When Love Takes Over - 9. Brandon Decides

When Chance pulled away, my first thought was to rush after him. To jump in my truck and follow him so I could explain what the situation was with Reed. But after the first waves of guilt washed away, what took its place was anger.

 

I realized I was pissed with Chance more than anything. Pissed that he was acting like a 14 year old girl upset over a misunderstanding in homeroom I had spent most of the last 7 years of my live placating someone else, and I wasn’t in the mood to keep doing it now. Especially when my future was on the line.

 

I really liked Chance and wanted to explore a possible relationship with him, but I was damned if I was going to let my romantic life dictate the rest of my life choices again. Right now, I needed to focus on the Degas Cottage project and my potential buyout, and I was going to do exactly that.

 

Reed had promised to email all the pics and specs on the cottages to me so I could start making my own plans for them. However, I knew getting everything together would take some time, so instead of rushing to the computer, I went ahead and packed for the trip to New Orleans.

 

It didn’t take long to get my paint samples and drawing supplies together, but putting together something that resembled a professional wardrobe was a much harder task. Since my initial success working out with Chance, I had put even more emphasis on weight lifting, diet, and fitness which had resulted in even more weight loss. But the side effect was that most of my clothing no longer fit.

 

I had purchased a few new items of clothing for my new physique, but only a handful: a couple of pairs of jeans and khakis, a polo shirt or two, and a few button downs to wear to church or the rare client meeting, but nothing that said “high end interior designer capable of handling a multi-million dollar project.” I put the best of the lot in a bag, sighing. I would have to take some of my precious project prep time to ransack my former wardrobe that was stored at the warehouse. Surely it contained some things from my former life that I could make work.

 

By the time I had everything packed and ready for an early start tomorrow, the files had arrived in my email. I ignored the urge to call Chance and buried myself in work.

 

I slept surprisingly well, though I dreamed repeatedly about the cottages. Well the cottages and Chance. There were a disturbing number that involved skinny dipping with him in the compound’s pool.

 

However, it was the cottages that were forefront in my mind as I drove through the Delta dawn, and by the time I arrived in New Orleans right before lunch, I felt I had a good general idea of the way I wanted the project to proceed.

 

Reed had made arrangements for people working on the project to be able to park in a nearby hotel’s parking garage, so when I arrived in the Quarter, I was able to go directly to the project. Reed and Ben were meeting me there with a picnic lunch so we could get right into discussions.

 

It had been months since I had seen Reed, and, as always, I was struck by just how attractive he was. Even this early into the summer, his olive complexion had darkened into a glowing tan, and his shorts and polo shirt showed off his lean, toned frame. For better or worse, though, I didn’t have much time to focus on his appearance as he launched into telling me more about the challenges we were facing.

 

“Part of the problem we’re facing with making changes is that they will only agree to the sale if we can guarantee this place is fully operational by mid-October. They want to host some friends here for Halloween.”

 

I looked around, mentally calculating. It was the end of May…”That would give us a little more than four months. Shit. Still, it’s doable.”

 

“I agree,” Ben said. “Most of the exterior work is done; besides, all that had to go through the Vieux Carre’ Commission and can’t be extensively altered anyway. And most of the plumbing fixtures are fine. And Nigel and Greg are good with the basic layouts. It’s really just the cosmetic things and the decor that they objected too.”

 

We walked through the various cottages; I made notes and quick sketches while they answered my questions. As we toured the compound, I felt is magical atmosphere again. This place could be utterly fantastic. And, as I noted the changes that had occurred since my last visit, I was confident I could help bring it alive.

 

After looking at photos of the couple’s other properties (judging by the amount of media coverage of their various homes and hotels they had fantastic media and PR connections) I thought I had a good grasp of why they had objected to the design proposal. They seemed to have eclectic tastes and their properties all looked very different depending on the location and the architecture.

 

The design team Reed had chosen had, however, in this case gone, with the goal of unifying the various structures. The cottages, though of similar scale, were all very different. One was two stories with a gallery running the length of the second floor. One had peaked ceilings in the main living area and French doors instead of windows. One was small, one room, but had soaring ceilings and was filled with light from windows on three sides. The designers had decided to minimize these differences by using very similar materials, colors, and furnishings in each unit. It would have made for a very tasteful, very elegant, and very serene final product. It would also have been incredibly boring.

 

Walking through, I rapidly made plans on how would could differentiate the various buildings. The exterior colors for stucco and shutters would have to stay the same, and we couldn’t make any changes to the lights and other fixtures on the facades that faced Dauphine St. because of the historical commission, but I could use differing lanterns, planters, etc. on the back facades that faced into each cottages private courtyard.

 

“Didn’t you say that you still have some of the original furnishings that came with the cottages?” I asked Reed.

 

“Yes, they’re at the warehouse. The place had been neglected, so they all couldn’t be salvaged, and the pieces run from decent antiques to junk, but I had everything that I thought could be used or sold stored.”

 

“Cool,” I said, “I’ll run by the warehouse in the morning and check everything out. I need to go there anyway and dig out some decent clothes for the lunch on Wednesday and the presentation.”

 

Reed looked pained. “Oh. I didn’t think you wanted anything you left at the warehouse, so I donated it all to Bridgehouse.”

 

I stared at him and slowly started counting to 10 silently. I was pissed, but I told myself in the increasingly uncomfortable silence that I had indeed told him I didn’t care about anything I had left in the house. And I honestly didn’t, but time was of the essence on this project, and I begrudged wasting even a small bit of it on clothes shopping.

 

“Besides,” he said, trying to placate me, “You’ve lost so much weight, nothing would have fit anyway.”

 

It wasn’t worth a fight, I thought. “I suppose so. I guess I’ll call Jude in the morning.”

 

Though I had cared about clothes and enjoyed shopping a lot when I was younger, that had changed as I had gotten older. Especially after having to spend so much time shopping for materials and furnishings for our various homes and projects, wasting hours looking for clothes in a department store had become a torture for me. But since I had a need to look a certain way for our various professional and social obligations, I had been convinced by Reed to use his personal shopper. Jude, at Saks.

 

Reed, of course, had loved shopping for clothes, and for him, Jude functioned as a fellow worshipper at the shrine of couture, and they had happily spent hours together crafting Reed’s meticulous appearance. They were both willing to spend hours in finding the absolute perfect tie to finish a suit. For me, as long as it fit my body and the occasion, I was fine. I did need to put together a bit of a professional wardrobe considering I would need to meet with the cottage clients and the various vendors for this particular project over the next few months. For better or worth, people do treat you better the better you are dressed, and for this project, paint splattered jeans and faded tees wouldn’t suffice.

 

“Actually,” he said hesitantly, “I made you an appointment with him for tomorrow afternoon. And an appointment at the hair salon for 10 in the morning. I was afraid you still had that Duck Dynasty thing happening” he said, reaching out to touch my hair which now brushed my shoulders, oblivious to my mounting anger over his high handedness, “I guess I was right.”

 

I just stood there, icy rage coursing through my body. How like him. His need to control everything was infuriating. And, of course, the knowledge that he was right about my need to project a more professional image, especially with the high stakes involved only made me angrier. As usual, he took my silent rage for approved acquiescence, and had moved on to discussing the lunch on Wednesday. Breathe, I told myself, breathe.

 

“Thank you, Reed,” I finally managed to get out between clenched teeth. “How very thorough. I don’t know how I’ve managed without you these last months.”

 

He stopped mid-sentence and looked at me uncertainly, sensing the sarcasm behind my remarks. Before the situation could escalate, Ben emerged from one of the cottages where he had been taking some measurements. He seemed to realize the tension between Reed and me.

 

“Look,” he said, “I don’t know about you two, but it’s been a long afternoon, and I could use a drink. Let’s head back to my place, have a well-earned cocktail, and I’ll throw together some dinner.”

 

By the time I had driven to Ben’s house, I had calmed down. I was irritated with Reed, and part of me wanted to spite him by blowing off my appointments and showing up on Wednesday in ripped jeans and a weave to my waist, but I wasn’t twelve. I wasn’t going to risk blowing up a multi-million dollar project that could secure my future by letting my butt hurt feelings rule me. In the design profession, image is very important, and I knew that showing up to meet Nigel and Greg looking like I stepped from the pages of G.Q. would help me immensely, so I was willing to swallow my pride and proceed with my makeover.

 

And as far as confronting Reed about how his making these appointments without my approval pissed me off, what was the point? Even if I convinced him he was in the wrong, which I knew from history wasn’t particularly likely, what would I gain? A fight right now would just be another obstacle to overcome in pulling off saving this deal. It was easier to just suck it up and move forward. At any rate, by the time I was at Ben’s pulling my bag from the truck, I was in an okay place. The good news was that, with all the events of the afternoon, Chance and his behavior yesterday were out of my thoughts.

 

While Reed helped Ben pull together a dinner of spaghetti carbonara and salad, I took a quick shower. By the time I emerged clean and in a pair of comfortable gym shorts and a loose tee, I was in a much better mood. A glass of chilled Pinot Grigio and a large helping of pasta furthered my contentment, and by the time we are all sitting around after the meal, each with just “one more glass of wine,” I was in a very mellow mood. We had spent dinner discussing the cottages, but by now were in the mood for a different topic.

 

“So,” said Ben, coming back into the dining room after putting the last of the plates in the dishwasher, “tell me all about the prom. I want pictures!”

 

“Me, too,” added Reed.

 

“Sure,” I said, grabbing my i-pad and placing it before Ben. I had brought it with me to the table to show some inspiration pictures I had pinned for various courtyard schemes. Reed scooted his chair closer to Ben so they could both look.

 

I started them a few pics before the prom ones so they could see the changes I had made to the house. Ben was especially impressed with the transformation and made some suggestions about changes I could make to enhance the house even more. But the big interest for them was the prom pictures.

 

“Wow,” Ben exclaimed looking at the pictures of the transformed shed. “This looks like something out of Southern Living. Y’all did an amazing job.”

 

“Honestly, it was Chance’s idea,” I said, and as I did I felt a flash of something like homesickness thinking of him and the dance that had happened….what….just two days ago. “And the whole community pitched in. It was really was a group effort.”

 

“Did you like the boutonniere?” Reed asked. “I bet you were surprised.”

 

“Ummm….” I stuttered uncomfortably. “I...I...sure was. Sorry, with everything happening, I forgot to thank you.”

 

“No worries, “ he said, his eyes glued to the pics as Ben swiped through them. Shit, I thought.

 

“Do you have any of you and Chance?” Ben asked. “I can’t wait to see him in a tux.”

 

“He actually wore his dress uniform,” I said.

 

“Oh my god,” Ben said. “I bet he looked hot. I was right,” he said as the first pic of Chance in his dress whites appeared. “Wow, I had forgotten how good looking he was.”

 

“That’s Chance?” Reed said in a strangled voice. I had forgotten they hadn’t met when I drove down to get my things from storage. I looked at the pics; Chance did look like some sort of model, but I was mainly relieved to see that in the photos, both his and my boutonnieres read as just colored blobs, so hopefully Reed wouldn’t notice the one I was wearing was actually a rose instead of an orchid. And I knew him well enough to know that he had been very specific with his order.

 

“What the hell are you wearing?” Ben asked me before cracking up at a pic of me mugging for the camera in my disco era white suit. “Where on earth did you find that?”

 

“It was my dad’s, believe it or not. He was quite a clothes horse back in the day, but he always did have questionable taste.”

 

“Actually, the two of you look great,” Ben said, continuing to swipe through pics of us at the party. “With the dress whites and your white suit, it looks like your wedding day, especially this one,” he said scrolling back to a picture of us standing in front of the official prom photo prop, the antique tractor. We were embracing and were looking toward each other with big smiles on our faces. Remembering how happy I had been that night, I felt a pang remembering how yesterday had gone.

 

“I think I need more wine,” Reed said abruptly, pushing back from the table and heading into the kitchen. He brought back a bottle of red, but I had already drank more wine than I usually did these days, so I passed on another glass. Ben did have one more, but Reed ended up drinking most of the bottle which was a bit odd, since he wasn’t usually a big drinker, at least by New Orleans standards.

 

As Ben sipped his Pinot Noir, he filled me in on all the local news and gossip. Reed occasionally interjected a comment, but spent most of the time refilling his glass and staring at pics on my pad. Finally, after another in a series of jaw-splitting yawns, I declared my intention of heading to bed.

 

“I’m pretty tired, too,” Ben admitted, gathering the empty glasses and heading to the kitchen.

 

“I guess I should go home,” Reed said, staggering a bit as he rose from the table..

 

“Hey,” Ben said, returning from the kitchen just in time to steady Reed and to guide him back into his seat. “You’ve had too much to drink to drive. Why don’t you crash here?”

 

“No. I’ll call a cab.”

 

“It will take forever for it to get here, and it’s a long ride back to the condo. Stay here. The sofa in the study is very comfy. I promise. And I have an extra toothbrush.”

 

“Okay, then,” Reed slurred. “I’ll stay here.”

 

“Great,” Ben said. “I’ll just go get some bedding.” He disappeared down the hall.

 

“Well then,” I said, “I guess I’ll say goodnight.” I stood up to walk to the guest room.

 

“He’s in love with you. Did you know that?” Reed said.

 

“What?” I asked, turning to look at him.

 

“Chance. He’s in love with you. I can tell by the way he’s looking at you in the pictures. Are you in love with him?”

 

I hesitated before replying. I was exhausted, a wee bit tipsy, and very confused, and I wasn’t ready to bare my heart, especially not to Reed. All I could manage to say was “I don’t know what I feel.”

 

“Have you fucked him? Do you know that?” Reed snarled.

 

These, however, were questions to which I knew the correct answer. “That is none of your business. That ceased being your business the day you decided to stick your dick into John.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking defeated. “I just want to know if I still have a chance.”

 

“This is not a conversation I want to have tonight, especially since you’re drunk,” I said. “We’ll talk about it later.” I escaped to my room as Ben passed me carrying a stack of blankets and pillows.

 

When I left the house the next day at 8 am, judging by the loud snores coming from the study, Reed was still sleeping off his grudge match against the bottle of Pinot Noir. Before starting that battle last night, he had given me a key to the warehouse and the code to the alarm system. I spent an hour or so looking through the antiques from the cottages and identified several pieces that we could use before heading to the salon for my haircut.

 

I was actually ready to cut my unruly mess of hair, though an undercurrent of bitterness about Reed’s interference almost made me ask for a yard of weave instead of a haircut. But, in reality, my long locks were more the result of months of apathy about my appearance and an early mid life crisis than they were about any personal preference, so when the stylist asked “Are you sure you want to go short?” I was able to answer emphatically “Yes!”

 

In the end, I was very pleased with his work. The sides were very short, but the top was a bit longer, shaped into a retro style. The shorter hair brought out the blond highlights from a Spring spent working outside with Chance and emphasized my blue eyes. I did keep the beard, but I had the barber trim and shape it; the result emphasized the planes of my face and my jawline.

 

I had spent a lot of time in the sun over the last couple of months, though, and after cutting the long hair and trimming back the beard, the skin on my face was a bit patchy looking. In addition, I had a bit of a farmer’s tan, so I reluctantly allowed myself to be persuaded into booking another of the salon’s services, a spray tan.

 

I had to admit, however, as I admired myself in the mirror afterwards, the regrettably large sum I had just spent had been worth it. I looked like a new version of my old self; in fact, I hadn’t felt so confident about my looks in ages. The thought crossed my mind that I wished that Chance could see me now. I banished it as quickly as I could.

 

With the additional treatment of the spray tanning, I didn’t have much time before my appointment with Jude. In fact, I was a bit late, but he didn’t seem bothered. Considering how much Reed spent on clothing with him and Jude’s probable commission rate, I wasn’t surprised he didn’t make an issue of my tardiness.

 

“Brandon,” he said, walking toward me with outstretched arms. “You look fantastic!”

 

Jude was a former twink who had kept his slim figure, inky black hair, and perfect porcelain skin into what was (I could only guess since no one knew the actual number) his late thirties. He had a sometimes acid tongue, but since that was balanced by an uncanny ability to pick the most flattering (and expensive) garments in Saks, he was a very sought after professional.

 

“Reed told me you had lost weight, but I had no idea you had gotten so buff,” he said, tucking my arm through his and leading me to a private changing room. “I may have to size some things down. And I love the haircut. Very butch.”

 

A couple of bewildering hours later, I emerged from Saks with enough clothing to get through a week or two of work, with a couple outfits worthy of a date night or an evening at the club thrown in for good measure, not to mention a credit card bill that was large enough to turn my stomach. A few things had to be altered, but Jude promised they would be delivered to Ben’s house well before the lunch on Wednesday. Considering the fact that I had spent the equivalent of several months worth of the average mortgage, I was happy to hear that.

 

By this time, it was late afternoon, so I decided to head back to Ben’s. He wasn’t home yet from work, but he had given me a key. I let myself into the empty house, spread my supplies out on the dining room table, and got to work. When Ben finally arrived home, he was enthusiastic in his praise of my new look. In fact, he was so enthusiastic that I self consciously wondered how bad had I looked before.

 

I didn’t see Reed until Tuesday night. He had been busy with meetings through most of the day, and I had been busy hitting various design vendors around town gathering samples. When Ben and I met him for dinner at Mr. B’s, an old school restaurant in the French

Quarter and one of my favorites, I was somehow very aware of my new clothes and haircut. The look in his eye indicated his approval, but he said nothing more than a smiling “You look great” before launching into discussing tomorrow’s client meeting.

 

New Orleans has a very large and active gay community, at all levels. And the A-List gays, at least the business oriented ones, periodically hosted fundraising luncheons. The focus of the fundraising varied from political issues to AIDS related charities to other humanitarian efforts, but honestly, the real focus was always on A-List gays networking with other A-Lists gays. I had always hated these sort of functions, but Reed had convinced me they were a necessary evil, and apparently Nigel and John, our prospective clients and prospective New Orleans hoteliers, agreed with him, accepting his invitation to join our table.

 

I had ridden with Ben who was my escort into the hotel hosting the luncheon, and I admit I was a bit nervous walking into the room. Though I was confident that hundreds and hundreds of dollars of grooming and clothing, not to mention the loss of thirty or so pounds, meant that I was looking my best, I also realized that this was the first time I was facing these people after breaking up with Reed. I also realized that the vast majority of the people in the room knew exactly what had caused that breakup, who had caused that breakup, and exactly how that breakup had gone down. New Orleans is, in many ways, a very small town; and cuckold is not a fun role to play.

 

But a large amount of money was at stake, and I had faced bigger challenges in life, so I slapped on my game face and headed into battle. After meeting Nigel and Greg, however, I quickly realized that my game face wasn’t necessary. They were, in fact, warm, delightful, and welcoming. Together for decades, their affection for each other was palpable. Nigel, a proper Englishman, was tall, slender, with a full shock of white hair. Greg was quite a bit shorter, quite a bit plumper, and quite a bit balder, but definitely the more lively of the pair.

 

“So nice to meet you,” Nigel intoned after Reed, who had arrived before us, introduced me.

 

“We’re big fans of your work,” Greg interjected.

 

“Yes,” said Nigel. “We had seen your previous projects and weren’t aware that you were not personally involved with this one. We were devastated to learn that”

 

“Aww shucks,” I said, slipping into an exaggerated Southern drawl. “Those kind of compliments will turn a simple country boy’s head.” They laughed.

 

Lunch went well; we discussed the project, and I felt I had a good grasp of their objections to the initial design as well as a good idea of what they would like. But the Degas Cottages were not the only topic of conversation, and I found them to be just fun people to hang out with. After lunch was over, they they headed off to check out the items and services that were available for the silent auction for the charity du’ jour while Ben, Reed, and I stayed at our table.

 

“Shit.” I heard Ben whisper as I discretely checked my phone to see if Chance had texted me. I was disappointed to see that the answer was “NO.” Not that I had texted him, but still. I looked up at Ben’s exclamation. John, fucking John, was headed to our table.

 

“Hi, Ben,” he said.

 

Ben nodded curtly. “John.”

 

“Brandon, you’re looking good,” he said, eyes appraising me with an unflattering look of surprise as he realized that his statement was actually accurate.

 

“Excuse me,” I said pushing my chair back from the table as he put his hand on Reed’s shoulder. “I need some air.”

 

Apparently “air” is synonymous with Scotch, because instead of going outside, I headed straight for the bar and ordered some Macallan.

 

“Are you okay?” Ben asked, sidling in beside me as I sipped my drink.

 

“I guess so,” I said as I watched John lead Reed toward a secluded corner of the ballroom. They seemed to be engaged in an intense conversation, John frequently reaching out to touch Reed’s arm. Periodically, Reed would glance over toward Ben and me, a guilty look on his face.

 

“Be honest,” I said putting my empty glass down and considering ordering another one. “Is Reed still” I paused, carefully ignoring the word “fucking” that I really wanted to use and choosing another one, “seeing John?”

 

“Honestly?” Ben said. “I don’t know. As far I as know, he’s not seeing anyone. But I didn’t know that he was seeing John the first time, so I’m not really your best source of information. It doesn’t matter, though, does it, unless you’re planning to reconcile. If you really want to know, maybe you should ask Reed.”

 

I stared at Reed and John. “But that’s the real problem, isn’t it? How can I trust his answer? But you’re right about one thing, it doesn’t really matter anymore. ”

 

The rest of the luncheon went smoothly, but before I headed out with Ben, Reed took me aside.

 

“Look,” he said, “I’m sorry about that thing with John. It’s….well, I mean...we both work in real estate, and I can’t avoid seeing him sometimes. I’m sorry.”

 

Before he could continue, I interrupted him, “It’s really none of my business who you see, why you see them, or where you see them. Honestly, it’s okay. It was just a bit of a shock more than anything.” Judging by the look on his face, my calm acceptance was more upsetting to him than an anger filled rant.

 

In any case, the next few days were filled with so much work as I prepared for our presentation to Nigel and Greg on Sunday that I hardly had time to eat and sleep, much less worry about my love life. I did break down on Wednesday afternoon and call Chance, but there was no answer. I wasn’t sure exactly what I wanted to say, so I didn’t leave a message. It did make me realize how much I missed seeing and talking with him, but I was soon able to disappear back into my project.

 

I admit I was excited when my phone rang on Thursday morning, and I recognized his home number on caller i.d., but it wasn’t actually him. It was Miss Pauline.

 

“Hello, Brandon.”

 

“Hi, Miss Pauline,” I responded a bit confused since she rarely called me. “Is everything okay?”

 

“Of course. I just wanted to know if you were coming to church and lunch on Sunday so Chance and I knew how much to cook.” She was finally out of the wheelchair and slowly starting to ease back into her former daily routines.

 

“I wish I could, but I’m not leaving New Orleans until Sunday afternoon.”

 

“Oh, that’s a shame. Are you enjoying your trip?”

 

“Well, it’s not really a pleasure trip, I’m here to work.”

 

“Work?” she asked.

 

“I think I told you my ex…” here I stumbled over what word to use. I had found Miss Pauline surprisingly liberal in many of her views on things, including homosexuality, but she tended to use euphemisms like “friend” and “roommate” to refer to same sex partners. “...friend and I had...well, still have a business together, and he had a big deal go south on him. I’m down here to help salvage it.”

 

“Oh,” she said brightly, “I see. Since you’re busy, I won’t keep you any longer, but make sure to come over for supper one night when you get back. And if you’re driving in after dark, be safe.”

 

“I’m planning to leave right after lunch, so I should be back by 7 or so. It should still be daylight when I get home.”

 

“7? Well, that should be safe, then. Good luck on your deal and drive carefully. I’ll make sure to remember you in my prayers.”

 

“Thanks, Miss Pauline, I really appreciate that.”

 

The rest of the week went by in a blur of picking paint samples, drafting floor plans, preparing renderings, etc., but by time of the presentation to Nigel and Greg at the cottages on Sunday morning, I was confident that we had knocked it out of the park. They agreed, and our luncheon afterwards was a definitely one of celebration. There was still a huge amount of work to be done, especially if we were to make the mid-October deadline. I would definitely need to travel Dallas, the closest major design center by early next week, but for now, I could breathe knowing the deal was back on

 

With a 5 hour drive facing me, I limited my champagne to one glass. Reed pressured me to spend one more night in town so we could really celebrate, but after a week in New Orleans, I was ready for home and some peace and quiet.

 

When I left the city, Nigel, Greg and Reed were still celebrating, having been joined by Ben and his partner Don who had arrived home on Saturday from a business trip. I did feel a little pang as I thought of them relaxing in the courtyard of a wine bar as I navigated traffic, but by the time I was driving through the green tunnels of a Mississippi highway created by the old oaks arching overhead, I could feel a certain tension fading away. And as I pulled into silent driveway of my childhood home and stepped in the still, quiet yard, I felt like I could really breathe again.

 

I was still sorting laundry into wash and dry clean piles, when my phone dinged indicating a message. I reached for it, expecting more pics of the revelers...they had periodically sent me pics as they “celebrated” throughout the quarter, including a stop to see the go go boys as the Corner Pocket, but it was from Chance.

 

The text read: We passed by and saw your truck. Momma wanted to know if she should send over leftovers for dinner.

 

I felt a rush of joy finally hearing from him, but I was a little irritated, too. A whole week goes by with radio silence, and now he wants to act like nothing happened. Before I could make my decision, the phone dinged again. Another text from Chance: It’s chicken and dumplings and pecan pie.

 

My mouth watered. True, the food in New Orleans is world famous, but nothing beats Miss Pauline’s chicken and dumplings, except for maybe her pecan pie. I decided it would be foolish to hold a grudge.

 

I quickly texted back: Sounds good I’m going to grab a quick shower. Door is unlocked.

 

It had been a long day and a long drive, which called for a long shower. I spent most of it trying to decide how I should act around Chance: angry? apologetic? like nothing had happened? But since my core problem is that I wasn’t sure if anything had really happened in the first place I was just driving myself crazy. After showering, I put on an old tank top and a pair of cutoffs. Dressing up the past week had been fun, but it felt good to dress for comfort without having to worry about style. As I finished up in the bathroom, I could hear someone rattling around in the kitchen and realized Chance was here.

 

“Holy Shit,” he said, noticing me. “You cut your hair.”

 

I raised my hand self consciously to my head. I had, over the past week, gotten used to it and had forgotten how different the severe hair cut and the trimmed beard made me look.

 

“Yes,” I said stupidly.

 

“It looks really nice,” he said, looking at me intently. “Really nice.” He reached out a hand, almost touching it, but stopped himself. Still, he eyes held warmth as he studied me. After a moment, he turned and went back toward the covered dishes on the counter.

 

“Do you want me to heat up the dumplings?” he asked. “I know you sometimes like your leftovers cold. It beats me how anybody in their right minds can eat cold chilli,” he continued.

 

“Heated please,” I said walking to the fridge. “Do you want a beer or a Coke?”

 

“You want company?” he asked. “I figured you’d be tired after the drive and would want to be alone.”

 

“No,” I said, choosing beers for both of us and handing him one. “I’ve had plenty of alone time for a while.” As he sat a place for me and finished preparing the food which included a salad along with the chicken, I fiddled with my phone and put on some music, some classic country. As Kitty Wells sang about God not making honky tonk angels, we sat down at the table.

 

Conversation was a bit stilted at first, but after the beer and some time, we both relaxed. I told him about my week and my plans for the next, including a trip to Dallas on Tuesday.

 

When I mentioned driving to Dallas, he frowned. “I assume you’re taking your dad’s old truck. It doesn’t have cruise does it? And the seats don’t recline do they?”

 

“Hey,” I said. “it’s a good, solid work truck. I just had it serviced, and it’s got a lot of miles on it.”

 

“I know,” he said, “But it’s not really a comfortable highway vehicle. Why don’t you take mine?”

 

Chance’s truck was a redneck’s dream, a double cab with plush leather seats, chrome rims, a sunroof, and a stereo with every bell and whistle. He treated it like a baby, washing and polishing almost weekly, and sparing it from heavy duty by using a beater for actual hauling.

 

“I couldn’t do that.”

 

“Come on, why not? I can use yours if I need to. You’d be more comfortable. Plus it has Onstar and GPS built in. I’d feel better.”

 

“I’ll be fine, but thank you.”

 

We talked a bit more before he left, and it was like old times. When I walked him to his truck, he stopped and turned.

“I missed you,” he said, and enveloped me in an embrace. He felt so good, all hard muscle and spicy scent. I melted against him. “Me,too,” I said. We held each other for a minute, and I thought he was going to kiss me, but he didn’t. However, he gave me a warm smile before he headed out.

 

I spent Monday doing all the small jobs that a week away entail. Luckily, at this point in the summer, the yard didn’t need mowing, but I did have to clean the house and make the drive into Ruston to drop off things at the one-hour cleaners. I hadn’t seen Chance, but he had called on Monday night to find out when I was leaving and to see if I needed him to do anything. Before I could load my truck on Tuesday morning, though, he pulled into the driveway.

 

I was pleased to see him, though a little harried trying to get on the road, and wondering why he was there. As he got out of his truck, I noticed that the vehicle, always spotless, was actually gleaming. Before I could say anything, he walked toward me and held out his keys.

 

“It’s fully gassed, and I got it detailed. I’ve even set the satellite radio to the Broadway channel for you. And it would make me feel better.”

 

I started to protest, but he looked so pleased, and my own truck looked even shabbier next to the shining vehicle beside it. Plus, it was so much more comfortable. I hated driving without cruise control.

 

As I took the keys, his face broke out in a huge grin. “All right,” I said, “I’ll take it just this once.”

 

In moments, I was loaded, had climbed up into the massive cab, and had headed out to Dallas. Half an hour later, as I settled into my plush seat, slightly reclined, with the cruise control set and blasting Idina Menzel's “Defying Gravity,” I had to admit I was glad to have borrowed the truck. It was a huge hit among the valets in Dallas, garnering lustful glances that my Mercedes had never earned in past visits. But the best part was that every time I climbed into it, I was reminded of Chance.

 

I spent a few days in Dallas, finalizing my finish selections and purchasing furnishings for the cottages. After my return home, I spent the next week or so working on technical drawings, finish schedules, and electrical plans, not to mention coordinating the shipping and installation of furnishings. Thanks to technology, I could do a lot of my work remotely, but I would need to return to New Orleans soon to see how work had progressed and to make sure everything was being implement. After returning Chance’s truck, I hadn’t seen him, though we had talked and texted. I have to admit, I allowed the project to consume me, and when the phone rang on a Friday evening, I realized it had been days since I had seen him, and when Miss Pauline asked me over for dinner, I readily accepted. I needed to head back to New Orleans on Monday, and I definitely wanted to see him before I left.

 

Dinner was good, meatloaf with fresh vegetables from the garden and Miss Pauline’s yeast rolls. We talked a bit about my project, but Miss Pauline wanted to brag about Chance’s catering. Apparently since his help with the prom, several people had called wanting him to help with parties and a wedding. So far he was working out Miss Pauline’s house and the large kitchen at the church, but if he was serious, he would soon have to find or build a catering kitchen. We discussed some possibilities, such as building something here, a couple of locations in our own small downtown area (if you can call a cluster of storefronts around a pair of intersections a downtown) or a location in Ruston.

 

By the time dessert rolled around, cobbler with fresh peaches and whipped cream, we hadn’t arrived at a solution, but I had enjoyed a wonderful evening.

 

“Thank you so much for inviting me for dinner,” I said to Miss Pauline, lounging back in my chair. I’ve been so busy lately, I’ve been living off sandwiches and oatmeal.”

 

She made a “tsk tsk” noise. “Chance has been the same, too. That’s why I decided you both should have a proper meal. You’re neither of you spring chickens. You need to slow down. You know what they say “All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.””

 

Chance and I exchanged glances at woman in her late 70s reminding us that we weren’t so young anymore, but I did feel she had a point. I mean, this project was possibly the most important one in my life, but I hadn’t really taken a day off since before the prom, which was weeks ago at this point.

 

“I know,” she said, brightly as she brought in coffee. “Tomorrow is Saturday night. Y’all boys should go do something. Sow a few wild oats.” She gave us both a disapproving glance, “You don’t have many left...don’t waste them.”

 

We both protested that we had too much to do, but before I headed home, somehow Chance and I had agreed to spend Saturday night in Shreveport.

 

“Does your mother realize that she’s sending us to a den of iniquity?” I asked as I walked into the living room to greet Chance. We had been vague about our plans to Miss Pauline, but had decided to hit Central Station, Shreveport’s biggest gay club that boasted dueling bars, one devoted to country music, the other to the latest dance hits.

 

“Knowing my mother, my answer would be that yes, she does. And probably approves.” He turned to me and stared.

 

I had dressed carefully for tonight. I might be a joking about our destination, but I was actually very pleased to be heading out for a night on the town. It had been a long time, and I wanted to enjoy it, including the preparation for the night. I had gotten my hair trimmed that morning and clipped my beard. I had also spent some time picking my outfit. The jeans were easy, I picked a form fitting, flattering, and hideously expensive pair that Jude had selected, but I wasn’t happy with any of his shirt options. I then found in the back of closet a vintage blue plaid cowboy shirt with pearl snaps that I had worn to country concerts when I was in college and that had survived my stepmother’s various garage sales. Since the weight loss, it fit just right, and the color was very flattering. Finally, for some edge, I wore my old brown work boots. Probably a bit too hipster for someone edging too close to 40 for comfort, but I had been pleased with my reflection.

 

I don’t know what I was expecting as a response. Since the hug on my return home, I had barely seen him, but he had been warm. But now, as I twirled showing off my outfit? Nothing.

 

“You look nice,” I said, mainly to fill the awkward silence. I mean he did look great, but then again when didn’t he?

 

“Do you have any beer?” he asked.

 

“You want a beer, now? Before we head out?”

 

“Yeah. Might as well get Saturday night started.”

 

“Okay,” I said heading to the fridge. “Stella Artois okay?”

 

“Sounds good,” he said before downing it. “That hit the spot. Have any more?”

 

For better or worse, I did have another two which he also chugged before we left. We took his truck, but I insisted on driving. I hadn’t had any real expectations about tonight other than I was looking forward to hanging out with Chance and having some fun. I apparently had set my expectations too high.

 

We drove in silence. After a few failed attempts at starting a conversation, I had given up and had settled for finding a good radio station. Periodically, I would feel the sensation of being stared at and would look over to find that Chance was indeed staring at me, but the moment I glanced in his direction, he would look away.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked.

 

“Fine. I’m fine.”

 

After several of those pointless exchanges I gave up.

 

Eventually we reached Shreveport, and thanks to GPS quickly navigated to Central. After we paid our cover, checked out our options (settling on the country side), and settled in with a couple of beers, things perked up. While not quite back to normal, Chance seemed in a better mood and if the conversation didn’t exactly flow, it wasn’t a painful crawl. I was a bit surprised at the rate he was drinking beers, but since they were putting him a happier place, I didn’t protest. He eventually unbent enough to hit the dance floor. I had a taken some ballroom dancing classes, and though my two step was rusty, especially since I wasn’t used to following, we were soon sailing across the floor with only minor missteps.

 

But after a few fast numbers, a slow one started, We’ve Got Tonight. When the first slow notes played, Chance moved toward the bar, but I had always loved that song.

 

“Come on, stay,” I pleaded. “I love this song.” He sighed, and then turned and pulled me into his arms. The D.J. was playing my favorite version, the Bob Seger one, and I closed my eyes and leaned into Chance as we swayed. I couldn’t help myself and sang along as we danced. As the end of the song neared, I opened my eyes. Chance was a few inches taller than me and was looking down at me. The look in his eyes made my heart catch and before I lost my nerve, I reached up, cradled the back of his head in my hands and kissed him.

 

It was if time stood still. It was magic. He tasted like beer, and the bar was kind of a dive, and the song was schmaltzy, and it was still magic. I pressed closer to him, and he opened to me. I could feel his hard arms crossing behind me, crushing me to him as his mouth opened further. Eventually, I felt someone jostling us and realized the song had changed to another up tempo number. I released his head and moved backwards a step. Chance looked dazed.

 

“I think I’m going to get that beer now. Do you want one?” he said. I nodded no. I followed him through the crowd to the bar. It took a while for him to catch the bartender’s attention. I was quite frankly annoyed. We had shared an amazing kiss on the dance floor and instead of following it up with another, Chance needed to get just another beer. I waited off to the side a bit and watching the dancers, I wasn’t aware when he joined me.

 

“Hey,” he said, chugging the beer. “It’s getting late. We should head back.’

 

“Fine,” I said. “I’ve had about enough fun for one night.”

 

We walked silently back to the truck. The drive back was equally silent, but I was seething on the inside. What was this shit? And then I felt it again, his stare. But I knew when I turned back to him, he would look away. By this time, we were very close to home, but I was through with this bullshit. Noticing a farm road that lead down a field coming up on the right, I slammed on the brakes and jerked the wheel violently turning down that road. The truck bounced up and down as I drove along the field to the fence row at the back. I again slammed on the brakes, bringing the truck to a shuddering halt before. turning off the ignition.

 

“What the fuck is your problem?” I yelled, turning to Chance. “What the Hell is wrong with you?”

 

He looked at me with wild eyes. Without replying, he fumbled with his seatbelt, through the door open and stepped out of the truck. He was moving slowler than usual after all that unaccustomed beer, and so I made it out of my restraint and had run around the front of the truck just as he made it out of the passenger side. I got up in his face.

 

“What the fuck is your problem?” I yelled again.

 

“You are. You’re my problem,” he cried. And then his arms shot out grabbing my shoulder pulling me to him, and his pressed his mouth to mine, hard. If our kiss at the prom had been sweet, and our kiss on the Central dance floor magic, this one was nothing but lust, nothing but animal instinct. I was instantly hard as he trapped me between his body and the side of the truck. And he was too. He ground his erection again mine as his mouth devoured mine.

 

He pulled back for a moment, and I whimpered in disappointment, but that ended as he gripped my shirt and ripped it open, the pearl snaps yielding instantly. Before I could register that, he was one my nipple, teasing it, licking it suckling it. Then, his big hands grasped my waist, throwing me through the open passenger door onto the seat. Chance, not fumbling now, had my jeans unfastened and around my knees before I could react. And then, oh god, his warm wet mouth was on my straining cock.

 

It felt so good, his rough hands at its base, his warmth surrounding me. I was dimly aware that I was going to disappoint him because it was so good, I wouldn’t be able to last. I tried to warn him I was closed, but I could only whimper, and as the hot salty seed shot from me, he moaned and swallowed it, nursing at my cock until it was a limp as the rest of me. I sank into the seat, boneless, as he pulled away. I had just enough left in me to pull up my jeans.

 

He looked so sexy. Eyes wild with lust, his lips swollen, with a sheen of my seed still on them. But as I sat up, and moved toward him, the walls went down. His eyes shuttered, and he turned away toward the dark field.

 

“Chance,” I said. He didn’t answer. “Chance,” I said again, stepping toward him and putting my hand on his shoulder. He turned and caught me low in an embrace so strong I stumbled. His arms wrapped around me, and his head rest on my shoulder. I stroked his hair like one would stroke a scared pet.

 

“Talk to me,” I whispered into his hair. Still he was silent. After a bit, I led him around to the back of the truck. Releasing him, I lowered the bed, and he sat down. I went around the truck, closing the doors, and turning off the lights. I knew he kept a blanket behind the seats, so I grabbed, and went back around to the bed of the truck, where he was still sitting in silence. I spread the blanket in the bed, then crawled into the truck, motioning for Chance to join me where I sat with my legs stretched before me and my back against the cab.

 

With a sigh, he settled against me, his arms going around my torso and his head settling on my chest. I rested my chin against his head, the feel of his short buzz cut against my cheek was distracting, sending signals straight to my cock which was beginning to stir once again.

 

“I always did want to go parking in the back forty under the stars with a hot guy,” I said. “Never knew it would take this long, but it was worth the wait.” I heard a faint chuckle from Chance, but still he was silent. I settled in, enjoying the slight breeze in the hot night, the light from the twinkling stars, and the feel of Chance against me. I could wait until he was ready to talk. I could wait all night like this.

 

I don’t know how long we sat, but eventually, he pulled up and sat away from me a bit. From the light of the stars, I could make out the planes of his face as he spoke.

 

“Sorry, about tonight...I just….” he started. “Shit,” he said, rubbing his hand over his head, “I was always bad at this stuff. It’s I was planning on this, any of this. But when you came out to night looking like a walking wet dream, I just lost it.”

 

I was going to speak, but got distracted by his last comment. Chance thought I looked like a walking wet dream? Before I could speak, he continued.

 

“You have to understand, I’ve never done relationships. When I left this place, I wasn’t ready to admit to myself I was gay, but I wanted to explore. I thought the Navy was the way out of this place, the way to my dreams, and it was at first. I had a lot of fun, and I finally accepted who I was. But…...after a bit, I was ready to settle down, but with who? Most of the time I was in the military, Don’t Ask Don’t tell was in effect. It was easy enough to find someone to fool around with, but most of the guys I knew weren’t willing to risk a relationship. That’s a lot harder to hide. I tried dating some civilians, and there was one guy….” here he broke off for a long minute, turning to look into the distance. “...but it got to be too much….the time gone, and when we were together, we had to be discrete…..he just couldn’t take being my dirty little secret. After that, I guess I gave up on finding somebody. I didn’t want to leave the military, and by the time Don't’ Ask Don’t Tell was repealed, I was pretty set in my ways. And when I left, I was ready to come home. I knew there was slim pickings around here, but I didn’t care. I had Momma to take care off and the farm, and that was enough.

 

Then you came back to town. I don’t know what I expected. Part of me was hoping you’d be some citified snob who had forgot your raising that I could ignore. Part of me was hoping you’d turn out to be a convenient fuck buddy. But I didn’t expect us to be friends. I didn’t expect to fall for you. And then that fucking prom….” Here he paused again to rub his hands over his face and hair.

 

“The whole night, I told myself to be cool, we were just friends, but I couldn’t help myself. And when you went back to New Orleans the next day like nothing had happened, I felt like a fool.”

 

I made a noise of protest. He held up his hand, silencing me, “I know. I know why you went, why you had to go. It’s not that you went….It’s just that it made me realize that you’re not really part of this place anymore. I’ve come home, and I want to stay here, but you’re different. I realized this place isn’t big enough for you anymore…..not that it ever was. And it's too much to dream I can have you and the farm. I decided we should just be friends...that was enough…..but when I saw you tonight….” he trailed off.

 

I moved over to him, putting my finger to his lips. I shifted until I was straddling him, sitting in his laps, my knees on either side of his hips.

 

“I don’t have any answers,” I said. “I’ve spent most of the past year...Hell, the past few years in a state of confusion, just drifting. But here’s what I know,” I continued, pausing just long enough to kiss him. “I know I’m here in the starlight with a hot guy who thinks I’m a walking wet dream.” I kissed him again. “I know that I want you more than I’ve wanted anyone in a very long time. I don’t know what tomorrow holds or the day after, or the day after. But tonight, it doesn’t matter. Tonight it’s just us.”

 

I leaned forward, kissing him deeply this time. He was hesitant at first, then he opened to me and his arms tightened around me. I could feel his erection grow beneath me as I ground mind against him. I broke away. “Let’s go home,” I said. He nodded.

 

We drove the short distance to my house in silence, but it wasn’t the tense one of before. His hand held my free one, and he looked at me openly now, desire written openly in his eyes. The silence lasted even as I led him into my bedroom. “I don’t have...supplies,” I said, breaking away from a kiss. “I wasn’t expecting this.”

 

“That’s okay,” he said. “I want to take this slow, anyway.”

 

We undressed each other slowly, caressing skin, feeling muscle. I had seen him shirtless, many times, but getting to touch that hard, tanned muscle, to taste it was an entirely different matter. And, unlike his rough handling of earlier, treated me as if I were some delicate creation made of porcelain. As the clothing fell away, he delicately touched my flesh, making me shiver in anticipation. We spent the night exploring each other with hands and lips, with touches and kisses, until we finally came together, our cocks gripped tightly in his huge hands. Afterwards, he enfolded me into his arms, and we slept.

 

When I woke the next morning, it took me minute to process what had happened and why I felt a sense of loss as my hand felt an empty spot beside me on the bed. But before I could fret, I realized I heard sounds in the kitchen and could smell coffee wafting down the hall. I grabbed my jeans from the floor and pulled them on before padding barefoot to the kitchen. Chance was dressed, but his shirt was unbuttoned. He stood standing at the sink, looking out the window with a mug of coffee in his hands. He heard me enter, turned and smiled. Any potential awkwardness I was fearing dissipated in the warmth of that smile.

 

“Good morning,” he said.

 

“Morning,” I returned as I stumbled to pour my own mug of coffee. Afterglow or not, I’m not a morning person.

 

“I would have made breakfast, but it’s getting late. I should head home before Momma starts to worry.”

 

“I’m pretty sure your mother knows exactly where you are…..and what you’ve been up to.”

 

He blushed. “I known you’re right, but I still need to get home and help her start on lunch. You are coming to church with us right? And lunch after?”

 

I thought of the work I had to do before I left tomorrow. I thought of trying to sit through a religious service next to the man who had blown me in a stranger’s field. I thought of trying to eat lunch under Miss Pauline’s knowing gaze. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said, earning another bright smile. There was a lot I was willing to endure to make Chance smile.

 

I enjoyed my Sunday, but I had to cut my visit short after lunch. I invited Chance over that night, but he refused, citing errands and an early morning. But any doubt that his refusal was a revival of his after-prom disappointment was dispelled by his enthusiastic goodbye kiss.

 

“How long are you going to be gone,” he said after pulling away.

 

“At least a week. Maybe longer.”

 

“I’m going to miss you,” he said before pulling me close for another long kiss. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I caught movement in the lace curtains hung in the living room window.

 

When I got to New Orleans, I was pleased with the progress so far, but I realized I would need to stay for at least a couple of weeks. Both Ben and Reed offered their guest rooms, but I settled on an extended stay hotel in Metairie. It wasn’t cheap, but I wanted my privacy, and I had the option of extending my stay through the completion of the project which was looking like it would finish ahead of schedule in late September.

 

When Chance learned how long I would be staying, he was disappointed, but took it in stride and arranged for mowing my lawn and keeping track of the house while I was away. He even engaged his mother’s cleaning lady to come by every couple of weeks to keep the dust at bay. We spoke daily, texted throughout the day, and even Skyped a couple of times a week. As much as I enjoyed working on the project, it was getting to the point that my digital visit to Chance was the highlight of my day.

 

Everyone noticed the spring in my step since my return, with Ben teasing me about my redneck sailor, and even Nigel and Greg expressing interest in meeting him. Reed wasn’t pleased when I revealed that we were involved. He was even less pleased when I formally requested a buyout at the completion of the sale. I had held off making a decision until I was certain of my future. I wasn’t actually sure about that, but I knew that whatever it held, I wanted something different.

 

“Are you sure?” he said sighing. “Is there no way to change your mind?

 

“No.”

 

“Is it really all over? There’s no chance for us? There’s nothing I can do?”

 

“Please, understand,” I said. “What we had was great, but it’s over now. It’s time to move on…..for both of us.”

 

“Is this about Chance?”

 

“No,” I said, getting up and walking to the door. “This is about me.”

 

The project progressed smoothly with nothing more than the usual hiccups. I got to know Nigel and Greg well who were spending more and more time in New Orleans. Partly to keep tabs on the project, partly because they were enjoying spending time here. We became friends, but soon I could sense they were keeping something secret. It felt odd, because I felt like I could trust them, but I could sense something was up. One night they asked me to dinner, just the three of us.

 

Dinner was enjoyable, but I could tell they were building up to something. Finally, as we were waiting for dessert, they let me know what was up.

 

“We’ve decided to make New Orleans our homebase,” Nigel said. “We really enjoy it here, and it’s central location actually make a convenient hub for our travel. But as much as we love the cottages, that will not be a large enough home for us.”

 

I looked at them expectantly, sensing there was more coming.

 

“So we’ve bought a series of warehouses in the MidCity area. It’s up and coming. We want to convert them to high end condos. Furnished condos for corporate rental. Very exclusive. Our personal home will take an entire floor. We’ve engaged with our contacts at Architectural Digest to run an exclusive feature on them when they’re ready and partnered with them to be toured as a showhouse before they’re rented,” Greg said.

 

“In addition to the condos, there will be a restaurant, a wine bar, and some retail. We want you to oversee the project. In addition to a generous fee, we’re prepared to offer you use of the cottage of your choice on the Dauphine property for the duration of the project,” Nigel said.

 

He handed me a manilla envelope. “The proposal is in there. We know this a huge commitment...we expect the renovations to take at least a year, possibly 18 months, but we plan to begin immediately and we want you involved. We don’t expect an immediate answer. I know that this is a holiday weekend, so take your time deciding and let us know on Tuesday.”

 

I finished the rest of the meal in a daze, desperate to read the packet, but controlling that desire. But as soon as I was in my car, I ripped it open, rifling through it until I saw the fee they are offering. I gasped. This was huge. Not just the fee, but with the publicity they could generate, something like this could insure my career. But 18 months. 18 months here in New Orleans. 18 months away from my what I was considering more and more to be my home again. 18 months away from Chance.

 

I looked at my watch. I wanted to call him, but it was close to midnight. Even though it was Labor Day weekend and Southern Decadence meant the Quarter and work on the cottages would be shut down, I had planned to stay in New Orleans. I missed Chance, but I was exhausted. He had talked about coming down this weekend, but had his own project going. I thought about going back to my hotel, grabbing a few hours sleep and heading home first thing, but I couldn’t wait that long. I needed to see him, to talk to him now.

 

I headed out to I-10, pausing only long enough to fuel up with gas and coffee. I made the drive in silence, trying to figure out what I wanted. A few months ago, this would have been my dream: A lucrative, high profile project that didn’t include Reed. But now, I was torn. I wanted to do this project, a dream for any designer. But I also wanted to explore my burgeoning relationship with Chance, and at my age, I didn’t know that I wanted to wait another 18 months to do that. I knew who fragile life could be and how fast it can go.

 

By the time I pulled into the driveway of Chance’s house before 6:00 am, I still wasn’t sure what I wanted other than I knew I wanted to see him. I pulled out my phone and dialed him.

 

“Hello,” a sleep-husky voice answered.

 

“Hey,” I said. “It’s me. I’m sorry I woke you up, but I need to talk.”

 

“Is everything alright?” He said.

 

“Yes, but I want to talk to you. In person.”

 

“Sure. What time will you get here?”

 

“I’m outside. Right now.”

 

“Right now. Jesus, what time is it? Did you drive all night?” he asked.

 

“Yes. I really wanted to see you.” As I finished speaking, I saw the door open. Chance stood there, muscular and tanned in nothing but boxers. He hair was much too short to be ruffled by sleep, but he had the look of a man awakened unexpectedly. And at that instant, I knew I loved him.

 

“What is it?” he said, a worried look on his face as I walked to him, hugged him close and buried my face in his chest.

 

“Nothing bad, “ I said. “It’s just that I got some big news, and I wanted to share it with the man I love.”

 

“What news…...wait,” he said, pushing me away far enough to look in my face. “What did you call me?

 

“The man I love….”

 

A huge smile broke over his face, and then I was in his arms again, his lips pressing against mine. I could feel myself being dragged down the hall to his bedroom, his nimble fingers unbuttoning my shirt, pulling at my clothes.

 

When we reached his room, he wasted no time stripping me. Within seconds, I was naked on his bed, on my back, his mouth on my cock, his hands kneading my ass. Then his mouth went lower, and he was tasting me, his tongue flickering against my hole. I struggled to keep quiet, remembering too late he lived with his mother, so I had to place my hand over my own mouth to stifle my moans.

 

Soon, he pulled back, and I whimpered at the absence of his touch, but he was merely pausing to pull lube and condoms from his nightstand. “I bought supplies,” he said with a smirk before placing a lube slick finger at my hole and pressing it inward. It had been a long time since something or someone had entered me, and I winced at the first pressure, but it felt good, so good. He glanced up at me, writhing and whimpering. “Does that feel good, baby? Do you want another?”

 

Without waiting for my incoherent answer, he pressed another finger in. Oh, jesus, that felt good. Then he added a third. I thought I would fly off the bed. And then, then I was muttering as low as I could, “Fuck me, oh god, please fuck me,” he knelt between my spread thighs and slid his slick cock into me. I had been fucked before, but never had it felt like this. I pressed myself onto him, moaning even louder when I felt his rough hands grabbing my hips and pulling me even further onto him. My back arched until I thought I would break into. And then he started moving, I couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but feel pleasure. At some point we changed positions and I was on my knees on the bed. He was behind me, thrusting hard, one hand pulling me back against his chest, one hand stroking my aching cock. I felt him thrust one last time, grunting and pressing against me, and I came, a shattering orgasm.

 

Boneless, I fell off him onto the bed, and somehow managed to crawl to the center before collapsing. I heard him go to the attached bathroom and return with a damp cloth and felt him cleaning me. He eventually returned and wrapped me into an embrace before we fell asleep.

 

After a couple of hours, I woke up. He was still in bed with me, but awake, watching. When he saw I was awake, he smiled.

 

“Good morning.”

 

“Morning. What time is it?

 

“Not quite 9. And, since I didn’t get around to saying earlier, I love you, too,” he said smiling before placing a soft kiss on my lips. I smiled back up to him.

 

“Now, what’s your news?”

 

Before I could answer, a soft knock sounded on the door.

 

“Boys, are you up yet?” said Miss Pauline. “I’m assuming that is Brandon in there with you?”

 

I felt myself blushing from my toenails to the tip of my hair remembering the performance I had put on earlier.

 

“Yes Ma’am, it is,” said an equally red Chance.

 

“Well then,” said the voice from behind the door, “do you want pancakes or waffles for breakfast, or both?”

 

We turned to each other and smiled as we said in unison, “Both!”

 

 

Epilog:

 

 

Two years after our first kiss under a sea of paper lanterns and tinsel stars, Chance and I danced our first dance as a married couple. In honor of that prom night to remember, I used similar decorations, just a lot more of them and the decoration budget was considerably higher. But even if the wedding wasn’t being professionally photographed for publication (thanks to Nigel and Greg’s media connections), I wouldn’t have begrudged a penny.

 

I hadn’t been entirely sure about involving the press, but the magazine agreed to allow us photo approval. And as Nigel and Greg pointed out, not only would it be important publicity for a caterer and his designer husband, it might serve as inspiration for some small town gay teen out there that their own dreams of a farmhouse wedding could come true. I rolled my eyes at that one, but I gave in.

 

Besides, I was very proud of the changes in the house and grounds in the past 2 years, and I was happy to have people see what we had done. While I had worked on the warehouse project, Ben had spearheaded some projects here on the farm. We had converted my father’s large former shop into both a catering kitchen and a small scale canning facility to create the preserves, jams and relishes Chance’s clients bought in increasing quantities. Ever since he had helped with the school’s prom, catering jobs had come in, first in a trickle, then in a flood as he established his own organic farm. The local food movement had made it to north Louisiana, and there turned out to be a huge market.

 

There had also been interest in renting the barn we had held the dance in for events, so Ben and I developed plans to convert it to a climate controlled environment, while still preserving the rustic appeal. Polished concrete floors had been installed, along with a system of sliding industrial glass panels that allowed the front of the building to be open during good weather, but secured during inclimate times. We had also built a rustic building between the catering kitchen and the barn to serve as a green room for brides to use during weddings or photoshoots. Concrete pavers with turf in between, connected the three spaces into kind of a courtyard, and a landscape architect had used plantings of jasmine, climbing roses, honeysuckle, azaleas, camellias and other traditional plants to create a unified effect.

 

Sometimes I thought I was insane for starting the renovations when I was spending most of my time 5 hours away, but Ben and Chance had done the real management of the project. Plus when the warehouse project ended, I wanted to come home to peace, quiet, and completed renovations.

 

The same landscaper had helped design the rest of the gardens into a coordinated effect, including making the new building I added in the former pasture behind the house look like it had always been there. The original house was fine for two people (as soon as Chance and I had become serious Miss Pauline begged me to make him move in with me since he was “cramping her style”), and I didn’t really want to expand it, though I did add to the back patio, put in skylights in the dark hall and replace most of the windows with French doors, but it wasn’t big enough for a work space for me and room for the surprisingly large number of guests that wanted to visit.

 

So I had a part poolhouse, part guesthouse, part office built close enough to the house for convenience, but far enough away for privacy. The nearby pool was the only true extravagance I allowed myself with my financial windfall, but when I went skinny dipping with my hot sailor after a long day of work, I considered a very sound investment.

 

Right now, the guest house was full. Nigel and Greg had come for the wedding, along with Ben and Don. Reed had also come, though he preferred staying in town. His relationship with Chance wasn’t exactly warm, but it was cordial enough. Reed hadn’t brought a date, but seemed in a reasonably good mood. That good mood was probably enhanced by the attention that Frank and his cute hipster friend were paying him.

 

As the night wore own, and I hugged guests, drank champagne, and danced with Chance, I reflected on just how lucky I was. It wasn’t that long ago that I had been in despair over the loss of my partner and the death of my parent, faced with an uncertain future. Now? I was in love...married, no less to the man I sometimes referred to as my childhood sweetheart. My career was healthy; the publicity surrounding the warehouse conversion had paid off, I had good friends. I had everything I had ever wanted, and on my own terms.

 

I had spent a lot of time deciding whether or not to take on the warehouse project, but in the end, I realized it was important not only in and of itself, but also realized that if it went well, it could help secure the future I wanted. I had made it clear early on, though, to Nigel and Greg, that while I would give the project my best, that my relationship with Chance was also an important priority. Over the 18 months of the conversion, I spent many weekend hours driving back and forth, taking most Fridays off after 14 hour days during the rest of the week. Of course some weekends that wasn’t possible, but I usually made the effort.

 

Chance was busy, too, with getting his farm in shape, the catering, and the renovations, but he also made time to come visit in New Orleans, and I admit, while shallow, I got a huge kick showing him off during the round of Mardi Gras balls. He also managed to make several shopping trips with me to New York. I made him bring his old uniform so I could live out some Fleet Week fantasies in that city.

 

After the warehouse job was finished, I managed to turn the ensuing publicity into a successful e-Design business; while I was willing to take the occasional high profile job out of town, I wanted to focus on living here with Chance.

 

So here I was, on a balmy night in May, surrounded by friends and loved ones. Miss Pauline and my stepmother were resplendent in silk suits, both with corsages big enough to throw them off balance. A surprisingly large number of church members were here, undeterred by gay men marrying, champagne flowing, and people dancing. It was a special night, and when I looked at my watch, a plain Timex on a stainless band, I realized one of the highlights, a fireworks display was about to start. I looked around, located Chance, and managed to make my way to him. Grabbing his hand, I led him back into the darkness just outside of well light courtyard. I pulled a small flashlight out of my pocket, and led him around the side of the catering kitchen long the wooded path that led to the pond.

 

“Where are we going?” he whispered.

 

“I have a surprise.”

 

Luckily the night was bright enough that the flashlight was enough to enable us to make our way to the edge of the water. The pond was set not too far from the former shop, but was ringed with greenery, which provided some privacy. at the edge, tied to the small dock, was a boat I had prepared earlier, with some blankets and pillows and a bottle of champagne. We cautiously climbed inside, and I untied the boat and pushed us out into the water as quietly as possible. I had already opened the champagne so it took no time for us to pour each other a flute and settle in.

 

“I wanted it us to have a VIP view of the fireworks,” I said, as I settled against Chace. “In private.” Ben was in on our plan, so I knew as Chance and I were getting into the boat, Ben was leading guests to the official viewing area on the deck. The foliage surrounding the pond screened us from their view, but we could hear their “oohs” and “aahs” as the colored missiles began firing. It was magical to float in the water and see the fireworks bursting overhead, the colors reflecting all around us in the pond.

 

“Here’s to happily ever after,” I said, clinking my flute against Chance’s.

 

“Here, here,’ he said.

 

“I guess kissing all those frogs was worth it in the end,” I said, finishing my champagne as the last of the fireworks flickered.

 

“You better believe it,” he replied as he as pulled me down onto the blankets and proceeded to show me just how lucky I really was.