ANGELA 017

ANGELA 017
THE HELICOPTER RIDE BACK IS quieter than it should be.

I try making small talk, and Parker does his best to oblige. I try asking him business questions, inquiring about his acts and the Grammys, what it’s like to work with a partner. I didn’t know Duncan at all back in the day other than by name; today I know him only from the magazines and TV spots about the rising juggernaut that is WinFinity.

I ask about Parker’s philanthropy and his goals for the future.

Anything but his personal life.

Anything but our past.

I don’t know why he came. I don’t know why I went with him. I’m deflated and sad. My current malaise came like the flip of a switch. I don’t think my mind registered Santa Monica when we first arrived. Probably because I’d been watching the Ferris wheel lights from the sky, busy being awed by opulence. Parker is magnetic; the magazines have that right. I’ve been hypnotized by his charm, his flash, his smile, his confident bearing. And that’s made me forget myself.

I hate this man.

I hate him because I once loved him.

But despite my mood, I can’t see this evening as a total loss no matter how I look at it. Can we continue with the evening? No, not after the memory of Santa Monica became apparent again to us both. Can I continue to be part of Parker’s world like I’ve been tonight? No, I don’t see how. Will Parker bless his father and my mother with wealth, enough to change everything? Impossible.

But has there been healing?

Yes, I think so.

Before tonight, I hadn’t seen Parker in years. He hasn’t been around in any meaningful way since he was nineteen. We — and by “we,” I mean “I” — had to watch him from afar. Now there’s a chance to open communications. To at least thaw our little cold war.

He’s still the icy, distant son of a bitch he’s been. He’s still Parker Altman, the billionaire tycoon cofounder of WinFinity. But now I can see through a recently burrowed hole to the boy I once knew. The boy I once loved but couldn’t have. And that boy, in turn, was two men at once: the hard shell he showed the world and the soft meat underneath. Today’s billionaire armor is the evolved version of the plating Parker wore in his youth. Behind them both is still that same man.

Before I know it, we’re lowering onto the roof of what must be Parker’s building.

“Why are we here?” I ask.

“It’ll be faster for us to hop in a car here than the airport.”

I nod.

“We can take the elevator all the way down.”

“Okay.”

“Or you can come in and have a drink.”

I sigh. “I don’t know, Parker.”

“Look,” he says. “I don’t know what went wrong. I’m sure it was something stupid I did. But there’s no reason for it. We were having fun, weren’t we?”

“Yeah. And it was nice. But — ”

“I don’t think I propositioned you.” He smiles wider, to show that he’s joking. He didn’t, no. But half of the problem is that I’m pretty sure that if he had, I’d have fallen right into him.

“No, but — ”

“That was a long time ago.”

It was. But it was also the first time we both realized how we felt — how, perhaps, we’d been feeling for months. It had taken me by surprise. After he’d seen me under that pier — after I’d known he’d wanted to see me, and after we’d both taken that uncomfortable walk along the beach — we’d found ourselves farther up on a deserted section of beach, somehow inconveniently alone. He’d apologized for staring, and I’d apologized for being awkward.

The tension between us was almost unbearable. He’d worn the duffel on his lap the entire time, and at one point I’d pretended to sleep, squeezing my thighs together to see if I could cum from pressure and fantasy. But I couldn’t, and the bubble didn’t pop. By the time we were driving home, I was ready to shatter every taboo at once. I wanted to unzip him while he drove then take his cock in my mouth. I wanted to pull over and invite him to take me.

It didn’t matter that it was wrong. There was only animal lust, no thought to consequence.

Somehow, we made it home, both of us intensely aware of exactly what had happened and what had been unsaid.

“Come in for a drink,” he says. “One drink.”

I probably shouldn’t agree, considering.

I do anyway.