The Right Words (29 page)

Truth is the recognition of reality; reason, man’s only means of knowledge, is his only standard of truth. – Ayn Rand

S
UNLIGHT
STREAMED
into the old kitchen through the jackhammered wall separating it from the living room. I knew it would be gorgeous, but I felt a moment of awe at my first glimpse of the ocean through the tiny opening. The entire wall was coming down to create one huge great room. It wasn’t fun to go through the construction phase again, but we’d survived the first round, and even Michael eventually admitted the results would be worth the hassle. Plus the harvest-gold appliances really had to go.

I flung my arms out wide when he walked into the kitchen with his workout bag over his shoulder.

“Can you see it? It is going to be incredible! This view is… divine. Simply divine. I think that’s the best word.”

He dropped the bag on the floor behind me and snuck his arms around my waist as he nuzzled his nose in my neck. I squirmed at the ticklish sensation and turned around to face him. He lifted my chin between his thumb and forefinger and placed a soft kiss on my lips.

“Yeah, the view is amazing.” His faux-dreamy gaze and twinkling eyes let me know I was being teased.

I shoved away from him and gave him a dirty look. He chuckled and quickly gathered me close.

“Don’t go. I just got home.” He rained kisses across my ears, eyes, and forehead before returning to fasten his mouth over mine.

“How was practice?” I tried to keep my tone conversational, but it was useless.

“Good. Tiring. Too tiring to stand around a construction zone and talk about it. Let’s go outside.”

When Michael had re-signed with his team for another year, I was thrilled for him. He was one of the first out professional soccer players to play. There was no denying it was a big fucking deal. However, we both acknowledged that a signed contract didn’t equate to smooth sailing.

We braced ourselves for the challenges, assuming they’d be plentiful. Between teammates, fans, friends, and family, Michael assumed the fallout would be considerable. He was unsure of his reception and quietly persevered by taking life one day at a time. He strove to concentrate on the journey rather than worry about an uncertain future. Mercifully, “coming out” hadn’t led to the loss and isolation he’d feared. His teammates as a whole supported him fully. Even his fans supported him for the most part. There was the occasional disparaging letter or e-mail, but those didn’t bother him much. Friends he knew through soccer seemed fine with his revelation. Ones he knew growing up were a mixed bag. Some were great and others ignored him. He seemed nonplussed and his attitude was inspirational.

Family was the hardest. His parents were devastated, which left him saddened and terribly unhappy. It crushed me to see him so miserable. I was angry for his sake, but he seemed to accept it would take time. His brothers and sisters were supportive in varying degrees. For some reason, Michael was able to rise above the hope for approval and accept they were a work in progress. He couldn’t change how others reacted, nor would he change to be who they wanted.

The man who feared losing everything became a voice for those who actually had lost everything. Teens, particularly Latino ones, who’d come out and been turned away from home with nothing but the clothes on their backs. He helped open a shelter in downtown Los Angeles, and I knew his path after soccer had become a little clearer now. He had a purpose and a dream. At thirty-four, he had decided not to renew his contract the following year. He wanted to finish out the season and enjoy the home we shared at the beach.

He stood tall and proud, letting the gentle summer breeze wash over him as he sipped a sports drink and talked about a drill he wanted to modify to teach to some of the kids at the center. I wished on days like this I could paint, so I might capture his beauty when he spoke passionately about things that mattered to him. The way his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm and passion. I couldn’t believe my incredible luck when those same eyes darkened with an entirely different kind of passion for me.

I’ve always been a dreamer. I’m happiest with a book in my hands or a computer on my knee. I still love getting lost in a beautiful story when I’m not getting lost in a showroom filled with gorgeous textiles. That will probably never change. But now I prefer living that story. I want to be the actor with the starring role, not because of my theatric ability but because I don’t need a script with Michael. I can be me… a little neurotic, highly opinionated, and always a daydreamer. Amazingly he likes me just the way I am. I found someone who understands me, calms me, and makes me stronger than I ever believed I could be. I found someone who seems to know all the right words.

The Wrong Man

A Right and Wrong Story

By Lane Hayes

Successful owner of an upscale boutique in fabulous West Hollywood, Brandon Good swears by his personal edict to “live in the present.” After a bad break-up, he agrees to dog sit to keep his mind off his ex. Never did he expect the dog to belong a man from his past, the only man to ever truly break his heart.

When Jake Westley relocates to join the WeHo fire department, the last thing he anticipates is reuniting with his secret high school love. Thrilled with the prospect of reconnecting with Bran, Jake feels no guilt in using his charming old dog as an unwitting matchmaker. As they rekindle their friendship, it becomes clear the intense attraction they once felt is stronger than ever. But as hard as they try to leave the past behind, painful memories resurface. Bran will have to confront his fears and consider the possibility that the man he swore was absolutely the wrong one might be perfect after all.

Coming soon to

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

“Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.”
—Buddha

I
T
ISN
’
T
possible to be happy all the time, but I’d recently decided contentment was a strong second option. I looked around my store fifteen minutes before closing and noted the shelves of knickknacks and pillowcases I needed to restock. The floors should be swept, the mirrors could use a good cleaning, and someone had left an empty coffee cup on an antique entry table. In spite of the additional hour or more it would take to get BGoods ready for business the next day, this store was my reason for contentment, and it certainly was one of my greatest sources of happiness. However, it was getting harder to ignore I was feeling slightly restless and less than content in my personal life.

I picked up the lip balm I kept next to the register and gave myself a mental smack upside the head as I applied the waxy substance liberally. Nothing positive ever came from sitting around feeling sorry for yourself. The best thing to do was clean up, head home to change into some sexy club wear, and treat myself to a night out. Maybe I’d go dancing, or maybe—

“Brandon, did you hear me?”

I glanced sideways to find Lizzy, one of my employees, staring at me expectantly. Her big blue eyes and long, strawberry blond hair gave her a sweetly innocent look I bet a majority of straight men found attractive. Me? Not so much. However, I admired her effortless style and friendly nature. Both were a major plus since her job was to sell high-end home accessories to my eclectic clientele, which ranged from movie stars and rock stars to yoga moms and Hollywood execs. My store’s West Hollywood location had a wonderfully diverse population. It wasn’t merely a mecca for all things rainbow colored and fabulous.

“Sorry, sugar. Replay. What did you say?”

“I’m dog-sitting for my hunky new neighbor. He’s a firefighter. Dee-licious! His name is….”

I tuned her out. Lizzy could gab about inconsequential details for hours nonstop. There were days I was charmed, but others I wished she’d shut the hell up. Today she’d been particularly chatty, and it was grating on my every last nerve. I was anxious to send her home so I could take care of the cleanup on my own.

“Anyway the poor guy is thirteen years old, and he doesn’t want to leave him alone while he’s at work. Isn’t that the sweetest?”

“Huh? What thirteen year old kid wants a babysitter? You better watch it, Lizzy. If the man is looking for a nanny, I sense trouble. Steer clear.”

“I knew you weren’t listening! Mack is a dog, not a teenager. Any-who, Jake the dreamboat asked if I’d watch him till he got back from work tomorrow. So… is it cool if I bring him by for a quick hello?”

“Who? Jack or Mack? Dreamboats are always welcome. Drooling sidekicks… not so much.”

“It’s Jake not Jack. And never mind. I can tell you’re in a mood.” Lizzy cast her eyes skyward and sashayed toward the front of the store to retrieve an errant coffee cup.

I reached for the lip balm again but quickly put it back and stepped out behind the counter. I walked toward the white contemporary-style sofa and armchair anchoring the midsection of the store and started fluffing the countless colorful pillows before addressing my employee’s cryptic dig at my “mood.” I wasn’t moody. I didn’t do moody. Whatever was she talking about? Sure, I had my moments like anyone else, but I was better at leaving my grievances behind than most people.

I adopted a pleasant attitude of indulgent curiosity when I looked at Lizzy and asked, “Whatever do you mean?”

She waltzed to the counter, tossed the empty cup in the trash, and turned to confront me with both hands on her hips.

“Ever since you broke up with Trevor, you’ve been cranky. I’m sorry, but it’s true. You’re still you, don’t get me wrong. You’re as fabulous as ever, but—”

Oh, thank God, I thought sarcastically. As if. The day I started worrying about what Lizzy thought about my fabulosity, I’d be in big fucking trouble. I snorted as I adjusted the design books on the leather upholstered ottoman.

“… what could it possibly hurt to say yes once in a while?”

She was still talking? I glanced up and saw her smug “you didn’t hear a word I said” look. I should fire her for insubordination, I mused. Of course I wouldn’t. I liked her too much. Lizzy was irritating at times, but the fact she was willing to stand up to me when I was a smidge temperamental was refreshing.

“Yes. There. Happy now?”

“Oh, Brandon!” Lizzy clapped her hands and jumped up and down like a schoolgirl. What did I say yes to? “You’re the best! Want me to start sweeping in the back while you take care of Mrs. Hirschfield?”

I inwardly groaned at the sound of my name being sung out to the accompaniment of a dozen golden bangles jangling around my client’s wrist. Dora Hirschfield was a prominent Hollywood producer’s wife and one of my most loyal customers. She had a fortune to spend and I was grateful she chose to spend quite a bit of it at BGoods. She claimed to love my sense of style, but I knew she also loved me. I entertained her with a campy fun-loving gay man schtick that had become part of our traditional repartee over the few years I’d known her. Most days I slipped with ease into that role, but today I was going to have to dig deep and work through the resentment of having to play a stereotype to please my wealthy customer.

I pasted a wide, welcoming grin on my mug and sternly reprimanded myself. This was Hollywood, baby. Everyone was an actor, though the stage might vary from person to person. My stage was this store, and I owed it to my audience— my clients—to give them the Brandon Good they expected. The guy who would entertain and fawn over them as they meandered around the spacious floor perusing the newest fashions in home design. If I played my part well, my client left BGoods with a smile and a huge bag stuffed with expensive pillows and accessories.

“Mrs. H! How are you? Please tell me you came to see the brand new Gabe Marston prints. They are divine. I’m not exaggerating either. Come with me. How is Mr. Hirschfield? And Sasha?”