Chapter 1
Our Japanese rep has just started his report when my cell phone rings. As I take the call, my assistant Kevin hits the mute button on the speaker phone and throws me a dirty look. But at this hour of the morning, there’s only one person who would be calling me on this number—everyone else is in on the conference call, listening to Masuko rattle off last month’s sales figures. Despite the mute button, I whisper into my cell, “What’s wrong?”
My lover’s voice sounds hurt at my abruptness. “Hello to you too, Mr. Thompson.”
With a sigh, I massage my temples. “Timothy, I really don’t have the time for this—”
“You got a phone call,” Tim interrupts.
The way he says it makes me think he expects me to know who it was, like I’m a mind reader or something. When he doesn’t tell me right away, I snap, “And?”
I’m not in the mood and he knows it. “Never mind. I guess it can wait ‘til you get home. Or are you working late again tonight?”
Without thinking, my gaze drifts across the polished conference table to where Kevin sits, taking notes on Masuko’s report. Kevin’s a good ten years younger than me and naive enough to think that a few sloppy blowjobs after hours will get him the promotion into marketing that I know he wants. He’s nothing like Timothy, which only adds to his appeal. But there’s really nothing between us, and the moment he balks, I’ll kicking him to the curb like I did my last assistant—there are dozens of young men out there just like him, with hot, tight bodies and willing mouths, eager hands. My interest in him is already on the wane. When he notices me staring, he gives me a quick grin and runs that devilish tongue of his across the front of his teeth, like that’s supposed to be sexy. No, I’m not up for his games tonight. To Timothy, I say, “I should be home on time. Who called?”
My lover’s pout is evident in his silence. Why call me at work and then refuse to speak to me?I want to ask, but that would start an argument and God knows, I don’t need that shit today. I’ve got another two hours at least in this conference call, and a late lunch with a prominent WeHo ad client, not to mention a staff meeting after that. Today’s long enough as it is without a fight. Trying to tamp down my annoyance, I cajole, “Timothy, baby. What’s wrong?”
For a moment I’m sure he won’t answer, just pull that ‘it can wait’ routine of his, then spend the rest of the day stewing about the whole thing. But there’s something in what he doesn’t say, something that quickens my pulse and makes me think, irrationally, he knows
Knows what? About Kevin? No, my assistant’s been right here in this office with me all morning, he couldn’t have called my home. No one else who might have that number comes to mind. So why the rush of adrenaline through my system then? Why the trepidation that makes me ask, cautious, “Timothy? Talk to me. Who called?”
In my ear he sighs, a strangled sound that tells me he’s more upset than he lets on. That sound pushes me away from the table, already shifting into damage control mode, and when Kevin looks at me, I mouth, “Be right back.” Then I’m out in the hall, heading for a sunny spot near the windows so I can get better reception, and as I look down over the James River, meandering at the edge of the city, I ask again, “Timothy? What’s going on?”
“Brian,” he starts.
Suddenly I wonder when I held him last, just a quick hug for no reason at all. When did we last kiss? Not the peck on the corner of the lips that I gave him this morning when I left for the office but something deeper, something more. Something real. I should fire Kevin, or promote him like he wants, get him out of my office, hire a pretty girl who’s nice to look at but nothing tempting. I should be more loving to Timothy, more devoted, more honest. Then there would be no fear coursing through me, nothing to make me think I’ve done something wrong when I hear my name in his voice like that. I’m scared of what he’s planning to say. I want to hang up the phone, go back to my conference call, get on with my day. Instead, in a low voice I ask him, “What?”
Finally he tells me, “Some guy called for you.” My mind starts flickering through names and faces, trying to pin together someone who might have reason to call the house, but nothing sticks. “He said it was important, told me to get you to call him back right away.” A heartbeat later, he adds, “He said he was your brother.”
My—“God,” I whisper. My blood turns to ice in my veins—I knew I should’ve hung up when I had the chance. “Joey called? You’re sure it was Joey?”
Now Timothy snaps. “Brian, who the fuckis Joey? We’ve been seeing each other for three years now and maybe that’s not much to you but it’s a lifetime for me. And this is the firsttime I’ve heard shitabout a brother. So who is he? Tell me. Who the hell is he?”
He’s Joey.“He’s my brother, asshole,” I growl into the phone. “He told you that.”
The pout is back in Timothy’s voice. “Why haven’t you mentioned him before?”
“I’ve never mentioned my parents, either,” I point out, “but if an old guy called saying he was my dad, you’d believe him, right?”
No answer. I don’t expect one, don’t need one, because my head is spinning out in a million different directions right this moment, Joey. I haven’t talked to him in forever. Yet he sends me a card for my birthday every year, I have the stack of envelopes in the bottom of my underwear drawer, his spindly handwriting so familiar that I don’t have to open the cards to know who they’re from. And he has my phone number, imagine that? Maybe he Googled it. When Timothy doesn’t speak, I ask, “Did he say what he wanted? Is everything okay?”
“He said to call him back,” Timothy mutters with a sniffle. “You want his number now, or you want to call him back tonight?”
If I talk to Joey right this moment, the rest of the day will be shot. Hell, it’s already going down the drain…ignoring the reproach I hear in Timothy’s voice, I say sweetly, “I can call him later, I’ll be home on time. Thanks for letting me know, babe. I’ll see you soon.”
Another sniffle—now that I’ve turned on the charm, he’s reluctant to hang up. “Joey, huh? He sounds like a nice guy on the phone. He look anything like you?”
No,I think, he looks like you.But I shake that thought away before it can take root and smile into the phone. “You’d love him, everyone does. He’s great. Look, I’m sorry I never told you about him but he’s…I guess it just slipped my mind, you know? I haven’t seen him in years. He didn’t say why he called?”
“Just said to have you call him back, when you got in.”
I nod even though Timothy can’t see the gesture. “All right. You’ll be home when I get there?”
“Should be,” Timothy says. “I’m off until tomorrow, then I start on second shift. You’re sure you’re not staying late?”
I glance at my watch but don’t see the time—I see my brother’s rugged, bearded face smiling back at me. Timothy has the same warm eyes, the same ‘Mountain Man’ look. The same hands, the same narrow waist, the same thighs and hips and…
Shaking that thought away, I clear my throat. “I’ll be there a little after five. I gotta go, hon. I’m in the middle of a conference call here. Love you, all right?”
Before he can answer I close the phone, cutting the connection. For a moment longer I stand at the window, staring down at the river below, the traffic snared across the James River Bridge, the battered brick buildings downtown. Joey…why the hell would he be calling after all this time? What can he possibly want?
And, more importantly, do I have the courage to call him back to find out?
* * * *
I spend the rest of the day trying not to think of Joey and failing miserably. During the conference call, I stare out the window at the crisp autumn sky beyond the glass, lost in those thoughts. It’s been so long, he meshes with Timothy in my mind, the two of them interchangeable. I try to remember the last time I saw him—a while back, I’m not sure exactly when, far enough in the past that the details of his face have grown hazy, letting him morph into my lover and back again. I never realized it before, how closely they resembled each other. Did Timothy have that burly beard when we first started dating? Perhaps…I don’t recall for sure.