For a Good Time, Call Read online

  “It’s okay,” he soothed. “Mom didn’t mean it the way it sounded, did you?” He turned to her, putting a lot of Please, Mama, please in his expression. She’d been susceptible to that when he was little. Let it work now.

  She sniffed, but gave in. “I just want you to be successful. And I guess this is a promotion.”

  “Nothing is ever good enough for you, is it?” Grandma shook her head, then turned toward the house. His mother followed, and Seth brought up the rear, dreading being stuck with these two when they were feuding. Which had been all the time the last year or so.

  Grandma poured them coffee, and they seated themselves in the breakfast nook in silence for a few moments. The air buzzed with impending sparks, like when he’d been a kid and about to pee on an electric fence.

  Grandma was the first to whip it out. “Now that Seth has chased the squirrels out of the attic, I can move forward with putting the house on the market.”

  Jerking slightly—why did she have to drag him into it so early?—Seth slopped a bit of coffee on the table.

  His mother hmphed and sipped at her coffee. Probably preparing her next offensive.

  Cleaning up his spill wouldn’t keep him out of the line of fire, but he tried it anyway. He was standing in front of the running faucet, holding a dishrag in the stream, when Mom raised her voice over the noise of the water. “I hope you aren’t encouraging Mother’s silly fantasy of moving out of Sentinel House.”

  “Like you said earlier, I’m here to help Grandma with the things she wants done around the house. I do what she tells me to.” After shutting off the tap, he turned around to find them both facing him, clenching fingers around their cups in the same way, heads tilted at the identical angle, wearing matching scowls.

  Excellent. Damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. He forced his lips to turn up into a fake smile, but his cheek muscles failed him within seconds.

  Fuck it. He’d done what was asked of him—what both his mother and Grandma claimed they wanted—and he was tired of being their pawn, especially since it never did any good anyway. Slouching back to the table, he sopped up the coffee in the brittle silence.

  “I think I will clean out the garage.”

  They let him walk out of the kitchen without comment.

  Once he saw the mess again, there wasn’t that much to clean up after all—less than he’d remembered leaving. As he piled up the twigs and rubbish, sorting out the metal bits automatically, that sense he’d woken up with, of having been wronged, grew stronger than ever.

  A short video played over and over in his head while he worked—Nate walking out last night, leaving him sitting in Stomping Grounds to be smirked at by Buck Ellis (now there was a hookup he’d never repeated). Anger built up in his chest like a bad case of heartburn, until he was soaking in indignation, mind and body. His arms were full of debris, so he kicked the half-empty paint can hard enough for it to bounce off the wall, then stomped outside to the garbage.

  Jesus, did he feel stupid. Like he’d forced his attentions on someone. Oh, God, was it his fault? Had he been so into the guy that he’d let his libido convince him innocent comments were really innuendos?

  Holding the trash can lid in midair, he tried to recall as much as he could of what he’d said, and what Nate had said, and yeah, he could see how there could have been some misunderstandings, but some of that stuff . . . He dropped the lid with a clang. Who the hell left a bar for someplace “more private” with a guy they’d known sixty seconds? People looking for some, at least that was what he’d always thought. Could Nate be from a country where the social customs of hooking up were the complete opposite of what he’d learned?

  Unlikely. No accent. Grabbing the broom as he walked back through the garage, he started sweeping.

  So . . . the dude really was into genealogy?

  Intriguing. And dorky, but Seth could kind of understand. He might be sick to death of the way his family revered Fennimore Larson, but he’d always been interested in the family legends. Most of the version he knew had been spun to make his great-great seem much cooler than the guy had been, Seth was sure. The man had been murdered by a former housemaid, but no one ever seemed to mention why. He’d always meant to look into it, actually . . .

  With Nate?

  Yeah, now that was unlikely. A laugh burst out of him, and his gloomy mood lifted. This time, when he reminded himself he’d been shot down before, the emotional acid reflux didn’t reappear. The guy had said he didn’t have sex in general, not that he didn’t want to do him specifically.

  Grandma came out to the garage as he was tipping the last of the dust he’d swept up into the garbage, to tell him his mother had left, then apologize for dragging him into the old argument again, patting his shoulder the whole time.

  “Debra just aggravates me to no end,” she finished.

  “It’s all right.” And it was; his annoyance wasn’t about being involved in the fight over the house, it was in being unable to affect any change. He shrugged, but Grandma continued peering at him, digging her fingers into his arm, so he put his body language into words. “I don’t know what to do. About any of this.”

  Finally Grandma dropped her hand from his biceps and closed her eyes for a few long seconds. Had she been hoping he’d have a solution for her? For a moment, he considered whether he really wanted her to move—he still had no idea what he’d do—but then his conscience reasserted itself and reminded him his grandmother’s happiness was more important than his own uncertainty. He’d be fine; he’d always landed on his feet before.

  “We’ll come up with something.” This time he reached out to her, giving her a quick one-armed hug.

  “Yo, Nate,” Morgan called. “Production meeting in ten.”

  Nate jerked and nearly dropped the sheet of breakaway glass he was trying to mount into a double-hung sash. “Shit, Morgan. Warn a guy.”

  “Sorry, but I have been standing here for the last five minutes while you scowled at that window.” She walked over and steadied the glass for him so he could set it in place with glazing tacks. “Your head is just not in the game today, baby.”

  “Yeah, I know.” He hadn’t been able to shake his regret from last night’s fiasco with Seth. The look on the guy’s face when Nate had shut him down—that kind of hurt and shame was just so wrong. Nate had heard the expression “his face fell” before, but always thought it was bullshit or poetic excess. But that was what had happened—all the uplift in Seth’s face, his eyebrows, the corners of his eyes, his smile—hell, even his hair—had drooped. My fault. I did that. God, he shouldn’t be allowed out.

  He drove in enough tacks to hold the glass until he could apply the final trim. “Thanks for the assist.”

  “No worries. Now, let’s go hear the latest raft of bad news.”

  They walked out of their workshop and across the echoing hangar-like expanse to the warehouse door. Now that the Wolf’s Landing compound sported two state-of-the-art soundstages, the original warehouse had been repurposed for the art department. Two-thirds of the cavernous building was still open—flexible space used by costumes, props, and anyone else doing work with nontoxic materials. His and Morgan’s enclosed workshop took up the remaining third, with a hefty portion of it devoted to storage—a damn good thing, considering how long it took to cure fake glass or build breakable furniture, and how much smashing and crashing occurred in every episode. The show must single-handedly keep several chemical vendors and lumber yards in business.

  As they walked through the lot, Morgan waved and smiled at virtually everyone they passed, stopping to hug random people—from actors to craft services minions. Nate kept his interactions to a tight smile and a nod for the most part. After nearly nine months, he knew everybody’s name, but had no desire to get closer than an arm’s length. Luckily, Morgan attracted all the touchy-feely crap, keeping it away from Nate—yet another reason she was his best friend: she made an excellent deflector shield.

  He wai
ted until she’d extracted herself from Suyin, who was carrying a fistful of makeup brushes that scattered pale speckles over Morgan’s black T-shirt. “Did you see the latest approved script? Gabriel gets chucked across a corridor—through floor-to-ceiling windows on both sides—and into a cabinet full of specimen jars.”

  Morgan brushed at her shirt, only succeeding in turning the makeup polka dots to stripes. “Ginsberg is gonna be black and blue for a week.”

  “Then Gabriel throws Max Fuhrman back through two different panes, and he knocks over three lab tables like dominos.”

  “Think Levi’ll do his own stunts this time?” She grinned and waved at a security guard. “He’ll need more ice packs than Ginsberg.”

  “Floor-to-ceiling glass, Morgan. I’m gonna have to build completely new molds to cast the panes for that. A fricking corridor of glass.”

  “Sucks to be you.”

  “Uh . . . didn’t you hear the part about the cabinet of specimen jars? Full specimen jars—times all the takes Anna needs to get the coverage she wants.”

  “Shee-yit.” She grimaced. “Okay, I’m definitely on the pain train with you.”

  “Good. I saved you your usual seat.”

  “You’re all heart, baby.”

  They arrived at the meeting room in time to see Anna storm off, with Finn Larson on her tail, both of them using outside voices, so the subject of their argument wasn’t exactly secret: Budget with a capital B.

  Everyone else in the room was collecting their coffee and notes and filing out. Morgan stopped Emily, Anna’s directorial assistant. “Meeting canceled?”

  Emily slapped a clipboard against her leg. “You think? They’ll be hollering at each other for an hour at least.” She shrugged apologetically. “I’ll let you know when we reschedule.”

  “No problem, baby.” Morgan hugged her—of course. Which made Emily close her eyes and sigh. Great stress relievers, Morgan’s hugs. Maybe Nate needed a few of them himself today.

  As they walked back to their workshop, they could hear Anna and Finn blasting each other from Anna’s trailer next to the warehouse. Judging by the brief sputters of Finn’s voice contrasted to Anna’s fucking arias, she was winning on points.

  Thank God for that.

  Nate held the door for Morgan to precede him. “Ever think how lucky we are to have Anna run interference for us with that joker?”

  “All the time.”

  Nate scowled as they paced across the concrete floor to the workshop. “That asshole is trying to can me in favor of a green screen and a computer.”

  “Well he’s been trying to replace me with a 3-D printer and a vacu-form machine since the first season, so join the party.”

  “What are the chances we could replace him, say with someone who hasn’t sold his soul to the devil?”

  “He’s from Hollywood, baby. Satan owns the place, lock, stock, and BMW.”

  Nate flipped on the workshop lights. “It’s heresy, I know, but sometimes I almost regret that Anna is opposed to all CGI. Have you seen the effects notes for the World Tree episodes? Hunter wrote it so the damn thing lights up. And levitates.”

  “I heard that was Kevyan’s idea.”

  “Then the man is evil.”

  “So I’ve heard.” She grinned wickedly. “But he’s keeping us employed, so we should send him cookies. Or custom handcuffs.”

  Ginsberg popped his head in the door. “Hey, guys. What’s up?”

  “Speaking of custom handcuffs,” Morgan muttered and Nate snorted.

  He sauntered in, ice packs strapped to both hips and one wrist. “I heard that. Come on, Morgan, you know I only screwed up the release on the first pair one time. One time. Don’t you think you could quit busting my chops by now?”

  “I say it from a place of the deepest love, baby.” She hugged him, ice packs and all.

  Ginsberg grinned at Nate over her shoulder. “Morgan’s hugs are almost as good as Derrick’s.”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “I could arrange a hug-off. Just give the word and we’re there.”

  “Morgan’s in a class by herself. It wouldn’t be fair.” Nate nodded at the ice. “Still recovering from last night’s shoot, I see. Judging from the vast quantity of broken chairs and tables in the scrap pile, I’m guessing at least three takes on the restaurant scene?”

  “Five. Anna didn’t like the camera three angles. It was awesome, but the trash cans got extra trashed. Sorry about that.” He checked his watch. “Oops. Gotta meet the team to debrief. Later.”

  He limped out, whistling.

  Nate shook his head. “He gets nailed with half the furniture in the room, then tossed through a window into a nest of trash cans—multiple times. Why does he look so happy about it? He have a fetish for ice packs and ibuprofen?”

  “I think he’s just happy in general. Being stupid in love will do that to you.” She sat on the tall stool behind her worktable. “Speaking of which, how’d your evening go after you left with that cute townie?”

  Nate’s earlier dark mood returned. “You were right.”

  “Of course I was. I’m always right. About what?”

  “He expected sex.” Nate pulled one of the pre-cut lengths of quarter-round balsa molding out of the rack. “After I’d known him for all of thirty minutes. How can people do that?”

  She shrugged. “Folks are what they are and want what they want.”

  “Yeah, and this is exactly why I never go out anymore. Everyone assumes that because I’m single, I must be panting to get laid.”

  “Well most people are.”

  “That’s my point. Sex is the—the default conclusion of any social interaction.” He removed the restraining tacks from one stile and ran a bead of glue along the glass. “Assumptions suck.”

  “As a black woman, you think I don’t know about bias, conscious or unintentional? Have you looked at Bluewater Bay? We’ve got more fake werewolves in this town than people of color.”

  He winced and set down the glue bottle. “Ah shit, Morgan. I’m sorry. I’ve got nothing to complain about.”

  “Hold on. I didn’t say that. Just because somebody else faces prejudice or intolerance, doesn’t mean you have to shut up and take it because theirs is worse, or they’ve had it longer.”

  “Thanks for saying so, but—”

  She pointed one long finger at him, her fingernail glinting with plum nail polish. “However, it doesn’t give you a pass on calling them on it, either. Don’t take it, but don’t be passive.”

  “But my sexual orientation is my own business. I shouldn’t have to explain it to anyone.”

  “I’m not saying stop people on the street and load them up with ace pamphlets, assuming you even have such a thing. But you liked this guy, or you wouldn’t have left with him in the first place. Educate, baby. Believe it or not, some people have never heard of asexual, let alone gray asexual.”

  Nate forgot that sometimes, since his mother was on the ace spectrum too. He’d never had to explain himself, not even the two times he’d felt enough attraction to engage in a relationship—first with Nara and then with Jorge. He was as much a product of experience blindness as the next guy, so he had no right to get pissed if Seth had made a good-faith presumption.

  “So.” He paid slightly more attention to fitting the trim onto the window than was strictly required, although he glanced at her from under his brow. “Think I should apologize?”

  She uncapped a tube of white paint and squirted a blob onto her palette. “If you traumatized some poor guy into thinking he was dogmeat, don’t you?”

  “Maybe.” Nate replayed their conversation in his head and winced when he realized how some of his comments might have been misconstrued if Seth hadn’t understood the context. “Make that definitely.”

  “Good on you, baby.” She shot him a thumbs-up. “Do what you need to do, but bottom line? Don’t be a dick.”

  Nate nodded. “Don’t be a dick. Got it.” After work, he’d s
top by Ma Cougar’s, see if Seth would even speak to him again.

  He sat down at his drafting table to work on the plans for the new—God—floor-to-ceiling window molds. He smiled as he lined up the T-square. Future groveling notwithstanding, his heart was lighter than it had been in months.

  Seth was back to his status quo—basic contentedness—by the time he showed up for his first bartending shift. He had his mother to thank for his state of mind. Watching her and the rest of his immediate family failing, over and over, to be satisfied with what they had was a hell of a practical lesson.

  Melanie, the bartender who was nominally “training” him, was finishing up at the prep station when he walked behind the bar, and he couldn’t help but grin at her as he tied on an apron. “Finally, man, I’m the captain of the ship. No more swabbing the deck.” Well more like the second mate, but still. An officer with some say in how things were run.

  “Um, hello?” Melanie took one hand off her hip to tap her own chest. “I’m the captain.”

  Seth saluted. “Of course, but you know what I mean.”

  “You’re really excited about this, huh?” She dropped her fake glare and swatted his shoulder playfully.

  “Yup, it’s gonna be fun.” When mixing drinks, he was reminded powerfully of playing with the chemistry set he’d received for his twelfth birthday. His mother had given it to him with dreams of him becoming a research scientist, while Seth had had his heart set on becoming a mad one. Just another indicator that his career path would veer sharply from what Debra Larson had imagined for him.

  Career path. He paused while stuffing his backpack—full of extra shirts and deodorant—into a cupboard under the countertop. Truth was, he’d never intended to have a career path. Of course, he’d never been able to imagine life after twenty-five, either. That was when people settled down, and he’d been pretty sure he wasn’t the settling-down type.