Hopelessly Devoted(4)

“No.”

“Come on, babe, let me treat you.”

“It’s just hair. It doesn’t matter, and if you want to treat me, I need some new socks.” Paul tried the puppy-dog eyes on me, but I wanted to show him that spending that amount of money on something you could get for a tenth of the cost wasn’t the issue here. “Tell you what. I’ll take you to Eric, the barber, and he’ll cut both our hair. Then you can tell me if Pierre the overpriced stylist can cut any better. If you don’t agree with me, I’ll go with you to Pierre.”

My good, albeit frugal, intentions didn’t quite pan out that time, and Paul went to work the entire following week wearing a fedora and looking like a much-more-masculine-and-hotter Justin Timberlake until he could get a “fix up” appointment with Pierre. I thought the hat rocked, and just to show him how much I loved the new look, I took an early lunch, cornered him in his office, and blew him under the desk. By the time I left, Paul was rethinking the hat.

Paul Senior caught up with me while I was walking to the elevator to go back to my office after my mid-morning delight.

“Jason, I haven’t seen you lately. How are you, son?” Paul Senior and I got along well. We didn’t see a lot of each other, but as far as future fathers-in-law went, I thought he was a pretty good one and our relationship was casual and friendly.

“Fine, sir. And yourself?” I followed my Paul’s lead and always called Paul Senior “sir” when in the building. In private he was Paul, or sometimes, when I had imbibed a few too many shots of his single-malt whiskey, it was Dad.

“Good, good. Can you tell me why Paul is wearing that hat to work? He refuses to take it off, and whenever I ask him, he grunts and says he’s never listening you to again. What did you do?”

“Um, I took him to see Eric, my barber. Paul has a habit of paying exorbitant prices for things, and I wanted to show him that he doesn’t always need to pay top dollar. It kind of backfired this time,” I said sheepishly. I couldn’t imagine what the clients thought of his new look.

He laughed and clasped a hand on my shoulder. “You are so good for him. He needs someone like you to keep his feet on the ground. The hat adds a level of sophistication I haven’t seen before. I’m thinking of asking him to keep it.”

I smiled, thinking of how Paul had looked in the hat when I had my mouth around his cock, his eyes dark and blown, the fedora tilted just a little. “I think it rocks.”

“Well, if anyone can convince him, it’s you.”

Paul Senior grinned, then turned and strolled down the corridor with his hands in his pockets, laughing. As I turned around to push the button for the elevator, I caught my Paul leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over the broad expanse of his chest and a scowl on his face.

I knew that look of annoyance, so I made a beeline for the stairs.

Later that night, after Paul had f*cked me until I was a sweaty, boneless heap, he brought up the subject of Dave again. I told him a little bit more, about how for most of the past eight years it was only Dave and me, and how Dave didn’t like any of my previous boyfriends—if you could call them that—until Paul had shown up.

“Dave really saved you, didn’t he?” Paul whispered against my skin.

“Just like you did,” I answered honestly.

He leaned up on one elbow and looked down at me, his eyes glinting with just-f*cked bliss and humor. “Aww, am I your prince charming?”

I snorted. “Not with that hair.”





CHAPTER THREE




THE NEXT disagreement came as we were talking about the guest list for the wedding.

“No,” I said firmly.

“But they’re your parents. Don’t you think they’d want to know who you’re marrying?” Paul questioned on the way home from work one day. We were sitting in the back of the town car, our driver weaving his way slowly through the New York rush-hour traffic.

“Trust me, my parents won’t give a shit. You could be Donald Trump and own half of New York and they still won’t care.” I silently begged him to drop the subject. My parents kicked me out when I opened my closet door, and before meeting Paul I had been on my own for the better part of ten years. Even as a skinny, awkward, and obviously gay man, I knew how to look after myself. I had mastered the art of shrinking into the shadows, after all. I also knew how much my parents despised me, as I had attempted to reconcile with them on a few occasions when I thought their bigotry might have subsided and they might actually miss their only child. The last time I tried was about six months prior to meeting Paul, and I couldn’t handle the rejection again if he made me contact them so soon. It wasn’t the first time we’d had this conversation, but I hadn’t told Paul I’d already tried to see them on numerous occasions.

Paul let the subject drop for the remainder of the drive home, only to pick it up again when we entered the penthouse.

“They still live in the same house, don’t they? Maybe we could take a drive on the weekend. We don’t have to go in if you don’t want to, but—”

“Why would you put me through that?” I yelled. My fear of being rejected again by the people who were supposed to love me the most mingled with my anger. I threw my keys on the granite counter, making Dave run off down the hall. I turned and faced Paul. “You’re supposed to love me and support me, not make me do shit that will inevitably break my heart.”