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“Come on, it’ll be fun! You’ll get to drink cheap champagne and eat dry canapés,” he jokes.
I don’t challenge him, although I’m well-aware that these swanky photography events are generally serviced by luxury caterers like Potel Et Chabot. Before I’m able to complain, my sexy boyfriend fuses our mouths together in a blistering kiss, an effective tactic to stop my tantrum.
Traveling was never an issue before … His hold on me is growing stronger with every passing day, though. Who would have thought I’d be in this position? Ash may refer to me as a dom, but I’m a needy boyfriend nonetheless and not ashamed to express it.
“And most importantly, you’ll get to see your BFF.” Indeed.
“Now give me a kiss goodbye and let me go before you make me miss my plane.”
He dutifully obliges. Our lips lock. I hum my approval. Without further ado, he opens for me, allowing my greedy tongue to dance with his. I explore as I’ve done a million times; it’s always invigorating and never enough. His fingers squeeze behind my ears, contradicting my demand. My fingers fly to his blond curls and tug on them possessively. At last, my shoulders relax… at the exact moment his timer chimes and he releases me. His strangled voice betrays the emotion that he conceals behind a composed smile; unlike me, he’s perfected the art, with the help of his previous boyfriends (by his own admission).
“Go!”
* * *
“Ilove it.”
“Shocker!” Garcia mocks me. Ash would be proud, not only because she’s been teasing me since we got here. She looks dashing, and my favorite fashion aficionado would approve of her tailored black Lagerfeld suit with a splash of color; the blazer’s bright pink collar matches the satin stripe running along the exterior of the fitted pant leg. “Can’t go wrong with Ruinart champagne.” She proceeds to fetch and devour a bite-size canapé with foie gras, dried fig, and roasted onion with her next breath. “You should try one; it’s delicious,” she exclaims after chewing and asks the waiter what he recommends next. She indulges in one with a prawn and licks her lips.
I can’t resist either because the food’s as delicious as expected and I need to occupy my thoughts with something other than the need to ditch the posh late afternoon party. It’s taking place near the Champs-Elysees, in a richly decorated yet impersonalsalonthat resembles Versailles. Definitely not my scene!
I fidget in my tux. Monkey suits aren’t my jam in the slightest. At least, I was able to take a nap earlier today; for some reason, the jet lag’s been harder to recover from these last few days. Maybe that has to do with my latest photo shoot at the infamous Parisian cemetery, Le Père Lachaise. The location might sound less glamorous than a Balinese beach, yet celebrities are buried there and it’s a trendy, touristy place. Also, I couldn’t turn down the prestigious French magazine’s offer to work alongside a renowned designer. Still, it had to be set and shot indecently early to avoid crowds and benefit from the early December glow.
Garcia throws back her half-full glass and confirms, walking, “Great food and the best champagne. Now you’ve gotta come out of your shell and shake some influential hands. Our agency is throwing this party for that exact reason: networking! Don’t miss your shot to do some serious ass-kissing.” She winks.
“Yes,Mom.” I smirk. Sometimes, I wonder how I enjoy being Ash’s dom so much when my best friend lives to bossmearound. Her maternal instincts have been intense ever since I hinted at my family situation—a faraway mother and an absent father that I might as well refer to as a sperm donor. “But I still feel uncomfortable.”
Inadequate might be more accurate, I mentally correct myself and refrain from speaking aloud. Tonight is about connections, not a Psych 101 class. My friend would have a field trip learning about the few impressions my so-called father left on me. Showing me that I was never enough. Belittling my successes. Ruining my efforts to look up to him.
I hate that the spite still affects me and makes me feel like an outsider. Now that I think about it, I should be grateful that the asshole didn’t stick around, although the damage was done. I prefer to keep those parts of my life bottled up. I regret the glimpses Garcia gathered when I let them slip between my drunken or angered lips.
Unaware of my inner turmoil, my friend brushes my bicep for comfort and presses, “Why so uncomfortable? Because I dragged you as my plus-one and you’d rather be snuggling with your California surfer boy?” She discards our empty flutes on the tray one of the staff skillfully holds over his head as he waltzes around the guests. Then, she snags two full glasses of the delicious beverage and we clink glasses. Smart woman, loosening my nerves with alcohol!
“Well, I do miss him.” I let the confirmation escape once my glass is empty. My friend’s eyebrow spikes to her hairline. I’m not one to share my feelings, especially after so little time in a relationship. I’ll bet she recalls how long it took me to admit my genuine interest in her younger brother. “Still, I couldn’t dream of a better plus-one than you. First, because I’ve missed you. Secondly, because Ash would be bored out of his skull here. And third, you know I don’t hide my sexual orientation, but I detest flaunting it.”
“It’s a shame Ashton had to stay for work. I would have loved to meet him in person. I mean, video calls have their limits, you know.” She takes a deep breath. “Also, you two make a great couple… and, for the record, it’s notflaunting”—with fingers clenching the stem of her flute, she awkwardly air quotes the word—“when the person you’re holding hands with is your significant other.”
“But he’s not… It’s barely been two months and the L word isn’t out yet.”
“It’s only a matter of time,” she admonishes. Her fingers intertwine with mine. She brings my hand to her mouth for a gentle kiss—the way she does when a buzz enhances her touchy-feely nature—but is interrupted half-way by a scratchy masculine voice that turns my blood ice-cold.
This can’t be happening, can it?
“It’s been so long, I almost didn’t recognize you. Who would have thought we’d meet under such circumstances, son?”
I swivel my head in the direction of the man that I once called my father. Garcia gasps; even if he didn’t spell it out, she’d figure out who the infamous multi-award winning war-zone photographer is. In a strangled voice, I blurt out, “I had no clue Bayeux War Correspondent Award winners would be invited.”
Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here…
My supportive friend’s fingers squeeze around mine as if delivering a message using Morse code; maybe she is, but I wouldn’t know.
Registering that my comment tipped off Jean-Baptiste Toussaint to how closely I follow his whereabouts, I bemoan my stupidity. Too late…
My reserved demeanor due to my previous unease has vanished. The smile that Garcia had brought to my face morphs into a hard line as bile fills my mouth.
Incapable of holding back atssknoise, I straighten my 6’3 frame, then glare down at him; he’s barely 5’11. Granted, it’s childish, but the fact that I tower over him pleases me to no end, almost as much as seeing how unkind the years have been to him. Skinnier. Paler. Sadder… Or is he? My memory of him is blurry. After all, I haven’t seen him in over two decades. His arrogance has clearly remained intact, and so has his desire to attract attention. His thin frame is clothed in an expensive-looking all-white tuxedo.
What a fraud: Mister Ice Cream Man!
