We Have Till Dawn

“I didn’t dislike them, no.” It sounded like he’d phrased himself that way for a reason. Not disliking them didn’t automatically translate to liking them.

“I wrote it for my brother.” I reached out quickly and pretended to adjust the lapel on his suit. “But if you took something from it, I’d call it a bonus.”

Gideon peered down at his chest, then lifted a brow at me and smirked faintly. “I can pick up some subtle cues, you know.”

“Good!” I let out a laugh.

“I know you don’t want me to hide who I am,” he murmured.

My humor faded, and I shook my head. “No, I don’t.” I spotted Luiz and Anthony coming closer, so I looked over at them. “Good job today, man.” I held out my fist.

Luiz bumped it with his own. “You too. See ya Wednesday?”

“Definitely.” I was gonna go over some advice with him then because he wanted to advance as a drummer.

Once he had left, I could sense that Gideon’s focus was on Anthony, and I wanted to show him he could trust me to make a possibly awkward moment as painless as it could be. Work was mixing with family, and when work was sex work, it could be uncomfortable for anyone, with or without a diagnosis.

“Gideon, this is my brother Anthony. Anthony, Gideon,” I said. “We’re gonna go grab a beer. You wanna come with?”

I knew he’d say no.

“Nice to meet you.” Anthony shook Gideon’s hand firmly before addressing me. “Nah, I gotta be up early, but you have fun.”

He was a pro. He’d save his questions for later. And he really did have to be up early.

After grabbing our jackets, we made our way outside, and Anthony activated the alarm before locking up.

“I guess I’ll see you at Nonna’s?” he asked, pocketing his keys.

“Always. But I’ll call you tomorrow to bug you with worries and so on.” I felt like a mothering fretter around my brother at times, but it was what it was. I wanted him happy and cared for.

“Can’t wait.” He offered a wry smirk, even though I knew he appreciated the concern as much as it bugged him. At least on the topic of his love life.

Anthony veered right with a two-finger wave, aiming for the parking lot next to the building, and Gideon gestured toward the street for me, where my gaze landed on a car that didn’t belong in this area. And Park Slope was nice.

Just not Bentley SUV with a private driver nice.

“Madonn’, Daddy, this is a $200,000 car.” I drew a finger along the glossy black exterior as Gideon opened the door for me.

“Do you have an interest in cars?” He cocked his head, looking like he hadn’t expected me to have such a hobby.

And I didn’t. I shook my head and slid into the car, offering a nod of greeting to the driver—who offered absolutely nothing in return. “My pop had his own body shop before he retired,” I answered. “He lives and breathes cars. I used to run around down there all the time as a kid.”

“Back to Manhattan, sir?” the driver asked.

Gideon looked to me in question. “Where would you like to go?”

I knew just the place, and I was suddenly antsy to show Gideon a little about my life. I gave the driver the address to Sueños, a small bar in Williamsburg where I’d had my first legal shot of tequila after turning twenty-one.

Gideon wouldn’t feel overly overwhelmed there. It was a lively place, but the booths were designed as little pockets with cabana themes that provided a semblance of privacy. Plus, it was gay-friendly, and I knew the owners.

“You’re about to discover why my Spanish is better than my Italian,” I joked.

The other day, he had quizzed me about my ancestry after I’d called him papi. Like so many others in the Northeast, I was Irish and Italian, though the only stereotypically Irish thing about me was the color of my eyes. They were from Ma’s side, and she hadn’t been solely Irish herself. The Italian dominated. But growing up in a Latin neighborhood had left its marks, and I was a professional language butcher, mixing Italian, English, Spanish, and slang. More so than Anthony, who’d done the adult thing and polished his skills to be able to say he was fluent in three languages. Me? Half the time, I didn’t know what was what.

When I told Gideon this, I thought he’d find it funny. Instead, he pursed his lips and eyed me like he’d just solved a math problem.

“You always place your brother a little higher than yourself,” he noted. “He’s better at languages, at singing, at playing the piano, he’s higher educated, he’s more business-minded, et cetera.”

Damn. Did I do that? I squinted at nothing and scratched my ear.

“I hadn’t thought of that. It’s not a way to put myself down, though,” I replied. “If you want a good Sunday dinner and our grandmother’s not around, you want me, not Anthony. I’m better with the guitar, and I think I’m scrappier than he is. He’s calmer and more careful. I’m impulsive and don’t mind taking some risks.”