“I don’t get it. She’s holding you ‘guilt’ hostage in a swanky WeHo condo because…why?”
“‘Hostage’ is a little strong, but she wants me to drop the rock and roll fantasy and get on with my life.”
“If you have a license, sell it yourself,” he suggested.
“When? I don’t have time. If I put it on the market myself, she’ll be notified. Then she’ll swoop in to make sure the sale is handled properly and boom! I’ll be a bona-fide member of the team. The only way out is to move, hand over the rent money, and be prepared to deal with the fallout. And if you haven’t caught on by now, I’m kind of a disappointment.”
“You’re a smart, talented musician. You just dropped an album, and you’re about to go on tour. These are all good things. What am I missing?”
I shrugged. “They aren’t traditional things. My mom struggled to get a piece of the life you know. She was a single mom who worked two jobs at one point. She married a wealthy man and finally got her shot at building her own empire. She’s very successful. She loves her work and her family. She has a beautiful home and the respect she always craved. I’m happy for her, but I don’t want the things she wants for me.”
“What does she want?”
I waved dismissively. “Join the firm, marry a nice girl, start a family, and become her version of an upstanding citizen.”
“Does she know you swing both ways?”
“Yeah. She doesn’t care. Which is wild because I was scared shitless to come out.”
“Why?” He waved dismissively. “Never mind. Stupid question. I was scared too. I knew my parents wouldn’t kick me out, but I didn’t want the ‘gay’ label. I wanted to choose my own label…drummer, trainer. Something that told people what I did instead of who I wanted to fuck.”
“As it should be,” I agreed. “I didn’t know what my mom would say. She never talks about me in a personal sense. She talks about how I fit in her life…in terms of what she needs from me. My cooperation, my time, my admiration. Her field of vision is very focused. When I told her I was bi, she said, and I quote, ‘That’s wonderful, honey. Diversity is a great selling point with homeowners.’ ”
Tegan chuckled. “Could have gone worse.”
“For sure. The funny thing is that the minute she weighed in on my sexuality, I went the opposite route. I’ve only been with a couple of guys.”
Tegan eyed me thoughtfully as he sipped his coffee. “Why Justin? I know it was a long time ago, but…why did you screw around with him?”
Oh. Total vibe buster.
I pushed my cup aside and met his gaze. My answer mattered. Which was funny because we’d never been a couple. We circled around each other without ever staking a claim or even acting interested.
Strange that it took me till now to realize that a lack of interest wasn’t the problem. It was fear.
“I don’t have a reason. We were high, unattached, and blowjobs feel good. That was all we did, and that was years ago…before you guys joined Gypsy Coma. I’m pretty sure you had a boyfriend too.”
“I know. I was still…really fucking jealous,” he said tightly.
“You had a funny way of showing it,” I huffed. “I spent the better part of my twenties convinced you hated me.”
“I did. Sort of.”
“And now?”
“I like you more than I should.”
“Ditto.” I grinned. “Maybe we’ve matured.”
“Dude, we’re secret fuck-buddies who agreed to be fake boyfriends to counteract possible negative publicity. At this rate, I don’t think we’ll ever grow up,” he chuckled.
I raised my cold bagel in a mock toast. “To fake boyfriends.”
Tegan tapped his bagel to mine, then stuffed the rest of it into his mouth. “We didn’t figure this out last night. How do fake boyfriends have real sex without tipping anyone off?”
“No clue. Abstinence?” I gathered our plates and set them in the sink.
“No fucking way. We’ll never last thirty days. We’ll have to get creative. You can send me videos of you jerking off, or maybe we can Skype and do it together,” he suggested, snapping the cover on the cream cheese before putting it in the refrigerator.
Tegan opened the dishwasher and wordlessly took over cleaning duties while entertaining me with booty-call rendezvous ideas, which all seemed to revolve around rest-stop bathroom stalls.
“Sounds nasty and really embarrassing if we get caught.”
“We won’t get caught,” he said, washing his hands then drying them on my raggedy dish towel. He quirked his brow in mock censure and dropped the towel on the counter.
“Hypothetically speaking, would it be easier to just tell Charlie about…” I made a crude finger-in-hole gesture when saying the word “us” seemed…presumptuous.
Tegan shook his head emphatically. “There’s no such thing as ‘just telling Charlie.’ Everyone will know, and I’m not sure if you noticed, but Justin isn’t exactly excited about this. We can’t have band issues on tour. We’re not the fucking Stones.”