The Charmer Read online

  I shake my head, head for the bathroom, and continue my day without him.

  * * * *

  Work is work. Same thing every day. Uneventful. Nine hours today.

  I have a drink at The Hoffstetter after work. Frankie has it ready for me. I think Waverly Yorkshire will mysteriously appear at my right side: smile on his face and a hammer beneath his khakis. Wave doesn’t make my day complete, though. Damn.

  The bar crowd is slow for Frankie. Chris Evans sits opposite me. He drinks something orange, appears nervous, continuously stirring the drink’s ice cubes with a miniature, plastic straw. His boyfriend, John Cena, walks into the bar from the hotel’s gold-steel-trimmed lobby. No luggage. No briefcase. No sports jacket. Cena finds Chris at the bar. Chris stands.

  The two men hug and kiss: intimately, with tongues, long-lasting. It’s kind of hot. I rate the kiss an eight out of ten. Not too shabby on their part. Chris pinches one of Cena’s nipples through his Brooks Brothers’ shirt. Cena rubs his palm against the mound between Chris’s legs. They both chuckle. Following their play, Cena holds Chris’s right hand within his left one.

  I hear him tell Chris, “Follow me, guy. I have a room upstairs for us.”

  The two men leave the bar area. They head to the elevators with their drinks, continuing their heated affair.

  Frankie semi-leans over the bar between us and tells me, “The John Cena look-alike is a high-end hustler. He makes a fortune here at The Hoffstetter Inn. The guy sitting at the bar and waiting for him is a regular. He’s a police officer and admitted to me last week that he’s fallen in love with the hustler. The hustler will never fall in love, though. Hustlers don’t do that. That will end his career. He’ll be broke. It’s a tragic love story, if you want to know the truth. So very sad.”

  I form a solution for the couple and tell Frankie, “They’re very attractive men, nicely built. They could do porn together and get paid. Many queers and women would buy their material. Don’t you think?”

  Frankie doesn’t answer me. All he does is laugh.

  * * * *

  It’s a beautiful evening for April. No rain. A comfortable temperature. On my walk home (it’s just a few blocks and doesn’t take very long), I see Waverly with a hulking guy on Samton Street. They are twenty feet in front of me, heading my way. The stranger next to Waverly looks Russian: blue eyes and black hair, goatee, sinister with wrinkles around his neck and eyes, not at all friendly. Both carry handguns at their hips: silver with black handles. Walking closer, I hear both of them speak Russian back and a forth; a language I have never learned.

  Waverly doesn’t see me as I slink past them.

  Good. I really don’t want him to see me because of his friend. Maybe the guy’s his boyfriend, lover, or husband? Maybe they have a house together in Brentwood. Maybe they’ve adopted two daughters from Russia? Maybe they live on the same block as Ira and Lou? Maybe…

  I wonder.

  How can I not wonder?

  * * * *

  Ira’s not in my apartment when I get home. He leaves a note for me on the table.

  “Fucking Lou tonight. He’s begging for it. The guy can’t get enough of me. Wants to ride my dick like a cowboy. I’ll let him. Maybe you and I can get some bro-time in tomorrow evening and play some video games? I’m free. Let me know.”

  It’s no longer a nice evening. Two windows are open inside the apartment, and the April wind glides off the Allegheny and blows inwards. The wind is chilly. Fresh thunder booms in the distance, coming to the city for a short visit. I eat a low-calorie frozen dinner and think about going to Pumpers Gym for an hour-long workout. Instead, I jump on my laptop and the semen-smelling sofa (thanks to Ira) and do something I told myself I would not do: homework on Waverly Yorkshire.

  Just as Ira has said, it’s easy to find details on Wave, mostly because of his odd name.

  Born in Camden, Maine, but raised in Newhamfield, England. Dual citizenship in the United States and England. Attended Oxford for four years and obtained three degrees in international relations, political science, and physics. Moved to the United States at age twenty-five and settled in Pittsburgh. He was then hired by Car-Mell University. Currently, he teaches physics at the facility. According to one online article, the university pays him ninety thousand per year. He’s been teaching for the last three years. Another two articles mention he’s spent some time in the Army, but I can’t find specifics. How strange.

  Bottom line: Waverly Yorkshire is a U.S. citizen and professor. Nice to know.

  * * * *

  I take Aunt Ruby’s call, cutting short my Internet search of Wave. We talk every two days about family issues, jobs, men, and the simple whatnots that make our lives most interesting. Ruby considers me her best friend, acting more my age than her real physical age of sixty-one years.

  As usual, she bitches, “Your mother’s working too much. She never visits me. Our talks are always short and to the point. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she purposely tries to avoid me.”

  “She’s not ignoring you. We both know how busy she is.”

  “I don’t know why she doesn’t retire. She’s made plenty of money and can have a nice retirement home here with me in Florida. I know she’s terrified of hurricanes, but we can always head north if, and when, they arrive.”

  Ruby’s lived in Key West for the last forty years. She married three real estate moguls, all of whom died. Truth is, she’s been living off their life insurance policies and their companies’ earnings since she turned twenty-six. Good for her to find love and some money.

  “Mother hates Florida. She’ll never move down there. She’ll end up in Iceland before you’ll find her in Florida.”

  “Doesn’t matter where she’s at. She can call me more. She can reach out to me like you do. Has she forgotten that I’m her sister? Why isn’t she more like you, sweetheart? Sometimes, I just don’t understand her.”

  “I’ll tell her to contact you.”

  “Please. And while you’re at it, send me some of those Pittsburgh pierogis. You know how much I love them. I’ll PayPal you money for two dozen. How does that sound, luv?”

  I laugh. “You don’t have to pay me. I’ll mail them out tomorrow.”

  “That’s a good boy.”

  I hear barking in her background. Loud yelps. Probably her three cranky poodles yapping. I imagine them running around her beach house along the Gulf, clicking their paws on her marble floors.

  “Barnie! Laney! Frilly!” Aunt Ruby yells at the dogs, attempting to shush them. She lets out a huff and returns to our conversation. “Listen, sweetheart, the puppies are misbehaving. I honestly have to run and take care of their issues. Do forgive my abruptness.”

  “Of course,” I reply. Just before I want to tell her goodbye, and that I love her, her line clicks off, ending our contact.

  * * * *

  The following day, I’m having my regular drink at The Hoffstetter. Frankie tells me that his wife is pregnant with their fourth child.

  “Another girl.”

  “Congrats!” I tell him.

  “I’m ready to be a father again,” he admits.

  I hope so, I think. Good for him because I’ve never wanted kids.

  I buy him a drink to toast and celebrate his good fortune.

  I’m on my third cocktail when he says, “By the way, Peter Find was in here looking for you.”

  “I am Peter Find.”

  “I’m talking about the attorney.”

  “When was he looking for me?”

  “A few hours ago.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He left this for you.” Frankie passes me one of Find’s business cards. “He told me to tell you to call him. He has something important to speak with you about.”

  I thumb the card: plain black, white lettering, black-and-gold background, nothing expensive or elaborate. “Or I could show up at his office. It’s in walking distance from here.”

  Frankie nods. “O
r you could do that.”

  “What do you think he wants?” I ask.

  Two Russian men in suits are behind him: thick mustaches, bushy eyebrows, salt-and-pepper hair, both middle-aged with too many pounds around their centers. They’re speaking loudly in thick Russian. Neither Frankie nor I know what they’re saying.

  “Don’t know what Peter Find wants. Maybe you’ll just have to find out.”

  “It has to do with Thor, doesn’t it?”

  He raises an eyebrow, questioning me. “Who’s Thor?”

  “The six-plus blonde hottie who was in here the other day. He looked like Thor. His name was Waverly Yorkshire. What a charmer.”

  He nods, grins. “Yeah, him. I remember now. He was flirting with you a little. You blew him off.”

  “I was a gentleman, Frankie. My mother taught me to be nice.”

  “Being nice isn’t going to get you a boyfriend. You should have flirted more with him. What do we have to do, hang a sign around your neck that says In Business for Love?”

  I shake my head. “That’s not why I have drinks here.”

  “Well, maybe it should be.”

  “Never,” I tell him. “I’ll meet a guy or boyfriend someplace else. This place is for relaxation and to take the stress off.” I finger the business card from Peter Find, Attorney and Counselor at Law, and wave it at Frankie. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  Frankie raises both eyebrows. “Why?”

  “I can’t get a read on it. Something just doesn’t feel right. Wave finds me when he has the wrong man. Now the right man wants to talk to me. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  He sniffles and laughs. “Don’t even think you’re living a Nero Wolfe novel. You’re not Jessica Fletcher, either. Life isn’t that exciting.”

  “You never know, Frankie. The world is a strange place. Unbelievable things happen all the time. I could be walking into something huge, something bigger than both of us.”

  “Maybe unbelievable things happen to other people, but not to us,” he chirps.

  “Like I said, you never know.”

  He looks over his left shoulder. The Russians’ glasses of an expensive vodka over ice are empty. Frankie rises from his elbows. “Well, the only way you’re going to find out is to visit the other Peter Find.”

  “Not today. I have things to do.” Honestly, I have nothing to do. I just don’t feel like visiting Peter Find. What would be the point?

  “Soon then.”

  “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

  “Maybe is good. And thinking about it won’t hurt. But acting on it is definitely better.” He escapes my side and refills the Russians’ drinks.

  I swallow the remains of my cocktail down and leave the inn. I’m legally drunk and decide to drive home.

  Sometimes, I don’t have limits but should.

  While leaving the inn, I almost bump into Thor. My right shoulder grazes Waverly Yorkshire’s left shoulder as he enters.

  We make eye contact.

  He smiles: so handsome, a Hollywood grin, perfect for all the right kissable reasons. A charming man.

  I smile.

  We say nothing to each other. Nothing at all. We don’t have to since it’s all about the deep connection of our eyes.

  Sometimes, the thick attraction between two men happens only with the eyes. Not even a minute later, heading down the block to my parked Frontier, two Russian-speaking men (on the fatter side, black eyes, and too much facial hair) pass me. Have I seen them before at Frankie’s bar? Maybe. Maybe not. I really don’t know.

  Over my right shoulder, I see the Russians enter the inn behind me.

  Isn’t it strange how we see people we think we know, but then we don’t know them at all?

  * * * *

  Ira’s in my apartment. He’s in his underwear on my sofa, watching porn. Two Army dudes fuck in a jungle on my sixty-two-inch flat-screen. Ira tries to hide a boner under his cotton briefs but fails miserably. Upon my entrance, he pulls a blanket over his erection and pauses the dude-movie.

  I close the apartment’s door behind me. I see his pile of clothes next to his feet on the floor in front of the sofa: jeans, socks, Superman T-shirt.

  “Ira, what are you doing here?”

  He blushes. “Having some time to myself. When you live with someone you really don’t like, you never get to watch dick porn and wank off because they’re always around. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Obviously.” I check out his hairy chest. Not bad. I check out his hard pecs and nipples. Nice. I check out his four abs and tight navel. Very good-looking. “Maybe you should play with your cock somewhere else.”

  He chuckles. “Honestly, I didn’t expect you home so early.”

  “I’m usually home at this time every day.”

  He looks around in search of a clock. He mumbles, “What time is it?”

  I tell him.

  “Fuck!” He gives his forehead a light smack. “I’ve been jacking off on your sofa for almost two hours. Time flies when I’m having fun. I’m surprised I haven’t shot my load yet.”

  I’m flabbergasted, shake my head. “Get dressed and get out of here. Go home and have Lou play with your knob. Isn’t that why he’s your boyfriend?”

  “Lou sucks at playing with my knob. It’s why I play with myself.”

  “Then find someone else to play with your knob, but just don’t do it here.”

  It’s horrible advice since I like Lou. He’s a nice man and a great boyfriend. Shame on me. But I want Ira out of my apartment. I want to eat leftover fried chicken, read a paperback mystery by Robert Riley, and drink a cup of coffee with Italian sweet cream.

  Arched boner visible in the cotton, he rises from the sofa, leaving the blanket behind. He climbs into his jeans and T-shirt. As he puts on his socks and Nike shoes, he sighs and tells me, “I want to be honest with you.”

  “Honesty is good. Tell me.”

  He sighs a second time. “I know you think I’m an asshole, and I get that. But there’s a reason for my behavior. I think Lou’s seeing someone else. It’s why I treat him so badly and don’t give a shit about him anymore. It’s not a match made in heaven. He’s hanging out with a new guy at the art studio he sells his paintings to. Zeb is his name. He’s a god and looks like Triton. They both are starving artists. They’re friends that I’m thinking are too close. I believe Zeb is banging Lou, but I haven’t proven it yet.”

  “What about the note you left for me that Lou wanted to ride your dick?”

  “Fake news. I made it up so you wouldn’t think I was weak.”

  “I’m sorry to hear this, Ira. Love blows sometimes. And you’re not a weak man. Lou just isn’t the right guy for you. Hang in there.”

  “Isn’t that the truth?”

  It is the truth. I’ve been where Ira is at. Most of my boyfriends have cheated on me. It’s why I’m not married or have a current boyfriend. It’s why I’m single and hang out at The Hoffstetter after work. It’s why…

  “I’ll spend the night at my sister’s,” he tells me, slipping into his Nikes. “I can walk to her place from here.”

  I don’t want to be an asshole, but I live alone in a small apartment for adequate reasons: one bed, tiny table, four very miniature rooms, and a shower I can barely fit into. “Sis will have you. She always opens her door to you.”

  She has always taken care of her younger brother, seeing to his needs since their parents passed away a few years ago.

  “She has too many kids. I never get a good night’s sleep there. My three nephews are rambunctious, wild animals. They draw on me when I’m sleeping. One time, they decorated me with kitty litter while I was asleep. Sis needs to keep them on leashes or in chains.”

  “I think that’s illegal, Ira.”

  He chuckles. “But it would get the job done.”

  I nod. “I guess it would.”

  He tells me he will see me tomorrow at some point. I close and lock the door behind him when he leav
es. I stare at the flat-screen. Some musclehead Army dude has a wide dick in his mouth, and a furry ball sack touches his chin. I grab the remote and press play. There’s groaning and a slew of grunts.

  An Army buddy moans, “Suck my gun, soldier.”

  The blowjob continues with many slurps and dripping saliva. I feel a tingle between my legs, unable to take my gaze off the screen. I undress to my bare bottom and sit down on the sofa where Ira sat. An erection forms between my legs, and the two Army guys go at each other. It’s a total turn-on, exciting and needed. I begin to stroke my hard pole up and down, up and down, and watch the XXX flick. Before I know it, I shoot a wad of goo on my stomach, flooding my abs with fresh ejaculate, huffing.

  This is why I have my own apartment. No doubt.

  * * * *

  The attorney, Peter Find, doesn’t try to find me again. Rather, I find him. I leave work on my lunch hour and make the block-walk to his office, which sits in the middle of Candor Avenue. I take the elevator to the fifth floor and enter his law firm’s lobby: real palm trees, a fish tank holding two koi, and imported Spanish tile on the floor and walls. His secretary, Beverly (big-shouldered, wide ass, frame like a linebacker for the Steelers), takes my name and tells me to have a seat. At first, she thinks I’m joking with her about my name, but realizes I’m not.

  This is serious stuff, lady. Don’t rock my world.

  I wait in the not-too-shabby lobby for a minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. Beverly finds me sitting next to an end table decorated with the latest Forbes magazine and a marble holder filled with Peter Find’s business cards. She escorts me down a narrow hallway with four, reddish mahogany-like doors with brass handles. All the doors are closed except for the last one at the end of the hallway, Find’s office.

  I follow her inside, and she steps aside. Somehow, someway, she vanishes, and I don’t even see it happen.

  “Mr. Peter Find,” the attorney, Peter Find, stands behind his desk, walks around the massive structure, and grins. He’s almost five-two, so very dwarf-like, and similar to a character out of Game of Thrones. His eyes are an intoxicating blue, and his beard is nicely groomed. He’s dressed in a button-down white dress shirt, linen slacks, and leather shoes. I’m sure his outfit is over a thousand dollars.