Tipping the Balance (20 page)

But these women… these were the ones around, and given a choice—and it seemed that somehow, he suddenly had other options—he’d take the guys he’d seen, the handsome and muscular guys that he’d noticed noticing him at the gym or even there at the party, the closeted frat boys he’d made fun of when he was a student.

Given the choice, Brad realized he’d take… Drew. That was who he wanted. He had no idea what it meant or how to go about it or how to tell Drew or even if Drew had any interest in him that way, but he wanted Drew.

Faced with that undeniable realization, Brad did the only thing he could think of: he decided to get drunk, plowing toward the table with the hard alcohol like a cruise ship to an iceberg.

He knew the old adage “Beer before liquor, never sicker,” but he didn’t care. He was still thinking. It had to stop, and a game of tequila pong looked like the magic ticket. It was just like beer pong but looked like it’d work far quicker.

Brad eyed the guy currently winning. Tall, but not crew tall, built. Probably lacrosse or maybe baseball. Or just a gym rat. He didn’t know; he didn’t care. The guy’s hands looked reasonably steady, which suited Brad just fine. He figured his own coordination wasn’t what it could be, and that suited him too. It meant evicting Drew from his head that much faster.

“I’m done!” giggled the party favor currently playing. She staggered up and fell onto Brad. “You’re a big one, aren’t you? I could just lean on you all night.”

“That might be kinda awkward when the beer starts recycling,” Brad said, giving her a gentle push to return her to the full upright and locked position.

“You play football?” the current champion of tequila pong asked.

“Crew,” Brad replied. “You?”

“Baseball,” he replied, peering at Brad from under his eyebrows in a way Brad was learning to recognize.

Brad couldn’t hide his own appreciation, but he’d be damned before he’d respond. “Let’s play.”

Someone handed Brad the slightly sticky ping-pong ball, and he bounced it off the table and into a shot glass, his aim and reflexes still reasonably keen despite the beer.

“Lucky shot,” his opponent said.

Brad shrugged and waited for him to take his turn.

Back and forth they played, shots taken and missed, tequila pounded, and it was just what Brad had sought. He hardly thought of Drew at all because he had to focus all his effort on the task at hand.

At some point his opponent staggered away from the game with a final glower of regret for Brad, which he ignored in favor of his new challenger.

“I’m Brenda,” she said, her voice husky from smoke and alcohol. “I’m not very good at this.”

“S’okay, I’m schnockered,” Brad said, slurring his words. Talking was hard with a numb tongue. “My name’sh Brad.”

But she was right. Despite his impairment, Brad took the first three rounds, but the alcohol paradoxically sharpened Brenda’s skills.

After that, Brad knew it was time to quit, since he couldn’t quite focus his eyes. “I’m done.”

He met Brenda’s eyes. “Me too,” she said.

Even through his booze goggles, he could tell she was a bottle of peroxide and a pack of cigarettes away from skank, but he didn’t care. She was throwing the right signals. She was the right sex.

She’d do.

As others took their places at the tequila pong table, they stumbled away, looking for a dark corner. They pulled each other upstairs and into one of the bedrooms but couldn’t quite make it to a bed without falling. Giggling, they rested against each other, and then lips sought lips.

Brad felt no special zing when he kissed Brenda, no strange attraction like that one that had pulled him to Drew’s lips last night, but then, he’d had enough to drink that his lips were tingling anyway.

It didn’t take long before the kisses turned sloppy and hands started to roam.

“Yeah, baby,” she slurred as his hand found its way under her T-shirt.

She pawed at his pants, and he groaned his encouragement.

Then his hand made it further north, up to the bra line and above. Brenda’s chest was soft and pliable, supple give and smooth skin.

He froze, and his body told him he wanted hard planes. He’d never wanted hard planes before, and the realization killed the mood for him. He pushed himself up, overcome by the realization he was about to be very, very ill.

Brad stumbled and tripped his way to the bathroom, which was blessedly empty, and just in time. Kicking the door shut behind him, he fell to his knees and made the traditional obeisance to the porcelain idol of those poisoned by alcohol.

Heave after heave brought it all up, all the beer, all the tequila, all the feelings he’d tried to bury. When he was done, he slumped back, tears trickling down his cheeks.

“Are you in there, sugar?”

Brad crawled to the door, blocking it with his body and fumbling to lock it. “I’m fine. Go away.”

“Don’t be that way, baby, lemme help you,” she cooed, thumping weakly on the door with her fist.

“Go away,” Brad muttered.

She continued to thump at the door, but Brad ignored her. He heaved himself up and staggered to the sink. He was still drunk, but he could feel his head clearing thanks to blowing chunks.

Turning the sink on cold, he splashed his face then cupped his hands and sucked down several noisy handfuls.

He looked himself in the mirror, eyes red from alcohol and the tears he still shed. This wasn’t what he wanted. “You’re gay,” he whispered.

The
phone’s bleating from its charging cradle on his nightstand pulled Drew from a semi-futile attempt at sleeping. Those parts of Saturday not spent selling houses Drew spent fine-tuning the various applications for the renovation of the Bayard House. Little remained to be done other than corral Brad long enough for him to sign everything, but that hardly prevented Drew from picking at them. He wasn’t sure whether it helped his nerves or only further riled him up. So while the phone interrupted his sleep, it did nothing to deny him rest.

He glared at it gimlet-eyed, squinting to make out the caller ID without his glasses. If it was one of his clients calling this late at night—he looked at the clock—this early in the morning, his real estate disasters could jolly well wait until daylight hours.

Then he recognized Brad’s number and he grabbed the phone. “Brad?”

“Hey,” Brad said gruffly.

“What’s wrong? Where are you? You sound like crap,” Drew said, frowning in the darkness of his bedroom, torn between relief that Brad had contacted him and anger that it had taken the younger man this long. “What’s that noise? Are you at a party?”

“Yeah, I was… I am. I’m in a bathroom. Drew, how did you know you were gay?”

“I… wow. You called me from a party to ask me this? Have you been drinking?”

“Yeah, but I’ve thrown most of it up. I’m pretty sober now,” Brad said. The moments lengthened. “So… how did you? Know, I mean. That you’re gay.”

Drew exhaled noisily. “You don’t pick the easy ones, do you?” He thought about it for a moment. “I’ve just always known, I guess. There was no great ah-ha! moment.”

Brad was silent for a minute while Drew waited expectantly. “Can I come over?” Brad said softly, or as softly as he could over the noise penetrating the bathroom door.

It only took a moment for Drew to realize that this would be the worst possible time. “I’m not sure that’d be a good idea right now. You’ve been drinking, so I’m not sure you should drive.”
And I want to hold you so bad right now I’d never be able to keep my hands off you if I picked you up.

“I guess you’re right,” Brad sniffled. “I just… how do I get you out of my head?”

That flummoxed Drew. “I don’t know how to answer that, Brad.”

“Yeah, forget I said it,” Brad begged.

The hell I will
. “Why don’t you call me when you get up tomorrow… or later today, as the case may be. You can come over. I’ll make you something to eat if you’re up to it. We can talk.”

“That’d be nice,” Brad said. He sniffled again. “Okay, I’ve got to get out of here. I’ll call you later. Bye, Drew… and thanks.”

Drew hung up the phone, but sleep eluded him. Brad was gay, or at least bi. His hopes, once grounded, soared again. Brad seemed like he might be interested too. This was what he’d wanted—that double-handful of big lug was looking to jump the fence and land in his arms—but right then, he felt nothing but pity for Brad.

Brad
rubbed his face as he walked from his car to Drew’s front door. Given how much he’d had to drink the night before, he should’ve felt a lot worse. Water and Tylenol before bed, eight hours of sleep that ended only with Randall banging around the house like a one-man marching band, followed by more Tylenol and a shower. He’d had a slight headache, but the Tylenol banished it.

“You know I don’t have a hangover, right?” he said to Randall when he emerged from his room to make coffee. He didn’t feel the need to mention it was because he’d puked up most of the hard alcohol. He poured himself a big mug full of coffee and called Drew from his car.

Twenty minutes later, Brad stood before Drew’s front door. He knew he should’ve been more nervous, but he wasn’t. Maybe he just didn’t have the energy for it that… afternoon. It was after 1:00 p.m., coming up on twelve hours since he’d called Drew. Twelve hours since he’d more or less come out to someone.

Shit.

Suddenly he felt exhausted by it all.

The door opened. “Hey,” Drew said, looking concerned. “How long’ve you been standing there?”

“I just got here,” Brad replied quietly.

“Come in,” Drew said, getting out of the way.

Brad entered, and Drew closed the door behind him.

“Rough night?”

“Rough night? More like a rough morning,” Brad said “Rough last few weeks, even.”

“You want a late lunch, or would you rather talk about it?” Drew said.

“I’m not really very hungry right now,” Brad said. “Maybe we could just talk?”

“Yeah, sure, c’mon back to the family room. It’s cozier than the front living room,” Drew said, leading the way.

Brad knew leather furniture was actually very comfortable, but it looked cold in the living room, reflecting the light of the summer afternoon in a way that reminded him of ice. But the suede finish on the sofa and chairs in the family room just looked more inviting, brown and comfy, and he launched himself onto the sofa without thinking. “Ooops,” he said, blushing when the sofa jumped back a good six inches. He stood up in a hurry. “I’m sorry! That was really rude. That’s why my dad keeps telling me to think before I act. That was—”