Served Cold - 1. Served Cold

Sitting on the bus, I gaze out the window, but I don’t see anything of the city whizzing by outside. It’s a lovely day in early spring, with the sun filtering down between the tall buildings and trees lining the streets. But I take no note of it. My mind is elsewhere. Subconsciously, I clutch the backpack on my lap closer to my body. It’s mostly empty.

Except for…

Reaching inside, my fingers easily find their intended target. I skim the surface, feeling again those roiling doubts about whether I should do this. There will be no turning back after this. All bridges will be burnt. Am I prepared to bear the consequences? Because I know there will be consequences. Severe ones.

It feels sort of stupid having just that one thing in such a large backpack, but I don’t feel comfortable carry it in my hand and it won’t fit in my back pocket. Since I couldn’t find a smaller bag, I make do with the backpack.

I lean my head against the head rest and close my eyes. How did it come to this? How had I ended up homeless? This doesn’t seem like my life at all. Except it is. In just a few weeks, my existence has changed so completely. Unbidden, snippets of my life from the past five years flash through my mind. My life with him.

Franco.

When it all began, I was waiting tables, only twenty-two and not sure what to do with my life. Working in the restaurant gave me an income, which meant a roof over my head and food on my table. I had done well in high school and knew I had the brains to study almost anything. But neither my parents nor any other family member was willing to help pay for school—one of the hazards of insisting on being myself and not the straight boy they wanted me to be. So, college had been out of the question, at least for the time being. I was okay, though, living on my own and making my own decisions. I was even saving some money every month, just to keep my options open.

Then, suddenly, there he was, coming to the restaurant every other day, and always sitting in my section. After a while, he demanded openly to sit in my section. And what Franco wanted, he got. I didn’t know that back then, though.

“So, how’s my favorite waiter doing today?” Franco grinned at me.

“Just fine, sir. Can I interest you in any of our specials?” It was so hard to stay professional when he looked at me like that, like I was his favorite item on the menu.

“I know one special I’d like to sink my teeth into…”

The lewdness of the statement should have made me wary; but no, I gobbled up the attention Mr. Big Shot Author lavished on me. It made me blush and smile. Franco smiled back. And that was that.

After several months of dating, Franco told me I should move in. The thought of living in that huge house had my head spinning. Dizzy, I said yes and thanked him with a most enthusiastic blowjob. Franco petted my head and then fell asleep.

At times, I pinched myself. How could it be that I was living with Franco Hill? The action/crime author whose books sold for millions. I soon found out my lover’s real name was Francis Hillerson, but the dull persona that name invoked wouldn’t do. It wasn’t fit for his image. The only person allowed to call him Francis was his elderly mother. No one else.

At first, our life was like one of those sappy romance novels. What is it they say? A whirlwind? We went from party to party, book launch to book launch, kissing endless cheeks of both varieties. My job was to be the charming, vivacious partner, letting everyone see how amazing Franco was. I never missed an opportunity to rave about him or his novels. I did a great job.

But, behind the scenes, our world was changing little by little. Things weren’t all we tried to make them seem.

“Franco, are you hungry? I made lasagna!” I shouted up the stairs, knowing full well Franco didn’t like me shouting.

“How the hell am I supposed to eat when all this is crap?” Franco yelled from the top of the stairs, looking ragged. “And stop making so much damn noise down there!”

He’d worked through the night again, trying to whip his latest draft into shape. Only it wasn’t working; it still wasn’t good. Crap was an accurate description of large parts of the manuscript; garbage would cover the rest. The publisher was hounding him, wanting the novel out in time for Christmas and Franco was already late.

“You can throw that fucking muck out! I’m not eating until I finish this chapter!” With that, Franco stalked away, back to his laptop. He slammed the door behind him, isolating himself from the rest of the world.

We hadn’t been to a party in weeks. The past few books had seen dwindling sales figures, nowhere close to his first four. And the lower the figures dipped, the worse the mood became in the house. Something had to be done. Removing the lasagna from the oven, I quietly snuck upstairs and into the lion’s den.

Gently massaging my lover’s shoulders, I peered over them to sneak a peek at what was written. I read only a short paragraph, but even then, the text came across stilted.

Reading a story in progress reminded me of my teenage years. I had filled page after page in my black notebooks. Story after story, ranging from science fiction to romance to the occasional attempt at paranormal. I had never dared to let anyone read them, but sharing my dreams and my life with my characters had made me so happy. Teachers had always complimented me on my writing. Maybe I should…

I bit my lip, suddenly nervous.

“Maybe you could tell me about it? We could perhaps bounce a few ideas around?” My voice teetered off into silence; my fear of going too far stole my breath.

“You?” Franco laughed, but there was no joy, none of his usual playfulness. There hadn’t been for quite a while. Then he sighed. “What is there to lose? I might as well give it a try. Can’t get much worse.”

So we talked and revised, and slowly turned the manuscript into Franco’s number one bestseller. After that, we developed a habit of sitting together in the den to plot. If he was out on a book tour, I would send him mark ups with suggestions as I worked through his drafts.

Writing and twisting the stories to my will and then having them accepted, and even loved, by Franco made that shy teenage writer in me yearn for more. Together we had something special and sales went through the roof. Seeing Franco’s name on the cover made me so proud of being his lover, but something kept nagging me.

“It would be fun to see my own name in print one day.” I was looking at the latest novel, fresh from the printer’s, and tracing the outline of his name written in slightly elevated gold lettering.

Franco shook his head, but smiled at me. “You’re not an author.” He gave me a peck on the cheek. “Precious boy, you are good at many things but leave the writing to me.”

And of course, I had thought Franco was right. He was Franco, after all.

With new sales records came new energy. The laughter and fun returned to our house. Once more, Franco was the life of the party scene and living large. I tagged along, since he was my lover—if that was what he was. Around us, friends started families, got married, divorced and evolved. But not us; we stayed the same. Franco wrote and I made sure he could do it. That was essentially it.

My longing for something more made me feel desperate and weak, though. We weren’t like everyone else. We were different, with no need for convention. Franco had said so repeatedly when we were going to someone else’s wedding or someone else’s baby shower, often with a slight edge of derision.

So perhaps a family was not for us, but marriage? Wasn’t that what you did? If you were in love?

When I finally summoned the courage to bring up the subject of us getting married, Franco stared at me and then laughed in my face.

“Married? Why would you want something so old and stale? I thought we were on the same page here. Marriage is not us! We’re free. We choose each other, not because of some stupid ceremony but because we want to.” Perhaps he saw the hurt in my eyes, because his voice softened and he caressed my cheek. “We don’t need papers for our love. It’s already written across our hearts in letters that will never fade.”

He did have a way with words. On occasion, even without my help.

I’m jarred out of my thoughts by some smelly guy getting on the bus. I try to be invisible by making myself smaller and manage to escape close contact. The man walks past me, leaving a disgusting smell lingering behind. Still, who am I to judge? Am I somehow better? Maybe that guy is simply down on his luck, like me. And I bet he’s not on the same mission as me.

Nervously, I glance around. Can people tell what I’m about to do? Is it there, plain on my face for anyone to see?

Those doubts flare again. If I do this, my life will never be the same. Can I take him down? Can I do nothing and still live with myself? There is still time to turn around. Still time to just let it be. Move on. Wasn’t that what Franco had told me to do? Like he had any right to tell me anything anymore.

That right expired the afternoon I came home early from running errands. I had planned to go to the gym, but had forgotten my bag. The house was supposed to be empty, but as I reached the top of the stairs, I realized it wasn’t.

Standing in the doorway of our bedroom, I saw there were too many people in our bed—I counted two, and I wasn’t one of them. Franco was frantically pounding away at some guy, with his cock buried deep inside him. As the guy turned his sweaty, red face towards me, I saw it was a younger guy. One of the minions from the publisher. He tried to pull away but Franco held him in place and kept thrusting. The guy merely whimpered at me, almost apologetically.

I had expected to shout or throw something, but instead I froze. When I finally gasped, Franco looked over his shoulder. If he was surprised to see me, he didn’t show it.

“I’m going to a dinner tonight with Eric.” An extra deep push made Eric moan. “I expect you to be out of here before I come back tonight. You can take your clothes. The rest is mine, as you know.” Franco returned his focus to the task at hand and judging from the sounds he was making I knew he was close. Eric was apparently not far behind. Not wanting to be there for the big finale, I fled the room. Mortified, I hid in the garden until I saw them leave in Franco’s car.

Just like that, I was brushed aside. Not even given a chance to salvage our relationship. Only, I soon learned it wasn’t one. As soon as the news of our break up was out, I found out Franco had been playing around behind my back. A lot. Since people didn’t want to ruin things between us—or perhaps between them and Franco’s wallet—no one had said anything to me.

Left with nothing but a bag of clothes, I found a motel room. Most of the friends we had turned out to be Franco’s. I had let my own friends go, focused solely on the man in my life. The love of my life. It would have been laughable in all its predictability if I wasn’t so heartbroken and desolate. To me, they had meant something, those words across our hearts. To him, it turned out to be convenience.

“But what we had was great. A true partnership! You said so yourself.” I had deserted any hope of retaining my pride and was sobbing into the phone clutched in my shaking hand. “We were invincible.”

“Don’t get so emotional. We had a good run and now it’s over. Don’t call me anymore.” His cold voice hurt like lashes of a whip across my soul.

“But the books! Our writing!”

“Our writing? Get over yourself. As if an uneducated waiter from the sticks could ever create what I create.” The phone went dead, and so did my love for him. In a single conversation, he had irrevocably stomped it out. All that work, all those late nights tossing around ideas and making love; the spark we had was gone. I could finally stop calling him, begging him to take me back. Maybe I could grow a new backbone, build some sort of life.

Although… I started to think about things one probably shouldn’t think about. Cold fire burned in my blood, and anger narrowed my vision until I could see only one thing: revenge. I had to do something. But what? What would be enough?

I snap out of my thoughts when I recognize the neighborhood we’re in. I’m close. As I get off the bus, my legs start to shake. My resolve is wavering. I try to find that smoldering hate inside and focus on it. Will I be able to do this? I have to or I’ll never be free. As I stand outside my former house, my home for all those years, my heart pounds in my chest. Blood rushes past my ears, making it difficult to hear anything else. The car is there, so I know he’s home. With a surprisingly steady finger, I ring the door. This is it.

He opens the door and at first doesn’t seem to register it’s me. Then confusion crosses his face, followed by irritation.

“What the hell are you doing here? I told you to get lost. What part of that don’t you understand?”

I stare him down. Suddenly, my decision isn’t so difficult anymore, so I reach into my backpack and fumble only a little as I pull it out. Stretching out my arm, I fix him with my eyes. The incredulous look on his face is priceless. Finally.

He takes the envelope from my hand and I whip out my phone, filming him as he opens it. I knew his curiosity would get the better of him. As he lifts his eyes to stare at me, I smile. A genuine smile.

“You’ve been served. I’m suing you for my share of the profits from our collaboration on the books and support for enabling your career during all those years.”

Hit him where it hurts. There’s no going back now. I know my lawyers are behind me, that my case is solid.

“You little shit! You’ll never get away with this!” Franco’s face turns red as his cool composure comes undone.

“You know, backing up to the cloud is very useful. Drafts, comments, email conversations… I have plenty!”

Straightening my spine and holding my head high, I turn and walk away. On my own volition this time, and it feels good.