back of his head split open, exposing his skull. In an instant, he fell unconscious, his knees folding like a rag doll as he slumped face-first onto the oily asphalt.

Snickering nervously, the trio convened around the motionless figure. “Poor little faggot didn’t know what hit ’em,” the first said.

“I never seen one run that fast before!” the second one laughed.

“Shut up and let’s do this quick,” said the third. “We gotta make this look good, but remember he doesn’t want him killed if we can help it.”

“Then let’s get to work,” said the second. “Who wants the honors?”

“I do,” stated the first. “You fuck up the car like we talked about, then tear up the porno mag and leave it all over the place. Oh, and stick some in his pockets.”

“I can’t even stand to touch this disgusting shit.”

“Just do it. Now turn him over so I can get a hit at his pretty face.”

The first man stood, bat in hand, his legs planted wide, while the second and third grabbed the edge of the jacket and heaved the boy in one movement over onto his back, his slack-jawed face rolling skyward.

“Jesus! That’s Darius!” the third exclaimed.

“What?” the first yelled with bugged eyes as he bent down to verify the other’s discovery. “I didn’t know he was a queer.”

“He’s not, you shithead. This is just one big goddamn mistake!” He bent down and stroked the boy’s face. “Jesus Christ, not Darius!”

“What’re we gonna do?”

“We’re gonna leave him here and finish off the car, then get the hell outta here. Maybe someone’ll find him and call for help!”

“I’m leaving now!”

“No, let’s finish up first.”

The first stood lookout while the second sprayed
FAGGOT
in huge, uneven red letters on Jeremy’s car while the third, with shaking hands, tore out pages—which he littered around the body on the ground—of naked, lasciviously posed men. Then the three ran off, leaving Ari’s precious son bleeding and severely wounded, with raindrops on his cheeks catching the amber glow from the streetlights a half block away, where Carmen dreamed of their future together while watching her brother and his true love sway together on the dance floor, locked in their first thrilling kiss.

The plane streamed through the blackness along its easterly course. A few of the passengers around him snuffled and snored in the darkened cabin. Even that creepy flight attendant was sneaking a nap, he figured, somewhere back in coach.

If everything went as planned, he would land in New York at daybreak, stop by one of their subsidiaries for an impromptu inspection, then board a returning plane and be back in Ballena Beach by late afternoon. And if something went wrong, he would take an alternate flight that would drop him in Rio de Janeiro in time for cocktails and lobster at his favorite seaside restaurant. Either way, he’d made extensive preparations for just about anything; he was even traveling under his fail safe alias: Martin Guignol.

He’d been tucked into the supple leather of his first-class lounger for a few hours now, viewing different areas of the house on his laptop via his network of surveillance webcams. At midnight, he’d watched with tentative amusement as images of Katharine and Arthur hurried from the house then careened in the Jaguar down the winding driveway.

Good.

Since aggravated assault charges were infinitely less complicated than a murder investigation, he’d decided, early on, to spare the boy’s life. And the absence of a police cruiser now at the Tyler Compound indicated that Jeremy hadn’t been killed, but incapacitated instead, as ordered. So things looked, so far, to have gone according to plan. The boy was most likely at St. John’s; the sprawling hospital had an award-winning trauma center. He figured that his great-nephew would, after multiple surgeries and months of futile therapy, probably remain in a quasi-vegetative state for years. He’d be lucky to ever tie his own shoes again.

He’d chuckled knowingly when they hadn’t even attempted to rouse Tiffany; even under these dire circumstances they must have figured she would only get in the way. He felt relieved, as the premature discovery of her body might have sent everything spinning beyond even his rigid control.

Everything was right with his world.

His baggy eyes drooped more than usual, then closed.

Like delicious smelling salts, the nutty aroma of steaming coffee jarred him awake. He screwed up his eyes at the sunlight blazing through the porthole window across from him, then jumped, startled to discover yet another effeminate flight attendant leaning over his shoulder, grinning vapidly.

“Coffee, Mr. Guignol?” he whispered intimately.

He tipped his head. “Black.”

“It will be my pleasure.” He filled a delicate cup carefully, then bent at the knees to place it on the table next to his armrest. “If I may ask, sir, what movie are you watching? It looks like a good one.”

“What?” He’d neglected to switch off his laptop before drifting asleep, and the machine’s sleep mode must have awoken when he had been startled awake.

This cannot be happening.

A dozen or so haphazardly parked police cars had swarmed his property, their roof lights swirling red and blue beams everywhere. Boxes and computers were being hauled away from the house by jumpsuited agents and then loaded into open trunks. He witnessed two more unmarked cruisers as they sped up the driveway and stopped. Then their doors flapped open. In disbelief, he saw Katharine and Ari climb from the back of the first car, then Arthur and Jeremy jump from the second. Suddenly, the frenetic activity halted, little groups froze in place here and there. The guesthouse door opened, and a gurney was pushed slowly out through it, with a white sheet stretched from toes to hair. Arthur put his arm around the boy and led him toward it. The paramedic pulled the sheet upward briefly. Jeremy gave a nod, bent down, and kissed her on the forehead, then collapsed onto his knees.

“It’s a project I’m working on,” Bill replied calmly.

“Are you a producer?” asked the eager attendant.

“Something like that.”

“Can I give you my head shot? I’d really appreciate the opportunity to read for you.”

How about a shot through your head, instead?

“Do as you wish.” Bill smiled. “But I’m afraid I’ll be out of the country for some time.”