Confounded: Part III - 23. Interlude

INTERLUDE --==Tom’s POV==--

I saw Mitch before he saw me. He was hard to miss, towering above most, standing a little to the side, scanning arrivals. Dressed semi-casual in a dark blue sports jacket, a light blue shirt, cream colored chinos and wearing dark Pilot sunglasses, he was scanning the crowd arriving in Terminal B, hands casually in his pockets. At times he craned his neck at one of the smaller people ahead of me. Maybe he was looking for me with a suitcase, but with these sorts of trips, I always travel light - just a small trolley that is allowed to be taken into the cabin with you. And when you’re not so tall, you tend to blend in more - so I stepped out from behind the guy in front of me and it was like laser-focus - immediately he spotted me. He flashed a wide smile and followed me to the end, the crowd between us and when I cleared them, there he stood, waiting.

God, that beard was growing on me more and more. He looked damn sexy, the sunglasses only adding to it, fuck! I’d jump him in this crowded terminal if I had my way. I hadn’t seen him for just a few days but in that time, I’d missed him. We’d been so close before I left, never alone really, and while we were in the studio, waiting, my thoughts had frequently wandered to our intense weekend. Seeing him now only confirmed for me that I was head over heels with this man.

Of course we’d texted a lot and it was always fun to see those dots appear almost always right away, typing a response. It got to the point where I’d had to tell John, when he asked where my head was at.

So I told him - that we’d met last week, and spent the long weekend together. Our history. John had known about Kit from the start though he’d never met him until years later - but he knew all about the breakup and my history leading up to that relationship.

Back then, he’d been supportive at first, and sympathetic. Until it wasn’t fun anymore and he brought the knife, telling me to slash my wrists - it’d be faster to get through my teenage angst. He was an asshole. But, it worked - he’d shocked me into getting my ass in gear and dealing with my inner demons.

“So you picked yourself another grandpa,” he grinned. “Dude, you’re such a weirdo. I could go into any concert of yours and pick out at least ten candidates for a fun night.”

“No thanks,” I answered, already regretting telling him. And he knew I’d never do that. Groupies are from a bygone age and belonged in the last century. I shuddered at the thought.

“What’s your ex say about it?”

“He’s the one who came up with the blind date.”

“He set his ex up with his own dad? Shiiiit…that’s next level incest.”

He thought that was very funny and roared at his own joke. I flipped him off. “Fuck off. Trust you to make something sordid out of it. I shouldn’t have told you.”

Chagrined, I turned away from him, busying myself with some settings that really didn’t need readjusting. But I was pissed and this was my way of letting him know it. True to form, he realized that soon enough and gave my chair a kick.

“Sorry. I’m just messin’, you know that. Tell me about him. What’s he do?” I hesitated a little too long, wanting to share but choosing to let him think I was mad at him. It made him kick my chair harder. “Don’t gimme that shit, ya yutz. Spill.”
Swiveling back, I grinned.

“He’s kinda retired.”

“Got a pic?”

Producing my phone, I didn’t really have to search - I’d set the laughing pic from the restaurant as my background. I showed it to him.

“Shit, you sure he’s 51? Doesn’t look a day over 49.”

I kicked his chair in return. “Asshole.”

“So that’s Kit’s dad, huh? I can see the family resemblance. Tall as well, I imagine?”

“6’6.”

“Fucking hell. Big cock too? Good in the sack?”

“John!” I yelled, but couldn’t quite keep the grin from my face. He noticed it.

“Oh, that’s a yes,” he grinned, wiggling his eyebrows. I chuckled. Hard not to, because he knew me - and he didn’t care, it was all the same to him. I could tell him anything and frequently did, including sexual encounters. He shared his with me, or used to, before he finally met Carrie, his partner for the last three years. And I knew stuff about her I sure as shit knew she wouldn’t appreciate me knowing.

“Yeah. He’s a solid A+. In every department.”

I sat back and sighed, remembering the previous weekend. John kept silent but he was watching me.

“Got to you, did he? I can tell…”

“Yeah,” I nodded, “he really did.”

“Good. And about fuckin’ time. You shouldn’t be alone. You’re far too young. I was getting worried.”

“What?”

“No, seriously - you were getting moody again. As in writing shit. Like this.” He grabbed the sheet where I’d written down the lyrics for the song we were to record, waving it in my face. “You can do way better than this. Rewrite, please. And get rid of the violins. I hate ‘em. Violins? Seriously? Who are you - Enya?”

We got into a heated argument, which he won. Because the song was shit. Kinda. Well, the lyrics were, definitely. And some of the arrangements. So he pushed me further and further, needling me, goading me on until something emerged that was worthy of this studio.

And that we recorded, once the artist finally arrived.

“Hi,” I grinned, approaching where Mitchell stood waiting. He returned the grin, removing the sunglasses. “Been waiting long?”

“No, just arrived about five minutes ago,” he answered, taking the trolley from me. “Good flight?”

“Smooth sailin’,” I returned.

Lowering his head, he pressed his lips to mine and then turned to the exits. And I liked that. Not some big greeting, just a ‘hello’. I really despise big emotional greetings in public. And…you never know who’s ready with a phone, these days.

“Tired?”

“No! I slept most of the flight, woke up about two hours before we landed.”

“Have you eaten?”

“A bit. But I could eat.”

Plane food, even in first class, was not all that cracked up to be. It was fine, but there’s either not enough of the good bits, or too much of the less than stellar.

“Good, I was hoping you’d say that because I haven’t had lunch yet. You wanna go somewhere around here or…home?”

“Home! I wanna get out of these clothes and take a shower. I feel filthy.”

“Home it is,” he smiled. “Yours or mine?”

“Whichever.”

“Yours then - it’s closer and I bet you wanna see Miss Silver?”

I would, yes and I loved that he’d thought about that. That was nice. And I could make us lunch.

It took about fifteen minutes to get to where he’d parked and when we got in, after he stowed my trolley in the back, he waited until I got the belt fixed - then he took my chin and planted a real, long and nicely tasting kiss on me.

“Welcome home.”