Object of Desire (23 page)

Frank smiled at both of us. His little speech had made me oddly uncomfortable, but I smiled back at him.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asked Kelly.

“Maybe some wine.”

Frank nodded. “Excellent. Danny's barbecuing chicken, and he's always heavy with the sauce, so how about if we break tradition and go with a red? A nice Shiraz?”

“Sounds good to me,” Kelly said.

The conversation went as well as could be expected. Frank got the basics from Kelly—San Francisco, the foster homes, the bus ride to L.A. Kelly gave a quick rundown of the various bars and restaurants he'd worked at in the desert, without explaining what had ended his time at each. He hadn't shared those details with me, either. I knew only what Thad had told me.

“But Kelly's not going to be a bartender forever,” I said. “He's an artist, too.” I lifted my glass of wine in his direction.

Kelly seared me with his eyes. “Don't say that.”

“But he is,” I told Frank. “You should see his sketches. He's—”

“Please
stop,
” Kelly said in a voice that would have slit my throat had he been any closer. His black eyes blazed. I just lifted my hand in a gesture of “okay.”

A couple moments of awkward silence ensued. We were sitting in the living room, Frank and Kelly on the sofa and me across the room, on the ottoman. Finally, Frank broke the tension by saying, “That's another one of Danny's,” and indicating the sunflower hanging over the mantel. “I call it my green daisy.”

“It's beautiful,” Kelly said, looking up at it.

I stood. “Well, how about if I put the chicken on the grill? Frank, the salad's in the refrigerator. Will you get it?”

“All righty,” Frank said, standing and following me out of the room.

“Can I do anything to help?” Kelly asked.

“Nope,” I told him, carrying the marinated chicken out onto the deck. “You'll see. When I cook, it's definitely no frills.”

“I don't like frills, anyway,” he said.

Our eyes caught. He smiled at me. I nearly dropped the platter of chicken.

We sat outside to eat, under the stars. Once again, Kelly delighted me with his enthusiasm, tearing away at his chicken, getting barbecue sauce on his chin and his nose. I couldn't help laughing.

“I'm glad you like my cooking,” I told him.

“It's delicious,” he said.

Frank was eating more neatly, cutting his chicken into small pieces. Into the front of his shirt, he'd tucked a napkin. “Yes, indeed, Danny,” he echoed. “It's delicious.”

The conversation was banal. There were no jokes, as there had been last time, no silly humor. I missed that. Instead, we talked some more about restaurants, which ones we liked, which ones we didn't care for. We talked about Thad Urquhart and the rumors that he might run for mayor. Kelly liked Thad; he told us he'd paid him very well for his private party. We talked about Donovan and Penelope Sue. Kelly made sure only to say the most complimentary things about them, especially Penelope Sue. She was so generous to the community, he said, always giving money to every cause. He made no mention this time of her eye rolling. And after the look I'd gotten earlier in the living room, I wasn't about to bring up anything again unless Kelly brought it up first.

Dessert was lime sorbet and wafer cookies. For this, we moved back into the living room. I refilled everyone's wineglass. I noticed as Kelly's eye caught something in the bookcase on the side of the mantel.

“Are those photo albums?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “From back in the days when we actually had photos to put in albums. Nowadays they're all on my laptop or my phone.”

Kelly was smirking. “You said you'd show me pictures of your stripper days.”

“Oh, God.”

This made Frank laugh. “Do you know that's how we met?” He looked over at me, but I chose not to make eye contact. Instead, I stood to fetch the photo album from the bookcase. “Danny was dancing at some club in West Hollywood,” Frank began explaining. “And when I left to go home, he came running out after me onto the street. ‘Where you going? Where you going?'” He laughed. “He was frantic. I couldn't believe he did that. Right, Danny? I was practically speechless. Wasn't I, Danny?”

I didn't look at him.

“Wow, that's kind of romantic,” Kelly said.

“Yeah,” Frank said, sipping his wine and smiling. “I suppose it kind of is.”

I made no comment. I sat down on the floor, at Kelly's feet, and opened the photo album. “Let's see,” I said. “Those pictures should be in here.”

Kelly moved forward so he could look over my shoulder. Frank slid over on the couch so he could get a look himself. I was busy flipping pages.

“Here,” I said, tapping the page. “That's me.”

Kelly leaned in.

Under the Mylar plastic cover, a skinny blond kid stood on a box, his yellow thong stuffed with tens and twenties. And all of a sudden, I missed that kid terribly. I missed his energy and his freedom, the way he stayed up until four in the morning and slept in past noon. I missed the way he could swing his hips up on his box and excite an entire room of men. I missed the sex with strangers. I even missed the drugs.

“Hot,” was Kelly's verdict.

“Yeah, he was, wasn't he?” Frank echoed.

“Was,” I said, staring at the photo. “The operative word.”

“Oh, come on now, Danny,” Frank said.

I flipped the page. “And here,” I said, “is Randall and me at Disneyland.”

It was from the same time period. Randall and I were grinning stupidly as we posed with Snow White in front of the entrance to Tomorrowland. I was wearing a tight little Bundeswehr tank top, and my hair was spiked up eighties style. Maybe that was the look Frank had been trying for tonight. I'd feel terribly sad if that was the case. His hair gel had troubled me all through dinner.

“Hey,” Kelly asked, leaning in. “That's the guy from the pic in your office, isn't it? The one you worked over on the computer?”

“Yep.”

“That's cool that you're still friends.”

I could feel his breath on my neck as he looked over my shoulder. My skin tingled with his electricity. Every once in a while, his knees brushed against my shoulders. I was getting a hard-on and shifted my legs to make it less obvious.

I continued flipping pages.

“Hey,” Kelly said. “Was that you, Frank?”

“Where?”

Kelly reached down over my shoulder to point, his arm grazing my chest. I got a whiff of his cologne. In my pants, my dick got harder.

“Yes,” Frank said, laughing. “That's me. A little more hair back then.”

“You were good-looking,” Kelly said.

“As Danny would say,
were
is the operative word,” Frank noted.

I responded perfunctorily. “And as you would say, ‘Come now, Frank.'”

“I didn't mean it that way,” Kelly said. “You're still very good-looking.”

I realized he hadn't said that about me.

“Do you remember that night, Danny?” Frank was asking, indicating the photo.

I gazed down at it. There we were, holding up glasses of champagne, staring into the camera. Frank had set the camera on an empty box and pushed the timer, hurrying around to huddle with me on the floor. Pixie had sat between us. We'd raised our glasses, and the camera had flashed. A moment preserved for posterity.

“Of course, I do,” I said, still not looking around at him. “It was the night we moved in together for the first time.”

“Yeah,” Frank said, and I could hear his smile in his voice. “It was a great apartment. We had a little view out of the bathroom window. You could see down onto Santa Monica Boulevard if you craned your neck.” He laughed.

“Where was it?” Kelly asked.

“Holloway,” Frank said. I recognized the tone in his voice. It was his nostalgic voice, the one he always got when we looked at old photos. I could predict what he'd say next, and I was right. “That first night, Danny wanted to make dinner. Said it wouldn't be a home until he'd made dinner for the first time for us. Well, neither of us is a cook, but he had his grandmother's recipe for baked macaroni and cheese. Well, he whipped it up and put it in the oven and—”

“And the baking dish shattered, and the fucking cheese went everywhere,” I finished, cutting him off. “You
do
love to tell that story, don't you, Frank?”

“We've laughed about it for years.”

I snorted. “Maybe you have.” I turned around to look over my left shoulder. That way I could make eye contact with Kelly while avoiding Frank. “Apparently, the baking dish wasn't Pyrex. How would I know? I was just a kid.”

“The smoke was
everywhere,
” Frank continued. “The smoke alarms all went off. We were scraping cheese out of that oven for weeks.”

Kelly was smiling. “Guess you had to send out for Chinese.”

“That's exactly what we did!” Frank clapped Kelly on the back. “Did he tell you this story already?”

“No. I just know what I would have done.”

I was ready to close the photo album, but now Kelly wanted to see more pictures of Pixie. I flipped a couple more pages ahead and found one.

“She's so cute,” Kelly said. “Who's the other guy?”

In the photo, I was holding Pixie. Flanking me were Frank and Gregory Montague.

Frank paused a moment when he saw Gregory. “Oh, that's an old friend of mine,” he said softly.

“Frank's one true love,” I said brightly, slamming the album shut.

Behind me, I felt rather than saw the look Frank gave to Kelly. “He always says that,” he said, sounding a bit exasperated.

I stood, handing the photo album to Kelly. “Have a look if you like,” I said. “Does anyone want more wine? I do.”

“I'll have a little,” Kelly said.

“Not for me, thanks, Danny,” Frank said.

When I came back in the room, carrying the bottle, I found that Kelly had indeed begun perusing the pages of the album again. He was showing a photo to Frank, who sat close to him now on the couch.

“Is that the same guy?” he was asking.

Frank nodded. “Yes. That's Gregory.”

“He looks sick.”

Frank just continued to nod, staring down at the photo. “He was. That was taken a few weeks before he died.”

I sat down on Kelly's other side, refilling his glass. “Frank took care of Gregory in his last months,” I said. “He was always going up to his place on Mulholland Drive. Sometimes he wouldn't be home for days. None of Gregory's other friends could deal with it. Frank was the only one who remained devoted. He was a real angel to Gregory.”

I hoped my words sounded sincere. I meant them to be.

Kelly turned the page. “Who's this with him?” he asked, pointing to a shirtless youth with stringy blond hair.

“That's Christopher, Gregory's last boyfriend,” Frank told him, his voice still far away. He gave a little laugh. “Gregory always liked them young.”

I laughed, too, but louder and more obviously. “You're telling me. At least Christopher never knew what it was like to get discarded when he got too old.”

Once the words were out, I realized they may have come across way too harsh. I regretted what I'd said, and tried to soften it.

“But I think Christopher cared about Gregory, and I know he felt bad that he couldn't handle Gregory's illness. But he was so young, after all. What was he? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?” I took a sip of wine. “Christopher did try to make amends years later, when he got a job at Disney. I know when he hired me to do those images for Disneyland, it was a way of making it up to Gregory, or at least to Frank.”

“Danny,” Frank said, “Christopher hired you because you do good work.”

“Yeah.” I laughed. “Work he never would have seen without a call from you, asking him to look at my portfolio.”

“Be that as it may,” Frank said.

I took another sip of wine. I took it as kind of a consolation prize that something had finally come out of that horrible night with Gregory twenty years ago. At long last, Gregory Montague had helped me to get ahead—albeit indirectly, and several years after he was dead.

We sat in silence. The only sound was the ticking of the clock on the mantel. Kelly continued to quietly flip through the pages of the album. I think he'd decided that he'd asked enough questions for one night.

I stood suddenly, almost spilling the glass of wine in my hand. “How about a dip in the pool?” I asked. “It's a beautiful night.”

“I
think,
” Frank said, standing himself, “that I am going to hit the hay. I'm exhausted from that run I took earlier. But you boys should go in.” He gave me a twinkle, as if to say, “It's fine. Do what you like.”

I'd arranged it perfectly. Like clockwork.

There was an awkward hug between Frank and Kelly, and a kiss for me on my cheek. Then Frank headed down the hall to our room.

“Shall we?” I asked Kelly.

“I don't have a bathing suit,” he said.

I laughed. “Did you think I was going to wear one?”

He seemed unsure but followed me outside, anyway. In one hand I carried my glass of wine; in the other, the bottle. Setting them down on a table on the deck, I refilled my glass and indicated Kelly should give me his. We clinked a nonverbal toast. From the cabana I produced towels, then pulled off my shirt. I thought I looked pretty good. I tightened my abs just to be sure.

I was feeling cocky. Stripping out of my pants, I executed a perfect dive into the water, slicing the surface with hardly a splash. When I came up, I shook my hair, water spraying all around me, the faint aroma of chlorine in my nose. Kelly was still removing his sweater, then slowly unbuckling his belt. He was unbelievably beautiful. Not as tight and lean as I'd expected; there was a little bit of extra flesh around the middle. But when he pulled down his pants, I saw one monster of a cock, thick and uncut. He seemed embarrassed to be naked. He gripped the aluminum handrails of the ladder and climbed down into the pool, with more than a little self-consciousness.