From Morocco to Paris (19 page)

Ian frowned. “Zane.” He reached out and touched his shoulder. “I’m not mad at you.”

“It’s me,” Zane blurted before he could lose his nerve. “It’s me he’s in love with.”

Warm wetness streaked down his cheek and he quickly wiped it away with a trembling hand.

Ian stared at him, hand frozen on Zane’s shoulder, confusion and concern in his eyes. Ian had seen Zane cry before, so at least he wasn’t losing too much face.

“Oh,” Ian said and looked to the side, seemingly trying to process the information. “Oh…God.” He looked back at Zane. “I know it’s hard, he must be heartbroken. Don’t beat yourself up, though. You can’t blame yourself for being straight any more than I can blame myself for being gay.”

“No,” Zane said. He put a hand over his eyes but it didn’t stop the fresh tears from squeezing out. “I’ve been sleeping with him for the past two months.”

Silence. Zane let himself cry, hand still over his eyes, until Ian drew it away and looked at him.

“Zane,” he said sternly. “Did you just say you’ve been
sleeping
with him? As in fucking him? You’re the straightest man I know.”

“But I’m not,” Zane whispered. “I’m not.”

Silence again, and then Ian drew a sharp breath.

“Oh, Zane. Zane!”

Ian sat his beer down on the railing and gripped Zane’s head between his hands, making him look at him. Ian’s eyes were bright too, and he looked absolutely flattened.

“Oh my God,” Ian said. He pulled Zane into his arms.

Zane sobbed on his shoulder like a baby -- Ian was the only person in the world who could understand, who could know what admitting such a thing meant in light of their childhood. Ian held him and continued whispering his name, still sounding stunned. Zane hoped no one from the patio heard him crying.

Finally, after a few minutes, Zane drew back, tears still flowing but not actually crying, just numb and hollow. Tears slipped down Ian’s cheeks as well.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ian asked softly. “I never would have touched him, Zane, never. I would never take anything from you. Never, in all my life!”

Zane shook his head. “No. I know you wouldn’t. It’s more than that. It’s not that simple.”

“That’s why he left. Because I interfered.”

“No, it was entirely because of me. I treated him like hell. I’ve given him nothing but macho bullshit since I met him. That’s why he left.”

Ian drew the edge of his jacket sleeve across his cheeks. His eyes glimmered in the light from the patio.

“You’ve been yourself, haven’t you?” Ian asked with a wet laugh.

“Regrettably so,” Zane said. He looked out at the city. His lower lip wobbled, threatening fresh sobs. “What am I gonna do?” he squeaked out. “What the fuck am I gonna do?”

“What are you gonna do?” Ian laughed again, stronger, and sniffed. “I tell you what we’re gonna do. We’re going to Giza.”

Zane looked back at him, blinking. “What?”

“We’re going to Giza,” Ian repeated. “You’re going to find him and tell him you love him.”

“I -- “ Zane swallowed the thick, salty sludge in his throat. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. And who says I
love
him?”

“Oh God,” Ian said. “You cry like that for a man, you love him. Give me a fucking break. Get your shit packed, we’re going.”

“Ian!”

“You also owe me a long fucking explanation. You can talk on the way.”

Ian walked away, beckoning Zane to follow.

“Come on,” he said. “Don’t make me whip your ass!”

Zane picked up his beer, took a bracing drink, and wiped his eyes. He followed Ian, scared to death.

“Shouldn’t we think about this first?”

“You think too much. It’s time to act.”

Chapter 15

“I can’t believe you never told me you like guys,” Ian said.

They were driving through the suburbs of Cairo toward Giza, the streets broader and less congested as they left the main hubbub of the city. In the distance, at the dark horizon, Zane could make out the vague shapes of the Great Pyramids beneath the broad, clear sky dotted with stars. The dank, cool wind rushing in the windows smelled like the Nile.

“I don’t like guys,” Zane said. He sat with his feet up on the dashboard, slumped in the passenger seat. “I like
a
guy. And I still like women, I’m not gay!”

Ian glanced over, the blue-green glow from the dashboard under-lighting his face.

“We’re driving out to Giza so you can talk to the man you’ve been having sex with for two months,” Ian said. “That’s not gay?”

“No.” Zane pushed a hand through his wind-ruffled hair. “I don’t care if you’re the expert. Why does everyone need a label for things?”

“It helps identify them.”

“It’s also damning. No one is any one thing. You’re gay, but gay isn’t who you are. You’re also a talent agent, and -- a brother, a son, a friend! It’s all those things that make up who you are. Why be defined by just one?”

“Society is more comfortable naming things. You have to make your own definitions.”

“It’s society’s preoccupation with putting a neat, cozy little sticker on everything that’s created this mess.” Zane propped his head on his hand, elbow on the door, gazing out the window. “And made me such a basket case.”

“Yes, let’s blame society. I think that fall you took down the front steps when you were ten has something to do with you being a basket case. Maybe some of your brain leaked out.”

“I’m a fucking wreck. I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”

“What are you afraid of Zane? That it might work out?”

“Why would I be afraid of that?”

“Because then you have to run with it.”

Silence fell, broken only by the steady hum of the engine and the street passing beneath the tires. The buildings thinned and they passed out into the vast darkness of the desert.

“When did you realize you liked guys?” Ian asked.

“Two months ago.”

Zane needed to come up with something to say to Davey, but his mind simply closed down at the thought, paralyzed with anxiousness. Some part of him still thought Ian would turn the car around.

“Right,” Ian said. “Believe me, Zane, it’s not something that just happens one day. No matter how beautiful the guy is. There has to be seeds of it long before.”

“I don’t fucking know then.”

Zane rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. They burned. He couldn’t believe he’d cried, though doing so had cleared his head quite well -- emptiness resounded where the voices had once held residence.

“Come on, you have to know,” Ian said.

Zane had never told him about his experimentation in school, or any of those off occasions he ended up with a guy in his bed. Those incidents were isolated, at least in his mind, to the point of almost non-existence. He wondered if Ian could guess at them, though.

“Maybe Davey is really a woman in disguise,” Zane offered

“With an ass like that?” Ian scoffed. “No, I don’t think so.” He paused and glanced over at Zane. “I should watch my mouth, shouldn’t I? That was an inappropriate thing to say to you.”

“I’ll put it on the list of inappropriate things you’ve said to me in my life. Along with the time you told me you’d cut my head off and put it in the freezer if I told Dad you were sneaking his whiskey.”

Ian snickered. “I used to think that was funny, you know. The idea of your head sitting in the freezer while people were getting in and out to get things.”

“Should I add ‘serial killer’ to your labels?”

They passed the pyramids. The world beyond the oasis of civilization seemed like the moon, gargantuan and empty, until they came upon the scrubby, gently-hilled area where the shooting would take place. The cast and crew were staying in a massive cluster of huts constructed as a nomad jumping-off point. A fence surrounded the huts and at the entrance were a gate and a security kiosk.

“My brother works on the film,” Ian told the guard, leaning out the window and thumbing over his shoulder at Zane. “We’re looking for a friend of ours.”

The guard spoke English, though heavily accented. “No entrance after ten p.m. Even if your name is on the list, everyone has been told.”

“I guess we’ll have to come back in the morning,” Zane said, both disappointed and relieved.

“He works on the film!” Ian argued. “Why the hell can’t he come in!”

“No entry after ten p.m.,” the guard repeated firmly. “Everyone was told. Strict regulations!”

Driving back the road, Zane noticed the look on Ian’s face.

“We’re not sneaking in there,” Zane said.

“That fence isn’t that high.”

“What if there’s security cameras!”

“I seriously doubt it. They barely have electricity.”

Ian parked the car alongside the road, and they walked back, cutting through the shrubs.

“If we get arrested, Elliot will fucking kill me,” Zane whispered, nervous for a number of reasons. Everything felt surreal, his head thick from lack of sleep and his vision fuzzy in the darkness.

“Just calm down,” Ian told him. They approached the fence and Zane could see the huts through the slats. “No one will know we’re here.”

“This isn’t like sneaking into football games when we were kids! If we get arrested, they’ll torture us!”

“God, I really hope we find Davey. First thing I’m gonna do is ask him for your balls back.”

Zane could still scale a fence with ease and Ian had no problem either. Zane looked around cautiously when they reached the ground on the other side. He didn’t see any cameras or guards.

Some of the huts were made of stone and wood, all rustic and earthy, while others looked more like vacation cabins. Somewhere, faintly, Zane heard music and voices. He wondered if Davey had really come there or if he had gone to a hotel.

“How are we going to find him?” Zane whispered.

Ian looked back and forth at the dirt path along the edge of the fence. The path wound down into the huts.

“Do you know what his rental car looks like?” Ian asked.

“I think.”

They walked, moving through the shadows between huts and darting around bushes. They located the music and voices coming from a small group of people outside one of the huts but otherwise saw no one. Cars were parked here and there but Zane didn’t recognize any of them.

At one point, they saw headlights, and dashed behind a hut. A security patrol Jeep passed by and Zane wanted to end the whole thing.

“We’re gonna get caught,” Zane said. “We’ll go back to the hotel and come back in the morning. Really, that’s the best idea.”

The truck trundled off down the narrow, dusty path. Ian waved a dismissive hand.

“This is what love is about, Zane. Doing crazy, illegal shit in the middle of the night.”

“And here I thought it was about happiness and stuff.”

Zane peered around the side of the hut. Ian rose and peeked in the window above them.

“Stop it!” Zane snapped at him.

“Listen.” Ian crouched down and touched his arm. “Everybody does something fucked up for someone they’re smitten with at some point in their life. It’s romantic. Lets them know you care.”

Zane looked toward the heavens, beseeching.

“When I was eighteen -- do you remember Ricky Marlowe?” Ian asked.

Zane frowned. The name sounded familiar. After a moment’s thought he came up with a face.

“You mean that boy who used to go to Momma’s church? The one in the choir?”

“He grew up.” Ian smiled fondly. “God, could he suck a cock.”

Zane gaped at him.

“Anyway, I was crazy about him. Took him out a bunch of times to Nashville, his family had no idea what was going on. I got totally infatuated with him, then he decided he couldn’t be into guys, it was too dangerous.”

Zane kept trying to wrap his mind around the fact Ian had fucked a member of their mother’s church.

“So, one night,” Ian held out his hands, obviously about to deliver the punch line, “I climbed the side of his house, right up the drainpipe. I was gonna crawl in his window and make passionate love to him. Convince him to run away with me.”

“How old was he?” Zane forgot to keep his voice down and said more lowly, “he was ahead of me in school, wasn’t he?”

“He was eighteen, like me, getting ready to go off to college. I couldn’t let him go without professing my undying love.”

“What happened? Did it work?”

Ian sighed. “Broke my ankle. Goddamn pipe didn’t hold. Just managed to limp away before his parents caught me.”

“Your ankle!” Zane’s voice rose again. “You said that happened falling down the steps!”

“There were some steps involved. Porch steps, right below the drainpipe. Hurt like hell.”

“Oh my God. That’s it, we’re getting out of here!”

“There’s a lesson in that story, Zane.”

“Yeah, don’t climb fucking drainpipes in the middle of the night to get a piece of ass or you’ll break your ankle!” Zane rose and slipped off in the darkness alongside the hut.

Ian followed as Zane made his way back to the fence. The huts confused him though, so many, most of which looked nearly the same, and he quickly became disoriented. He wasn’t sure which way they had come. Ian stayed on his heels, trying to convince him not to give up.

“Come on Zane, be a hero. A romantic hero.”

“Ian, shut the hell up.”

Zane stopped short as they circled around one of the more modern huts. A familiar car sat in the narrow space between the hut and a neighboring one.

“What?” Ian whispered. “Is that his car?”

Zane narrowed his eyes at the vehicle, uncertain. His heart pounded from nerves and exertion.

“I don’t know,” Zane said.

They crept up to the car and Zane peeked in the driver side window.

Davey’s sunglasses were lying on the seat.

“It is,” Zane whispered. He turned and looked at the hut, his racing heart crawling up in his throat as a new kind of fear gripped him.

“All right,” Ian said. He grabbed Zane’s shoulders from behind and massaged them firmly. “Do you know what you’re going to say?”

“No!” Zane panicked.

“You haven’t even thought about it?”

“No! I was too busy scaling fences and creeping around in the dark! Do -- you think I should walk up to the door and knock?”