The Jock Script (The Script Club 3)

However, the longer I stared at my uneven list of queer pros and cons, the more I realized I needed professional advice.

It was time to call Mom.

Mom lived with her gray Himalayan, Sam, in a fancy oceanfront condo in Santa Monica. The beach proximity and the cat were the two reasons I kept my visits short. I hated sand with a vengeance, and I was a little bit allergic to felines. I usually suggested meeting at her office in Beverly Hills or somewhere in my area, but time was of the essence, and I couldn’t ask Mom to deal with traffic on her day off. So I went to her…dressed in obvious “I’m not going to the beach” khakis and an oxford shirt.

I parked my car and popped a Benadryl for good measure, then climbed the short set of stairs leading to her Spanish-style building. I punched in the entry code and sent her a quick text to let her know I was at the elevator. Don’t worry…I called before I’d left Pasadena too. There was nothing worse than unexpected company. Of course, my mother wouldn’t say that. She was always happy to see me. But I’d seen her unhappy in the past, and I never liked to risk being the cause.

A few minutes later, I stood at her door, straightening my collar and fussing with the petals on the tulips I’d brought. When I was certain everything was perfect, I knocked with precisely two taps. Nothing obnoxious nor too tame. Just right.

I held my breath when the lock clicked open. My skin itched and my palms were sweaty. Geez, you’d think I was meeting the Queen instead of—

“Asher!”

I was enveloped in a warm embrace, then squeezed within an inch of my life before being released with a kiss on the cheek. I reeled from the affectionate onslaught, shoving the flowers at her with a nervous smile.

“For you.”

“My favorite. Thank you. Let’s put these in water and get you a cup of coffee. Come with me, darling.” Mom slipped her arm through mine and pulled me through her sunlit great room into the kitchen.

I perched on the barstool and checked out my surroundings while idly answering her parental inquiries about school, work, and friends. Mom’s condo was very feminine. The walls and furniture were white, but every accent had a vintage floral pattern…pillows, drapery, rugs. It was tasteful and pretty…like her.

“Where’s Sam?” I asked, scanning the room for the gray fur ball.

“He’s in my room. I didn’t want you to have a sneeze attack like last time.”

That had been bad. She’d invited me to come over for breakfast last month. Everything had been going well until she’d introduced her new love…Sam. I’d wanted to be enchanted. He was gorgeous and regal—everything I aspired to be. But my eyes had been bright red and puffy after an hour. When I realized he was the problem, I couldn’t get away from him fast enough.

Today’s visit wouldn’t take long.

“Yes, that was unfortunate,” I agreed.

She arranged the tulips in a crystal vase and set it on the marble island. “So pretty! Now, what can I get you? Coffee, tea—”

“Help,” I blurted. “Professional advice, specifically.”

She smiled kindly. “I see. I’ll put some water in the kettle while you tell me how I can help.”

The hem of her long skirt skimmed the floor and made her look as though she were floating gracefully from the island to the sink. She turned the kettle on, then set a bowl of strawberries between us and pushed a napkin toward me. I smiled my thanks, noting that she’d removed the stems…for my sake. She had a habit of doing little things she knew made people happy. Me specifically.

I’m sure you’re rather curious…so, about my mom…

Jillian Fitzgibbons was a pretty, petite woman with long blonde hair, blue eyes, and a heart-shaped face. I’d inherited her height, hair, and eye color. And although I was attractive enough, I knew my limitations and attempted to make up for them with intelligence and a snazzy style of dress.

Mom, on the other hand, was one of those effortlessly, naturally beautiful people—the perfect mix of intelligence and grace. Her calming demeanor served her well as a therapist to the stars. No joke. Her clientele list was a veritable “who’s who” of entertainment industry greats. I only knew this because I’d been in her waiting room on more than one occasion when a Hollywood heartthrob had walked out of her office. My eyes must have been as big as saucers each time, but she’d set her finger to her lips and had shaken her head, wordlessly squashing my curiosity.

She had a reputation for being extremely professional and trustworthy in spite of the fact that she didn’t dress or act like her LA counterparts. Let’s face it, LA was a city of artifice. People changed their names, rewrote their stories, and sold themselves for a chance at fame and fortune. My mother wasn’t like that at all.