Husband Hunters Read online

  “That’s okay. I’m kind of tired.”

  “Well, if you’re sure.” Matt opened the door and then paused, halfway turned in his seat. He glanced at Cody over his shoulder. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “What did I say? I’m fine.” Cody smiled at him, feeling like the expression came out more like a grimace.

  “Maybe we can get together tomorrow? Take Ryder for an excursion.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  Matt cocked his head. “I don’t know what your problem is, but maybe you can figure it out and let me know.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “See you later,” Matt said.

  “Bye.” Cody roared off, barely giving Matt time to close his door.

  Cody drove off into the damp night. His hands shook, and he felt like he was having heart palpitations. The nausea that had begun when Matt first made his admission had never left. All these things were so severe he wondered if it was the onset of flu. I mean, I couldn’t be this upset over Matt having a boyfriend, could I? What are you, anyway? Jealous?

  And Cody went cold, sitting at a red light. The word popping into his head confirmed it beyond, as they said in the courtrooms, a reasonable doubt. He was jealous! Of his best friend. Why? He didn’t think of Matt that way, did he? He shook his head, confused and upset, almost like he wanted to cry.

  A horn honked behind him, and he noticed the light change from green to yellow. Seattle drivers were polite to a fault. The driver behind him had waited until it was almost too late before sounding his horn. Cody stomped down on the gas too hard and rocketed through the intersection. He glanced in his rearview to see the car behind him still waiting at the light. He shook his head.

  He drove on, trying to hold back the thoughts bouncing around in his head, alien things, stuff he didn’t want to consider or face.

  He found himself in the heart of the Wallingford neighborhood. There was a parking spot just down the street from the area’s only gay bar: Changes. Cody had only been once or twice. He and Matt usually did their pub-crawling on Capitol Hill (just like everyone else), and he recalled the place as being small, kind of low-key, and verging on divey. It was a neighborhood kind of place, where one went looking maybe for cheap Pabst Blue Ribbon instead of their latest trick.

  And right now it sounded like the perfect place to be. Cody swung into the parking space he thought fate had set before him. North Forty-Fifth Street was always busy, and parking was at a premium.

  He stepped out into the drizzle and hurried to the bar, very deliberately not thinking.

  Once Cody was inside, a row of men, hunched over their drinks, turned to give him the once-over. It was a time-honored ritual of every small bar, gay or straight. A couple of the guys peered at him with interest; one smiled.

  He climbed onto an available stool and ordered a shot of Jack Daniel’s. “You got Mac & Jack’s?”

  “Sure do,” the bartender answered, a tall guy with heavy black-framed glasses that brought forth two words in Cody’s pop-culture-addled mind: Clark Kent.

  Cody said, “Line one of those up behind the Jack.”

  Clark turned to fill Cody’s order, and Cody called out to him, “And keep the shots coming. I’ve got nowhere to go and no one to love.”

  A couple of the guys at the bar chuckled.

  Clark set his shot and a beer before Cody. Cody downed the shot, enjoying its burn and promise of oblivion. He took a sip of his beer and noticed the bartender drying a wineglass and eyeing him. “What did I just say?”

  Clark shrugged.

  “Keep ‘em comin’!”

  Clark poured him another shot and very deliberately set the bottle of Jack before him. “I’m watching—and keeping a tally.”

  “You do that. I’ve got a credit card with a $12,000 limit burning a hole in my wallet.”

  What was with him? This behavior was totally out of character. He didn’t need to be sitting here at this bar, drowning his troubles in the fake promises of booze. He knew as well as anyone else who had prayed to the porcelain god after a night of binge drinking that liquor solved no problems. The troubles were there, just like before, when you woke up with a little man with an ice pick pounding away behind your eyeballs the next day.

  But then, he also thought it was totally out of character for him to be jealous of his best friend. But there it was. There was no denying it. He poured and downed his third shot.

  He didn’t want to think about Matt. He didn’t want to think, period. So he kept pouring and drinking until the room got fuzzy around the edges and it felt like the floor was shifting beneath him.

  “Love problems, sweetie?”

  Cody almost didn’t hear the soft, velvety voice at his elbow. He turned to look and saw a very tall and thin man standing too close. He had slicked-back black hair, a pencil-thin moustache, wore a touch of mascara, and was clothed, unlike the jeans and T-shirts of the other patrons, in crisp black slacks and a gray and white pinstriped shirt tucked neatly into his pants. Cody would have guessed him to be hovering around age fifty, although he’d never tell him that.

  “May I join you?”

  The guy’s voice reminded him of that actress. What was her name? Brenda Vaccaro. Although it was very deep, it was very feminine.

  Without waiting for an answer, Cody’s new friend climbed onto the stool next to him. He motioned to the bartender and ordered himself a vodka gimlet. He smiled at Cody.

  “Now, you tell Frank. What brings a handsome stud into a joint like this? And inquiring minds simply must know what troubles would cause you to want to drown that pretty head in alcohol.”

  Cody grinned and felt the room slip sideways a bit. His stomach roiled. “Are you for real?” he asked, embarrassed that his words came out a little slurred.

  “Pinch me, honey. You’ll see.” Frank winked and looked around the bar. The bartender set his drink before him, and he took a dainty sip. “Damn. It’s a shame they outlawed smoking in bars.” He looked Cody up and down, pointedly. “I’m dying for a fag.”

  Cody looked toward the back, where a door opened into a small outdoor area. “Do they allow you to smoke back there?” he wondered.

  “Oh yes. But I want to stay by your side. I have a funny feeling that you have a story to tell. And ever since I was a little tot at my mama’s knee, I loved nothing more than a good story.”

  “We could go back there if you wanna.” Cody smiled.

  “Really?” Frank’s eyes lit up, and Cody had a feeling the addict-inside-him’s eyes did the same.

  “Sure. My ass is tired of this stool.”

  Frank grinned at the mention, Cody was sure, of his ass. “Follow me, sugar.” Frank hopped down from his barstool, and Cody unsteadily did the same, although “hopped” was probably not the right term. He more or less tumbled, holding onto the bar for support.

  As they headed back, Frank said over his shoulder, “You have me at a disadvantage.”

  “Huh?”

  “Well, sweetie, you know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

  “Cody.”

  “Of course it is,” Frank said, grabbing Cody’s hand to lead him into the outdoor area.

  It was fenced, with a row of benches along the fencing. A couple of guys were already back there with their beers at their sides and cigarettes in their hands, deep in conversation. Frank led Cody as far as he could get from them.

  They settled in, Cody’s head going back like a newborn’s to thwack against the siding behind him.

  “Watch that noggin, honey!”

  Cody had a feeling, in his alcohol-addled brain, that it didn’t matter that he had revealed his name to this one. Frank was the type to use terms of endearment as a part of his repertoire. He doubted if the guy would ever refer to him as Cody, no matter how long their acquaintance lasted.

  Once Frank had lit up (Benson and Hedges 100s, Cody noticed) and drawn in a lung-filling drag, he blew the smoke out with something akin to delight. “Oh! Where are my man
ners? Would you like one?” He held the golden pack out to Cody.

  Cody stared at it. Like most kids, he’d taken a furtive puff here and there in his early adolescence. Those were enough to turn him green, bring on a coughing fit, and steer him clear of cigarettes for his entire life. He had never understood their appeal. They smelled awful. “I’d love one.” He drew a cigarette out of the pack, and Frank lit it for him.

  Cody tried hard but couldn’t help but let out a few sputters as he drew in the smoke. It still tasted awful.

  “Not a smoker?” Frank teased.

  “Nah. I’ve just had a little cold. Thanks.” Cody lifted the cigarette to Frank in a kind of toast and then took another drag. This one went down better, and, combined with the alcohol, he had to admit it didn’t taste too bad.

  “So are you going to entertain Frank with your story? Gonna tell me who stomped on your heart and made you want to drown your sorrows so early on a Saturday?”

  Cody looked at the man next to him and realized that, in addition to the mascara, he was also wearing foundation and a little blush. He wondered if the guy did drag. He wondered if the guy had his own tales of heart stomping to tell.

  It all poured out. Starting with the phone call from Matt in what now seemed so long ago, begging him to come to the audition for Husband Hunters, right up to Matt’s news in Cody’s car only an hour or two ago.

  Cody lit his third cigarette and drained his beer. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, man. He’s my little buddy, you know. Best friends. I don’t want him as a boyfriend, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Because you have them lined up, right?” Frank asked. “You have to beat them off with a stick? Or at least your hand?” Frank laughed.

  “You’re funny. But you know how it is: you’re friends or you’re lovers. Never the twain shall meet.” Cody stood, and the world spun. He sat back down. Hard.

  Frank leaned in, smelling of tobacco and a citrusy scent that made Cody want to sneeze. “You need another drink, hon?”

  “Yeah. Shot of—”

  Frank cut him off. “Jack Daniel’s and beer. I know. I’ll be right back.”

  Cody barely noticed when Frank returned with a bottle of water. He downed half of it in a greedy swallow and turned to Frank. “He doesn’t register to me, not that way. Y’understand?”

  “Oh, I understand, sweetheart. You got it bad, and that ain’t good.”

  “What are you talkin’ about?” Cody allowed himself to lean against Frank. The solidity of the man felt good, supportive.

  “Do I really need to tell you?”

  Cody looked at Frank, waiting for more. He wanted to hear it. Maybe if someone else said it, he could believe it.

  Frank reached up and tweaked Cody’s nose. “As much as you need to hear it, it can’t come from here—” Frank touched his own mouth. “—it has to come from here.” He poked Cody’s chest and shrieked. “Oh my! Pec alert!”

  Cody leaned away, regarding Frank. He had a moment of clarity. “You’re right.”

  “Honey, Frank is always right. I counsel the lovelorn so well because it’s a state of perpetual agony for me.” He held up a hand to ward off the protest that was on Cody’s lips. “Now don’t you go feeling sorry for Frank. I have a man down in Renton who comforts me very nicely.” He hiccupped a guffaw. “When he can tear himself away from his wife.”

  Frank coughed out what sounded close to laughter, yet even in his inebriated state, Cody could see the sadness and longing in Frank’s eyes. Frank nodded to the door. “You get in there and tell that bartender, his name is Jules, to call you a cab. Then you go home, puke in your toilet, fall asleep in your bed once the room stops spinning. Then you get up in the morning, puke again, gargle with some Scope, and then you call this Matt up. You boys need to talk.”

  “Why? I want to stay here with you.” Cody nudged Frank. “Maybe you and me can hook up later.”

  Frank laughed. “Honey, I don’t think you could handle me.”

  Somehow, Cody knew Frank spoke the truth.

  “And I don’t want to be yet another regret in your life, if you know what I’m saying.” Frank punctuated his sentence with the glowing tip of his cigarette. “You follow Frank’s advice. Then you come back here next Saturday and tell me how it all worked out.”

  Cody got unsteadily to his feet. “Until next Saturday,” he said.

  “I’ll be here, honey, third stool from the door.” Frank smiled sadly. “I always am.”

  Frank gave Cody a tiny shove that nevertheless made him stumble. “Go on now, go. Walk out the door. Don’t turn around now.” Frank laughed, and Cody tried to remember where he’d heard the words before.

  He stumbled out of the bar, concentrating, concentrating, trying to remember where he’d put his car. He wondered briefly if Frank was even real or some heaven-sent phantom delivered to show him the truth.

  “Silly,” he whispered to himself as he spotted his car ahead. He struggled to pull his keys from his pocket, dropped them on the ground, picked them up, and staggered to his car.

  He would do it. He would call Matt in the morning.

  He sighed, staring at his perfectly good vehicle at the curb. He couldn’t do it. Home wasn’t that far off. He’d walk. The night air would clear his head.

  Chapter 18

  Just like almost every other morning of late, Matt awakened to find a warm mouth on his cock and a head bobbing up and down under the covers. He smiled and relaxed into the pillows. He had learned early on that there was no stopping Tre until he got his early morning protein smoothie. When they had first started going out, Matt had protested (weakly), saying he wanted to return the favor, but Tre wasn’t having it. He explained, with semen-scented breath, that he got his pleasure from giving men pleasure. He wasn’t being unselfish at all, he had said, more like the opposite, as he lowered his head to lick away the last drops of come dribbling down Matt’s shaft.

  Matt stared up at the ceiling as Tre worked away, efficient, like some kind of piston-driven engine, tongue swirling, lips expertly covering his teeth, and somehow, magically, contracting his throat muscles to squeeze and massage every inch of Matt’s cock. He was like a cock-sucking eighth wonder of the world.

  Wasn’t Matt a lucky guy? So why, he wondered, am I lying here thinking about Cody?

  He had been surprised at Cody’s reaction when he finally revealed his involvement with Tre. Tre, as if he could read his mind, moved down to lick and gently suck each of his balls in turn, while stroking Matt’s spit-lubed shaft with his hand. Matt had never expected Cody to be upset or, God forbid, jealous.

  Yet, if Matt didn’t know better, that was exactly Cody’s reaction. In fact, Matt would go so far as to say he was sick with the green-eyed emotion. Even in the darkness of the car, he could see Cody’s skin was paler after he’d told him about Tre.

  Speaking of Tre, Matt reached down to ruffle his hair and groan appreciatively. The boy was working so damn hard; he deserved acknowledgment. Hell, he deserved the Nobel Peace Prize.

  Matt didn’t know what to think about Cody. Most likely, his upset was over something else, something he hadn’t yet told Matt about or didn’t want to share with him, for whatever reason. Or even more likely, he was jealous. But not of Tre; of Matt, for landing Tre. He had probably had his eye on the quirky-cute cameraman from the start and didn’t like that he had chosen Matt over Cody. It had hardly ever worked out that way in the past.

  He felt himself getting close, and thoughts about Cody, about school the next day, about the world in general, dropped away to be replaced by waves of pleasure building in intensity. He bucked his hips and cried out into the sun-drenched room as he shot deep into Tre’s throat. Tre guzzled his spunk appreciatively, slurping noisily and groaning himself. Matt shuddered for a full minute after the first waves hit him, and Tre did not let go of his softening cock. He had once said Matt was like the old Maxwell House Coffee commercials. “Good to the last drop.”

  Tre popped u
p from under the covers, grinning. There was a dab of come on his cheek. He pulled back the covers to reveal his smooth, tanned chest, covered with his own come. “See what you do to me, Daddy?”

  “What you do to me!” Matt growled, pulling his face up so he could give Tre a kiss, morning mouth be damned. They kissed long and hard, and Matt could taste his own come.

  After the panting died down and both of them had relaxed sleepily against the pillows, Tre wondered, “You ever think about us living together?”

  The question had come up before, always from Tre’s lips. Matt, once upon a time, had dreamed of the moment when a man would say such words to him. He felt like then his life would be complete, joined to another, yet whenever Tre brought it up—and he had since, like, their second date—Matt always hedged.

  “Wouldn’t that be somethin’?” he said, smiling and tousling Tre’s hair. “I like your hair this way,” he said. “So soft and silky without any product. You should go natural sometimes. You’re just as cute.” He kissed the tip of Tre’s turned-up nose. “What do you want for breakfast? I got some poppy-seed bagels like you like. Cream cheese and salmon too.”

  “Quit changing the subject, Matt.”

  “What are you talking about? I’ve also got a big old heirloom tomato that I got at the farmer’s market yesterday morning.”

  “Do you ever think about us living together?” Tre asked again, a bit of a whine in his voice.

  Matt knew he couldn’t avoid it any longer. Tre had asked him the same question, or a variation of it, something like a thousand times already. It was usually when Matt was fucking him, so he could gloss over it by pushing into him deeper or moaning, but he knew the moment of truth had arrived.

  Why shouldn’t he? It wasn’t marriage, after all. Why not give it a try? It might very well be the first step toward a lifetime of happiness, fulfillment, and true love. He could certainly do worse. Tre was gorgeous, in his own artsy, hipster way. Matt had more than once thought the guy was out of his league. Tre was funny and made him laugh all the time. He wasn’t afraid to hold hands in public. He was an amazing kisser. And the sex was off the charts! So frequent Matt got rug burns on his dick after just their first week together. It was hard to imagine the flame of their coming together ever dying down.