Chapter Seven
Grady
“Aw, hell no.”
Chet frowns, his messenger bag looking heavy, what with the way it’s slung over one of his slim shoulders. “What?” he asks. “It has seven four-star ratings on .”
“Betty’s Bed & Breakfast?” I glance down Hastings Avenue, not far from the Palmer Properties building and just in front of the Cracked Egg Café. “Chet, all week?”
“I mean, just until Nash and the rest of his team get into town, and then I think we’re moving somewhere bigger.”
My mind is racing, not just with my gradually simmering crush but with Chet’s mental health.
“Listen, no one loves Betty-Jean Simpson more than I do. I mean, her lemon bars are to die for, and her sweet tea? Off the charts. But if you’re looking for a place to rest and work and get a little peace and quiet?
No, son, that ... that’s not the place for you. ”
He frowns, looking adorably flustered in the early afternoon sun. Flustered enough, I hope, that he won’t notice my obvious intentions in reassigning him somewhere a little more ... private ... for the rest of his stay. “Well, everywhere else was booked up for some reason.”
“For some reason?” I huff. “Chet, the rooms are all full because we’ve got about twelve different construction crews in town trying to wrap up work on the Galloping Galleria before summer’s over.”
He shields his eyes from the sun, glancing quietly up at me. “Oh. I ... I guess I hadn’t thought about that.”
“It’s fine,” I tease, nudging his hip with mine and trying to ignore the lightning bolt of desire the simple touch ignites. “Luckily, you’ve just started over with the town’s best property manager, so you’re golden.”
“Best?” Chet teases back. “Weren’t you in school like ... a week ago?”
“Fine, Chet,” I grouse. “Newest property manager. Do you want my help or not?”
“I mean, what are we talking about here?”
“Somewhere a lot more amenable to your, uh ... finer sensibilities, Chet.”
“I took a virtual tour of Betty’s place,” he insists, even as he starts to follow me back down the street. “It didn’t look that bad.”
“It isn’t bad,” I insist as we approach my office building. “If you’re a middle-aged married couple looking to reconnect over sweet tea, lemon bars, and endless—and I do mean endless—talk about the good old days.”
“Oh.” Finally, he gets it. “Oh!”
He pauses as we approach the three-story brick Palmer Properties building, quickly doing a little stutter step to keep up as we pass it entirely. “Now, where are we going?”
“My truck, silly.”
His smile widens as we round the corner into a parking lot behind the office building.
There are only a few cars in the lot and only one truck.
I smirk. Usually, there are two, but Parker’s raggedy ass pickup is nowhere to be seen.
Then I remember—hadn’t he said something about keeping Ginny McBride “busy” as soon as I left the office?
I steer past the driver’s side door and, instead, hold the passenger door of my gleaming silver truck open for him.
He looks at it like he doesn’t know how to get in.
Either that or he’s not used to southern gentlemen being so .
.. southern gentlemanly? I kick the guardrail beneath the door with my chocolate brown loafer.
“You just step up here,” I warn him playfully.
“And I’ll toss you in the rest of the way. ”
“No, it’s just...” He nods at the open door. So that was it, after all. “You don’t ... you didn’t...”
“It’s fine, Chet,” I assure him, tempted to boost his little ass up into the shotgun seat if only it wouldn’t make the situation even more awkward. “Haven’t you ever heard of southern hospitality?”
“Sure, yeah, I’ve just ... never seen it in action.”
He breezes past me, alighting into the passenger seat with surprising dexterity for such a prissy little fella.
Once he’s settled, wriggling into place like a little tyke about to head off to Sunday school in his sleek LA outfit, I nod at the seatbelt.
“Buckle up,” I grunt, swinging the door shut on his playful laughter.
Damn, I think, hustling around to the driver’s side with a sudden kick in my step. But ain’t his laugh pretty?
“Where’s your luggage?” I ask suddenly, backing out of my spot as the heavy messenger bag jostles between us.
He pats it playfully, as if feeling adventurous all of a sudden. “The studio’s sending it along once I get settled. I didn’t want to mess with baggage claim, so I just packed his baby to the gills for now.”
I frown. “Can you change the address?” I ask, easing into traffic along Hastings. “I mean, once I get you all settled in your new place?”
“I doubt it’ll be a problem, but ... you don’t have to go to all this trouble, Grady. Honestly.”
I smile, my elbow resting on the open window as I wait to turn onto Winding Way before cruising out to the new development at Juniper Junction. “Consider it a makeup gift for, you know ... our little dustup back at the office this morning.”
He grunts. “You call that a dustup? You should hang around the studio when they’re negotiating a new contract. Now those are some dustups.”
I glance over at him as we wait at the next stop sign. “Funny, Chet. I just—don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but...”
“I know, I know,” he beats me to the punchline. “I’m not exactly the Hollywood type, right?”
“Something like that,” I murmur as downtown Pistol Creek fades in my rearview mirror as we head on to the newer, more moneyed side of town.
“I mean, obviously I didn’t move to LA to do publicity for some western studio,” he grouses.
“So what did you move to LA for then?”
“I mean, it wasn’t much of a move,” he explains coyly, avoiding my eyes as we watch the older, more lived-in buildings of Pistol Creek give way to the glossier, sleeker, newer developments on the outskirts of town. “I grew up in Palmdale, so...”
“That’s ... not quite answering my question, Chet.”
“For a boy, okay,” he gushes, relief seeming to flood both of our bodies as he stares back at me at the next stop sign. “I followed a stupid boy to LA and ... and...”
“How’d that work out for you?” I ask with a smidge of foreshadowing.
“How do you think it ended?” he huffs. “Fucker dumped me the minute he got his first role on a soap opera. It wasn’t even a recurring role. He played an extra in a crowd scene, and thought he was going to be the next Brad Pitt.”
“Who’d he dump you for?” I ask, heart racing with the implications: no more beating around the bush. No more guessing. No more doubt. Chet and I do play for the same team, after all.
“Huh?”
“You said he dumped you, so...”
“Some stupid actress,” Chet squawks, voice breaking like he’s literally just reached puberty at that exact moment. “Of all things.”
“I mean, people are ‘bi,’ Chet. It’s a thing. That exists. Especially out in LA, I’m thinking.”
“Pierre’s not bi,” Chet gushes. “He’s probably not even gay, either. Or straight. He’s just ... just ... in love with himself, that’s all!”
I chuckle. He punches me playfully, as if now that we both know he’s out, he can finally be his cute little gay self with me. “Pierre?” I tease. “Really, Chet?”
“Trust me, Grady,” he huffs familiarly, as if we’ve known each other all our lives and not, from my latest guess, about two whole ass hours. “If you could have seen Pierre, you would have followed his pretty little ass to Hollywood, too.”
I chuckle. “And then what?” I ask, dodging the issue artfully. “After Pierre dumped you?”
“His name was on the stupid lease,” Chet bemoans. “So I had to move out. Which meant I had to get an actual job, and the only place hiring was...”
“Lemme guess. Wild West Studios?”
“I started in the mailroom,” he explains with an almost embarrassed little nod. “Couch surfed with the few friends I’d made until I had enough saved to rent a shitty little apartment not far from the studio and, well ... the rest is history.”
I turn off the main thoroughfare toward one of the newer developments across town. “So let me get this straight ... you’re the one and only person who moved to LA without actually wanting to be in the movies?”
“Trust me, Grady. The only place I wanted to be when I made the move? Was in Pierre’s pants.”
I chuckle-snort at this sudden turn onto Dirty Talk Lane. Then what he just said hits me. “Wait, did you ever...?”
“No!” he moans. Literally moans. “The closest I got was when we jerked off together the night we moved into our apartment. That is, his apartment.”
“Wow, that’s...”
“Too much?” He makes a little cringe face.
“No,” I hedge, all but licking my horny little lips at the mental imagery. “I mean, I was going to say that’s ... hot?”
“It so was,” he croons, really leaning into his swish now.
Not that I’m complaining, mind you. Opposites attract and all that.
“He was this exchange student in my World Cultures class at Palmdale Community College. I kind of stalked him around the quad until I found out his favorite coffee shop, and then just happened to be there when he got out of class one day. He recognized me and, well...”
I nod, picturing Chet pining over some swarthy soccer stud to the point where he followed him around campus, the sexy, needy little shmuck. “The rest is history?” I finish for him.
“Ancient history,” he insists.
I frown as I turn into the trendy new development, admiring the roughhewn wooden sign ensconced in a bower of fresh scrub pines proclaiming we are now in Juniper Junction.
“How ancient?” I ask, a trace of possessiveness creeping into my tone as the road dips steadily toward the left, greenery becoming more and more dense with every spin of my pebbly truck tires on the freshly paved road.
“Would it matter?” he deadpans, glancing over as we pull up to one of the stylish new log cabins that dot the sprawling, if empty at the moment, development. “I mean, he never even touched me.”
“Still, mutual masturbation? That’s ... pretty intimate.”
“I suppose,” he reconsiders, the smell of evergreen and sunshine creeping through the truck’s open windows as I subtly silence the engine so as not to startle him. “I mean, if you do it with the right person.”
“And Pierre?”
“Obviously not the right person...” His voice trails off, eyes gently adjusting to the new environment as I slide out the open driver’s side door before shutting it with a resounding thud.
He follows suit, joining me in front of the cozy log cabin as I hoist his heavy messenger bag over one shoulder like a caddy at some swanky golf tournament.
“Damn, son,” I huff, adjusting it to be more comfortable as the lush greenery and rustic cabin instantly soothe my nerves. “What’d you pack in here, a pile of rocks?”
His laughter borders on a giggle. “No, but...” He strikes a coy little pose, looking cover model handsome in his sleek, cityfied outfit—and boy doesn’t he know it, too. “It takes a lot to look like this.”
We share a familiar chuckle as I nod toward the cabin. “Well, welcome home, Chet.”
He glances around the property, lush acreage for as far as the eye can see, and only a few roomy wooden cabins to interrupt the towering pines and lush green thickets.
The sky has grown gently overcast, the sun dimmer still with the towering trees in its way as the change in light flatters Chet’s soft, gentle features.
He glances back up at me, shielding his eyes again as his pretty hazel eyes squint up at me doubtfully.
“How much do these places run, Grady? I’m on a housing allowance, you know. ”
I chuckle. “On the house,” I insist, nodding at the cobblestone path that leads straight to the cabin door. “After all, we can’t let our VIP client go homeless now, can we?”
“Grady, I can’t let you do that. I mean, sure, we got off on the wrong foot this morning, but that was both of our faults.”
“Nope,” I insist, hoisting his bag and heading up the path to the roughhewn front door. “That was all on me and, well...” I whisk open the door, the foyer still smelling of fresh wood, and the whole development is still so stinkin’ new. “This is me doing my darndest to make up for it, hear?”
He shakes his head. “Wait,” he hems, pausing in the doorway. “You guys must own these, right?”
“Who, me?” I snicker a bit proudly. “Of course we do. Bought in for the preconstruction price and, well ... now you’re free to stay as long as you like, Chet.”