Hooking Trout - 14. A Broken Rule

It's ten o'clock Tuesday night, more than two weeks after the party and we're sitting either end of our liberated sofa talking without really listening. I'm finishing the sports section of the Times while she updates her Smartphone calendar with dancing thumbs. We’re like an old married couple.

Every time I walk past the open door of my once-cluttered spare bedroom, I have to stop and take a deep breath. Every available surface has been used, transformed into something resembling the top floor of the Barbie doll's house, like the one Doug still has, demanded for his sixth birthday.

Her peach bedspread is embroidered with gold silk which not only complements the peach pillows but also the peach curtains, the peach tissue box holder and matching lampshade that sit on her bedside table behind the small peach bedside rug.

I have no idea who came up with the idea for the color peach, one that as far as I can see bears no resemblance to the velvet flush-cheeked fruit bearing the same name, but the person was either color blind or had a revelation after spilling cream into the orange mix.

Turns out she is pregnant, but we’re keeping that news on the down-low. Although she has a shortlist, she won’t tell me who the father is likely to be. She still looks trim even though other effects are starting to surface. I'm learning many things from her about pregnancy such as morning sickness contrary to popular belief doesn't just happen in the morning. Not only that, but I get a daily breakdown of her physical symptoms including fatigue, sleeplessness, frequent urination, nausea, excess saliva, constipation, heartburn, indigestion, bloating, food aversion and cravings, breast changes, increased vaginal discharge, headaches, dizziness, and mood swings. Tonight she is relatively calm.

"Donald and Bryan have split. Not sure what's their story," she mutters, more interested in massaging her phone. I hold my tongue, have not told her about the bathroom incident at the party, and Bill has been oddly absent from our boys’ nights out. But knowing Bill's unpublicized but irrefutable reputation, the episode undoubtedly had something to do with illegal substances—nothing more. While I flick over a page, I notice her free hand begin to caress her abdomen and a memory oozes back.

"Why were you stroking your stomach when you were with Roger?" Her eyelids flutter briefly and she feigns disinterest, merely continues her furious thumb-texting.

"He asked if I'd put on weight, of all things. Such a teaser, d'you know what I mean?" She rests head back and stares at the ceiling. "Don't forget I'm not around to pick up the laundry Saturday. I've stuck the receipt on the fridge."

"All in hand." It's not. I had completely forgotten about her driving up to meet Clara for a spa weekend. Since the birth of their daughter, Amanda's sister has been drowning in sleepless nights and motherly duties, so Steve and his own mom suggested the weekend. An odd sense of relief descends and I make a mental note to call Doug first thing in the morning, to find out what's happening back in the real world.

Just then her phone rings and I half-listen to the conversation. Partway through, she sits up straight and pulls her feet off the coffee table.

"No! You lucky thing! I love his work." I imagine it's Donald, he has a habit of calling at random moments to float ideas by her before he brings them to the boardroom the next day. Something in the way her gaze settles my way makes me suspicious that I have become the topic of discussion.

"No, of course he won't mind," she smiles into the phone.

"Won't mind what?" I demand. I still bristle at getting volunteered for things when I'm out of sight or earshot. She ignores me and, instead, glances at the clock on her phone.

"Twenty minutes? Fine. No, that's absolutely fine."

She thumbs off the cell, jumps up from the bed and heads for the bathroom. She often talks Colgatese while brushing her teeth so it no longer sounds like gibberish to me. Most of the time it's trivial nonsense but this time, intrigued, I stand by the bathroom door, arms folded, listening.

"Roger's client has a gallery opening tonight for none other than Thomas Me'lon." She pulls the toothbrush from her mouth in a gesture of what I assume to be amazement and waits for some kind of recognition.

"Thomas Me'lon!" she repeats, eyes wide. She may as well be speaking Hindi.

"Greenwell?” I ask, my mind backflipping.

"Me'lon's this up-and-coming artist. Connelly in Harpers Bazaar has been raving about him. And there was this big column in the Arts section of the Times in March about his debut. All the top celebrities are clambering over each other to buy his work.”

“Was that Greenwell?" I ask again, my mind no longer elsewhere.

"Apparently Bono bought two pieces last month. He adores Me'lon's work." She sweeps past me now on her way to her bedroom wardrobe, so I follow.

"Amanda. It's gone ten. I am not going to a gallery opening." She pulls out hangers with three dresses, and holds them in front of her as if weighing them. In a split second choice, she hangs the diminutive black cocktail number on the wardrobe door and puts the others back. Strange because she rarely wears the dress, one that makes her look like a hooker. Her words, not mine.

"You're not going. He's only inviting me." She continues to bounce around the room like a teenage girl preparing for a first date. “Trixie’s baby brother’s with him, but he doesn't really get art and Roger’s afraid he might say something inappropriate. Said he's 'in-art-ticulate'. Isn't he just so funny?" She makes air quotes around the syllable 'art' and chuckles to herself. My sympathies rush to side with her ex-boyfriend's companion. "And Roger has to go because this client is potentially worth big bucks."

My gaze follows her around the living room as though she's some annoying mosquito. "Aren't you listening? It's late. And you're in no condition to go prancing around New York City after dark."

She stops instantly. The expression on her face is a new one that has surfaced recently, a don't-you-even-think-about-challenging-me look. If we were playing rock-paper-scissors, my scissors would have come up against the biggest motherfucker of all boulders.

"It's for an hour tops. He needs to make an appearance, schmooze some, say a few nice things and then leave." And then, through the tone of her last few words, she makes it quite clear this is a done deal. "Anyway, I said I'd go now."

"What is this? Rent an ex-fiancée? He feels he can just use the ex when he wants to because it fits the occasion, like one of his pretentious cars? He's one helluva gentleman, this Roger." She's pulling on her black leather boots now, barely listening. "I wonder how Trixie’s baby brother feels about that."

"You can ask him.”

She stands and stamps her toes home.

“Say what?"

“Roger’s dropping him off here while we're out."

"What? No way, Amanda! I’m in sweat pants and tee and I’m not changing. I’m going to bed. You go out if you must, but don't drag me into this. I'm no freakin’ babysitter."

"Just an hour, Trout. Make polite conversation. You can do that, can't you?" She pats my face, turns around and wiggles her back at me. "Zip me."

I find myself obliging despite the voice in my head getting loud and angry. I finish the job with a flourish and, when she turns back, fold my arms and stand my ground.

"There is absolutely no way I am agreeing to this!"

***

Roger buzzes the apartment at around ten-thirty as she's applying her third coat of lip gloss. His voice crackles from the intercom.

"Hi, we're here. Can we come on up?"

Amanda calls out from the hallway mirror. "Tell him to stay there and I'll come down. Just send Carley up."

I dutifully relay the message and seconds later she is on her way out of the door, a scarlet coat draped around her shoulders. I lean in to kiss her on the cheek but she holds out a palm, indicates the makeup and affords me a simple air kiss.

Still angry with myself, I leave the door slightly ajar and stride across the living room to switch on the television. I am not about to get roped into some asinine conversation about the mundane with her ex-boyfriend's future baby brother-in-law. Instead, I vouch for the comfortable anonymity of a late-night chat show.

When I look towards the sound of hesitant tapping on the door and see the hunk of a man standing there, my first reaction is to tell him he has the wrong apartment. What I can only describe as sexy bed hair sticks out fashionably around intelligent eyes. His scrappy beard is cultured while Latin American features are so beautifully proportioned that he could easily have stepped straight off any of the fashion house runways. Thick brows, straight Roman nose, and incredibly plum lips, but nothing compares to his eyes. Even from where I sit, they appear green or grey but have the quality of looking right through a person. His tight, stylish titanium grey pants are filled to capacity showcasing muscular thighs, worn short enough to flash the natural tan flesh at the sockless ankles. With a grey jacket draped leisurely over one shoulder, his black silk shirt opened three buttons from the neck, flashes the tan skin of a hairless but well-defined chest.

Where my imagination has cast Carley as a dumb pup, what stands in my doorway has all the intelligence and grace of a pedigree panther, if there is such a thing.

"Are you Trout?" My stereotype-ometer gets a second kick in the teeth as his deep voice pulses across the room. The young, balls-not-yet-dropped, reedy viola I had been expecting is replaced instead by the soothing strains of a cello.

"Yes. Sorry. Sure." I fumble out of my seat, banging my knee on the coffee table and hop to the door. "I'm Trout. Come on in. You must be Carley.“ I wave my arm in an extravagant maitre d' fashion to welcome him before cringing at the corniness of the gesture. After offering to take his jacket, I close the door and indicate the sofa.

We sit at either end, staring at the program for a full five minutes until the little man in my head tells me what a crappy host I'm being.

"I'm sorry. Would you care for something to drink?" To me, it would be perfectly fitting if he demanded the best and I am wondering if we have anything vaguely resembling champagne left from the party.

“Got any cold beer?”

I spin round to see if he's joking but detect no change in his expression.

"Serious?" I jump up and head for the open kitchen. At the fridge door, I pull out a couple of cold bottles and turn back to him. “Bud okay?”

"Perfect. I’m twenty-four, in case you need to card me. Roger and my sister don’t like me drinking beer when we're out, says it’s trashy. So I have to drink wine but to be honest, it gives me heartburn. I’ll take a cold beer any day. You mind if I kick my shoes off? They're freakin’ killing me."

“Go ahead. Take anything off you want.”

I almost slam my hand in the fridge door at my faux-pas. When I head back to the sofa, I try hard not to stare while he removes his black loafers to reveal bare feet with perfectly manicured toenails.

"I hate these things, but they cost a small fortune and look fabulous.” After rubbing his toes he thumps both beautiful feet onto the coffee table without permission or a second thought. Like a naughty kid finding a kindred spirit, I settle back on the sofa next to him and, after a quick look over my shoulder, do the same with my socked feet. We clink bottles and both take a slug of beer in unison. He seems to relax into the cushions and, after a moment watching the program, he scoots closer to me.

“You mind switching channels?"

For a fleeting moment, my salacious mind turns summersaults as I wonder if this is a millennial code for something else until he nods at the television.

"Oh, sure. No problem. I'm not really watching this anyway." I aim the remote at the set. "What's your pleasure?"

“You got Fox Soccer Channel? They're showing the semi-final of the European soccer championship. Manchester United versus AC Milan."

I almost choke beer into my lap.

"You drink beer and you like soccer?"

“Keep your voice down. I’m a fag, too. But if word gets out I drink beer and watch soccer, I might lose my membership.”

Seriously? A gay angel has just dropped into my apartment?

“Your secret’s safe with me.” I add a wink for effect.

His brows crinkle adorably, and he looks at me quizzically. Have I said too much? This is Roger’s soon to be brother-in-law, I hear Doug’s voice saying: reel it in, honey.

As for Carley, he seems completely unfazed. Tilting his head back, he tells me about his Brazilian roots, how his father came from São Paulo, a huge Juventus' supporter who never missed a game. Then, when the family moved to New Jersey, every Sunday they watched soccer games together, recorded and sent over by her father's cousin.

"Our routine on the Sabbath was sacrosanct; church in the morning and soccer after lunch. My father didn't care if you talked during mass but if he heard you so much as breathe during the match, you'd get a carefully aimed boot to the back of the head. How could I not get hooked?”

I offer up my uncomplicated joy of NFL, singling out the New York Giants and when he rattles off a few of my favorite players' names, he instantly attains ‘new best gay buddy' status.

During the match, we hold a conversation which fluctuates in speed and energy in direct contrast to the game on the television. At one point we both stop speaking and suddenly the ball is at the back of the net. He jumps up and screams, holding his muscled arms in the air. I have no idea which team scored but find myself doing the same. Before I know what's happening, he is treating me to an unembarrassed full-body hug. I pull away quickly, as I feel my traitorous body part rise to try and get in on the act.

Once the final whistle blows and his team is pronounced the winner, we both settle back again. I feel exhausted but elated. Best of all, he gets up and goes to the fridge for more beers. When he sits back down, I decide to ask a question that has had me confused since the moment he arrived.

"Who in their right mind named you Carley? The only other person I’ve heard called Carley is Carley Simon. And you look nothing like her.”

He rewards my question with a deep chuckle.

"My name's Carlos. Carlos Fernando Torres. As in Carlos Santana. My mother loved him, and all the songs of Santana. Roger calls me Carley. He’s the kind of prick who abbreviates everyone's name, gives them nicknames ending in 'ee' for some reason. That's why he calls your fiancée Mandy and my sister Trixie. He'd probably do the same if he ever met any of your friends."

The thought of what would happen if he called Doug, Dougie, or, better still, Bill, Billy, makes me want to reach for the phone and invite them over.

“Carlos sounds more you, classier. What does he call me?"

“You don’t wanna know.”

“Hey, come on.”

“You, he calls the questionable boyfriend." Somehow it doesn't surprise me that Roger doesn't acknowledge me as Amanda's fiancé.

"Well, for what it's worth, I'd be happy to have you by my side at an art gallery opening. Even if you don't like art."

He rolls his eyes and knocks his head a couple of times against the back of the sofa.

“I only tolerate Roger because he’s with my sister. But he treats me like an uneducated dickhead, calls me her baby brother. You know, I’m twenty-four and I manage a restaurant right here in New York City. Casa Brasilia. And we have a new one opening in two weeks. Brownsville. Yeah, not the best of locations, but rent’s affordable. I picked out all the fittings and artwork. Me, personally." He lifts his head, glances up at the monstrous painting on our wall then turns to me again, a questioning look in his eyes. "You like this kind of thing?”

“Fuck no! I mean, it's not mine." I realize I answer a little too quickly and harshly and retreat a few paces. "Amanda does, but this kind of thing's lost on me. I prefer my art more classical, more recognizable."

"Me too. Too much of this modern stuff is overtly intellectual or self-indulgent, and quite frankly, a bore. I told Roger what I thought of Me'lon, that he’s just a jumped-up fruit."

When I burst into laughter, he looks mildly affronted.

"He is. I've known him since college, the ugly shit. Why are you laughing?"

"I can see why Roger didn't want to take you now," I say, recovering. "And I can't believe you just called Me'lon a fruit? Which, technically, is not incorrect.”

This time he doesn’t laugh but appraises me with a slowly widening sultry smile before startling me by jumping across my lap, straddling me and grabbing both my forearms.

“Are you fucking with me?”

I stare up and meet his fierce gaze.

"I wish."

My libido beats my rational brain to a response. His smile becomes something dangerously intimate, as he keeps staring down at me.

"Roger's got you all wrong. He thinks you're crude and humorless. I kind of like you. But if I’m totally honest, you don’t come across as entirely straight. Don’t suppose you’ve ever, you know, been with another guy?”

Alarm bells are going off, but my long-dormant libido has awoken and my heart is beating so loud I can barely hear them. I rock my groin up to meet his.

“Maybe.”

“Don’t mess with me, Trout. You ever been with a guy?”

“One or two.” Hundred. I leave the quantifier unspoken.

“Bisexual then. So?" He touches his forehead to mine, stares deep into my eyes.

"So what?" I grin, teasing.

"So what do you want to do about it?" he says, grinning back.

"They could be back at any moment."

"And?"

When faced with these all too rare impulsive moments of passion, I favor the subtle approach, as though I'm some kind of yoga instructor. I prefer the slow build; the soft brush of lips, a hot breathy nibble on one ear, one hand lightly stroking the inside of a thigh. Carlos, it transpires, prefers the expeditious 'slam dunk wrestling' approach to foreplay and before long cushions, beer bottles, magazines, and clothes are scattered around the room. Like a magician, he produces lube and a condom from thin air. Following a series of professionally executed arm and leg-locks, he gets my body exactly where he wants it, and, after expertly wringing an orgiastic submission from me and then him, we both retire to our respective corners. While we finish tidying ourselves, I get more beers and try to bring some normalcy back into the room.

"So," I say, coughing, trying to sound matter-of-fact, "who's going to be in the final? Against AC Milan?"

"Liverpool." He buttons his shirt with one hand and takes a swig of beer with the other. "Good team, but my money's still on the Italians."

"You like to gamble?" I say.

He turns to me and deadpans.

"You need to ask?"

While the channel is showing an old black and white match from another era, we sit in silence pretending what happened didn't, until I can bear it no more.

"You know Roger used to be engaged to Amanda, don't you?"

"Yes, he told my sister all about it.” He turns to me, his expression calm yet fathomless. "And she respects him for dumping her, especially after finding her in bed with Roger’s brother. But he's forgiven her now."

"He…what?"

"You didn't know?"

"She told me Roger let her go because he wanted to give her space to breathe.”

"You sure she didn't say 'breed'?" he asks, deadpan.

"Amanda slept with Roger's brother? Are you serious?"

"And their father, but that was a long time ago. Roger's forgiven her."

"Fuck Roger! What about me?"

"It was all a long time ago! Before you two got together. They've both grown up since then. Come on, Trout, you're not exactly a saint. As you’ve just ably proven."

"Yeah, but a little honesty wouldn't go amiss." I'm biting the skin around my thumbnail now. It's an old nervous habit that raises its ugly head during stressful moments. "I tell her everything."

"Everything?" He gets up slowly and steps in front of me. "But not a word about what happened here, not to anyone." He kneels down and holds my head in his hands. His eyes, deep brown and enticing, pull me back to myself. "I'm serious, Trout. Not a word. Deal?"

Of course. It’s a no-brainer. We all stand to lose if I let on, even though in my own particular male egotistical way, I'm placated that I have evened the score a little.

"Deal." I present my best Spencer family grin. "Anyway, we've still got the UEFA cup final to look forward to."

He laughs and pecks me on the cheek. "This was a one-off lapse, crazy man."

“We’ll see.”

He asks the way to the bathroom, then stands and heads off down the corridor. At that moment, I hear a key in the front lock. Panicked, I look at the room and hurriedly tidy things as best I can; cushions back on the sofa, beer bottles in the trash.

Roger stands against the doorframe and looks around, probably trying to locate Carlos. Amanda walks over, gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek, but notices when I don't look her in the eyes.

She keeps hold of my arm as she asks, "Are you okay? You look a bit flustered.“

"Fine. A bit hot in here is all. You?"

The tone of my response is curt, something she interprets as frostiness.

"I'm sorry, Trout. It went on a little longer than expected." Only then do I notice it's after midnight. "Did you and Carley hit it off?"

And in that brief moment, I find I can actually look at her.

“Carlos. And yeah, he's great. Drinks beer and follows soccer."

Amanda laughs and nudges my arm, thinks I'm making a joke.

Carlos returns a little startled and disorientated but quickly falls in. While they make ready to leave, Amanda provides small talk and I join her at the door to bid our farewells.

"So we'll see you in Montauk in a couple of weeks." says Amanda, "I'll send you the details over the weekend."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

Roger, his usual smarmy self, holds her hand and pecks her on the cheek. After he has finished, he reaches out to shake my hand.

”So is it just friends? Or are we going to meet any of the family, too?"

“June’s coming. My step-sis. But it’s mainly friends."

Amanda interjects, "Trout's grandmother wanted to come but she's not doing too well."

"And my stepmom’s out of town," I add.

"And I've yet to meet his mysterious father," She pulls at my arm and then turns to Carlos. "But he's supposed to be quite the dish."

Only Carlos acknowledges the flash of concern that crosses my face. Roger slips out of the front door while Amanda gives Carlos an awkward hug then steps back and nods at me.

"I hope this one wasn't too difficult,” says Amanda.

Carlos breaks into laughter, before leveling a grin at me.

“Difficult? No, he’s easy. Easy company, that is. You're a very lucky woman.”

Amanda looks at me and smiles.

"I guess so."

She bids farewell again, then excuses herself to get ready for bed.

Carlos smiles broadly as he grabs my hand. I am about to speak but he places a finger over his lips and the crease below his beautiful nose and shakes his head. I look down puzzled at his hand, feeling the sharp corners of a business card in his palm. He winks and smiles just before Roger's disembodied voice calls from the stairwell.

“Carley? Come on, kid.”

He rolls his eyes, before turning abruptly and following the voice. I smile and lean against the doorframe. Roger may summon him as though he's calling over a pet poodle, but I know different now.

As soon as the door is closed, I read the note on the back of the Casa Brasilia card.

I’m refereeing a game in Fort Dix this Sunday. Little league stuff but thought you might enjoy. Maybe have a beer or two at my place after?

Call me at work or email on cftorres@casabrasilia.com

Carlos

One-off lapse, huh? While I lie awake at two in the morning knowing Amanda will be away for the weekend, three words keep going around and around in my head:

Roll on Sunday.