What do you do when a teenage movie star makes it seem as if you've kidnapped him? After working two summers at his father's health club as a towel boy, Peter Fisk saved enough money to visit California. He literally runs into Lance Hardwood in his...
As we neared the LGBTQIA+ mecca of San Fran, James stopped the "Dance Dance Dance" playlist and abruptly announced that he was patching my mother through.
"Hello, Pookie! Did your father...leave a...message for me?" She sounded breathless, as if she were running a marathon, or using one of the step machines she has in our NYC apartment.
"Yes, he did," I answered, "How are..."
She cut me off, which was unlike her. Several cracks sounded in the background, along with cars honking and what had to have been a truck horn blaring. "NOW would be a great time to tell me," She shouted.
I'd stored it in the glove compartment. (Why do they call it a glove compartment? I wondered.) Mom sounded rattled.
"Hello Mrs. Fisk! Your taste is exquisite, and your son's manners are impeccable!" yelled Scarlet.
"Thank you, Miss Fever! NOW, POOKIE, NOT TOMORROW!"
"19 73 22 CV YF 8A Aristotle's Alfa Romeo Trinidad. I repeat, 19 73 22 CV YF 8A Aristotle's Alfa Romeo Trinidad." Madness, I thought. My parents have finally gone off the deep end.
"Thank you, dear. I've upgraded your hotel. Really, you... (more cracks sounded) ...if I can't pamper my Pookie! Now, I've got to skedaddle and get your father to the hospital. James, arrange for some gift baskets from Ghirardelli's to be left in their rooms. Including some (tires screeching.)"
"What just happened?" asked Derek calmly. "Because those sounds were gunshots."
"Racquet ball," I replied. "She loves racquetball."
"She was driving your father to the hospital," Scarlet said dryly.
"My father lives in London. James, can you locate my parents?" As I've said, Mother sells Manhattan real estate. And my father is a retired businessman. There were times when I'd had to deliver weird messages or send the odd package or two, but that was 4 years ago.
"I'm sorry, Peter. They have blocked their GPS. Shall I keep trying?"
"No, James. Thank you. I'm sure they're fine. If you find out what hospital my Dad is in, send flowers. And have the florist hide a tiny bottle of Irish whiskey inside the bunch."
"Any message or notecard?" James inquired.
"No. He'll know it's from me."
I felt Derek's massive hand on my shoulder. "Dude, look at that!"
Past the traffic, over the suspended highways, San Francisco awaited us. It's similar to New York City in so many ways – millions of people packed into a relatively small area, a history going back almost 200 years, and buildings spanning decades of architectural styles. When we entered the city proper, I was so happy that James was doing the driving. Navigation was a guessing game – one moment you're at a 45-degree angle looking up, the next a 45-degree angle looking down.
When our car drove into the Nob Hill district, we were all enchanted. But when it stopped in front of the Fairmont Hotel, and we saw the view of the city from our 26th floor suites, with a view of San Francisco Bay. On the beds were enormous baskets of chocolate truffles, bars, pastries, and fudge from Ghirardelli's, just as mother had promised. Alongside them was a tray of sourdough sandwiches, soups in sourdough bowls and salads with sourdough croutons from Boudin, along with 3 sodas.
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We'd been so concerned about Lance that we had completely forgotten about lunch. We descended upon the food like a wake of vultures, throwing etiquette and table manners to the winds. Everything was delicious.
"How your momma had time to think of all this is a goddamn miracle! She is a goddess!" Miss Fever was practically drooling.
Thirty minutes later, we looked out from our balcony at the city and the bay spread before us. Somewhere, out there, I'd thought, Lance is tied to a chair. Maybe locked inside a dark closet, or worse, a chest. Or in a damp basement with rats...
"Hon' – for just one moment, would you please stop thinking about him." Scarlet had kicked off her heels and was squatted in front of me. "I know you're worried. We're all worried. But, you know, he knows those girls. And he's a sweet talker. He might just have them eating out of his hand by now."
"Or his hands could be tied, or still bleeding from him scrabbling to find something to hold onto on the rock face. I...I..."
"Look – Trin-tin-tin may be a bit crazy, but all she really wants is to write screenplays. And she's good. To get a good performance out of Lance, she has to convince him to do it – and between you and me," said Derek, "If he reads her script, he'll be one hundred percent on board."
"But, they're..." I hadn't wanted to believe that he'd actually cooperate with the Extreme Lancers. Maybe Derek was right. And what he'd said next convinced me.
"There's at least one 'close' friend who's on Trina's side. That says to me that her episode will be looked at by the right people. The fastest way to get Lance hurt is to stand in the way of her dream."
"You know, Marine," said Miss Fever, "You're pretty damned smart, and a credit to the Corps. Why did you have to be gay?" She sighed.
"Why did you have to become a woman?" he said and kissed her hand. And imitated her sigh, with all its drama, perfectly. Turning to me, he continued.
"This is what I think we should do. Lance knows you'll move mountains to find him. We know Lance will probably come to an agreement to do Trina's film. Let's send Trina an email and tell her we won't interfere with her film, if she agrees to give Lance his freedom once they're done. We'll spend the week sightseeing, which is why you're here for the summer."
Logical, sensible. Dare I say that I couldn't have made a more orderly plan if I'd come up with it myself? Big, bad, bulging in all the right places Black Thunder just hit an all-time high on my hot list. "Is this all right with you two? Sound reasonable?"
"Yes," I said, and hugged him. It was good to have new friends. "But how do we get her email?"
"I'm her big brother, remember?"
We spent the afternoon walking. Scarlet wanted to see the Painted Lady that Derek had been talking about, but he urged we not spook the Extremes, just in case they were there. Later that evening, James took us to Chinatown for dinner, which was one of Mom's 'Mystery' destinations. Frankly, when and where she'd had the time to upload new locations depending upon where we were amazed me. Then I realized that James was likely sending her our plans and locations every day.
Derek sent Trina an email when we returned from dinner. Upstairs, we wished Scarlet a good night. I opened the door and Derek pushed by me, found the thermostat, and turned it up to 72 degrees. I'd completely forgotten that we were sharing a room. With one bed. Yes, we'd gotten to know each other. But this was different.
After that night, Lance and I had explored much more than mutual j/o – it was good, sometimes earth-shaking. Here was Derek, stripped to his underwear (we'd bought some new clothes after our split-second escape from Vegas) and very obviously stimulated. He'd turned the TV on and was watching 'Magic Mike 2" with his arms behind his head, hips bumping to the music, which made his rather prominent pole dance below its elastic waistband.
He knew I was watching him. He looked at me with puppy dog eyes and said, "Just get up here and play with me. C'mon! What happens in this bed, stays in this bed."
"Spoken like a true gentleman," I answered, only to be grabbed, tossed in the air, flipped and faceplanted into a pillow. My briefs were yanked off.
"Oh, I'm no gentlemen, sir! Not in the presence of this!" he howled, and then planted his face...yeah, there too.
