Square One

Square One By Dale Chase “I’ve asked Tracy to move in,” said Reece from behind his Los Angeles Times, “and he’s accepted. Isn’t that wonderful?” Reece occupied his usual spot at the breakfast table in the kitchen’s cozy nook. He wore the blue terry robe that accentuated his ruddy coloring and masculine appeal. He often made pronouncements from behind his newspaper, but this one blindsided me. When I offered no comment, he kept on. “He’s thrilled at joining us. He’s had such a rough time.” I poured a cup of coffee and sipped it while standing at the sink. I kept my back to Reece and heard the rustle of paper as he set aside the Times. “You don’t object, do you?” he asked. “Noah? We’ve been having such fun and he needs our help.” I couldn’t speak. His announcement had cut into me so deeply I expected blood. I looked at my hands, hunting for the slice, but nothing had outwardly changed. It was all inside, a blistering, searing pain. “Noah?” It angered me that everything appeared normal, the room quiet except for Reece saying my name. The coffee maker hadn’t exploded; the counter hadn’t cracked. Why hadn’t it? There should be an earthquake; the house should tip over. Crashing, grinding. Screams. How could I speak? My throat had closed off with his announcement. Breathing was difficult. If I did manage words, what would come out of the devastation? What was left of me? But wait, wait, I could be wrong. Yes, I could be wrong. I could be reading too much into a simple statement. After all, we’d been playing around with Tracy for a good month, romping through house and garden in, what seemed at times, a never-ending s****l threesome. And I’d enjoyed Tracy. He was a delectable twenty-two-year-old, eager, pliant, fun. Maybe he wasn’t an intruder. Maybe it could work on a permanent basis. “Noah?” Reece said again. I cleared my throat and sipped my coffee in an effort to right myself because I was jumping to conclusions. All could be fine, we could work it out, but if that was the case, then why was I feeling trampled? “Everything is fine, Sweetie,” I finally managed. “Wonderful, in fact.” There, I’d done it, agreed to allow another man to live with us, a man fourteen years my junior. Hardly a man at all, what with his boyish look. He was the classic Hollywood blond: dark roots beneath platinum curls, slim body, little pink c**k perpetually hard. The arrangement could work, couldn’t it? Over the years we’d often invited other men to join our s*x games, but they’d never been allowed to stay over. This had been Reece’s rule and it had given me confidence in us, but now here he was, reversing course. Tracy Lynch had won him over in the worst possible way. I took my coffee to the table and sat while Reece went back to his Times. Eight years before, he’d acquired me in somewhat the same manner, though I’d offered a screenplay in addition to myself. I’d been scraping by in a fleabag Hollywood hotel, subsisting on one meal a day while writing. Moving into his Mullholland Drive house had saved me. And I hadn’t displaced anybody. I thought of cooking breakfast, something I usually enjoyed, but food seemed impossible now. Would I ever eat again? My stomach churned as I worked to assure myself I could manage with Tracy around, but the instinct that made me a good writer knew damn well it was over. Eight years and it ends almost casually. “Helloooo,” sang the familiar voice. Had Reece given Tracy a key? Apparently he had because Tracy sailed into the room with a pink box he announced was filled with the best croissants ever. He kissed Reece on the cheek and gave me a similar peck, then poured himself coffee. When he got a plate for the pastry, I saw how settled he already was, confident in his every move. And it struck me then how he’d stolen that confidence from me. I was already the outsider. He wore an unbuttoned white dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and beneath it nothing but a royal blue Speedo. As he settled into a chair between Reece and me, I knew c***s were getting stiff. I looked at Reece, whose complexion was coloring. He beamed at Tracy as he bit into a croissant and I thought he might well have been biting into the interloper. He cooed over the pastry, the day, life itself, all of which confirmed my initial reaction. My time with Reece was ending as Tracy’s began. I’d never considered an end to Reece Landreth and me. In eight years of loving him, writing for him, and feeling myself privileged to be part of the famed actor’s life, I’d enjoyed an enviable situation, everything provided, everything I wanted readily given. I’d been lulled into a bliss I never considered could end, accustomed to life with the man of my dreams. And Reece? He’d always seemed happy with me. Still handsome at fifty-four, jaw strong, gray hair thick and not daring to recede, blue eyes bright, body softening yet remaining formidable, he was my everything. And now my nothing. Of course I’d have a choice in the matter, which actually made things worse. Did I wish to remain while relegated to second place? What would be the sleeping arrangements? How could I remain in our bed with Tracy in it, too? It was all up to me. I could endure, or I could make a graceful exit. Options started rushing at me like some flash flood sweeping innocents to their deaths. “We’ll put Tracy in the blue room,” Reece said of the bedroom across from his. I offered no comment, noting the proximity actually closer than my room, which was next door to his, not that I ever slept there. I would now, though. I got up to pour orange juice while noting Tracy’s every move. Reece’s Times had now been forgotten. I tuned out the conversation because it had nothing to do with me. After breakfast, we moved to the patio, Tracy dropping his shirt like some diva shedding her boa. Though he’d been to the house numerous times, I saw him surveying the realm anew, sweeping his gaze over the vast canyon view. “I love it here,” he said, at which Reece got up and slipped an arm around his waist. I watched them paired now, the final straw. When I went inside, they didn’t notice. In another hour they’d be f*****g, with or without me. I hated Reece for placing me in such an intolerable situation, hated Tracy for making it happen. Back in the kitchen, I had no idea what to do. I’d never been displaced before. I began to inventory my possessions. What would I take when I moved to nowhere? What would I leave behind? And how on earth would I support myself? The screenplays I wrote for Reece, romantic adventure stories, had been successful, mostly due to his connections. That money would dry up if I left. On the other hand, I had a steady rental income from the management company that took care of the family home near San Francisco. An only child, I’d inherited the house and a reasonable nest egg at my parents’ deaths and I now saw the bounty would come to good use. All the time I’d been with Reece, he hadn’t let me pay for a thing. I wondered how that would work if I stayed. Would I still be supported with another man in the mix? Thinking myself somewhat steeled in knowing it was over, I wandered back outside only to hear Reece say to Tracy, “I’ll drive you over to get your things later.” “I don’t have much,” Tracy said, and I thought of my trips to Reece’s tailor and visits to the best Beverly Hills shops. Every time we came home laden with packages, he’d insist I model for him, and I’d strike poses in outfit after outfit until he tore it all away and f****d me. He’d do Tracy the same, I realized, and it made me bristle. Outwardly, I remained serene, while inside I wanted to kill. “Let’s have a swim,” Reece suddenly declared. Tracy squealed and dove into the water. Reece stood in admiration for a few seconds before joining him. Pool-f*****g was a favorite of Reece’s. He loved the buoyancy that allowed him extended s****l romps without the usual effort. I watched them until the Speedos were floating on the water, their naked bodies rolling about as the coupling began. Ordinarily when we had a guest, Reece would call to me to join them, but this time he offered no invitation, so I headed back inside where I picked up our half-written screenplay, the first on which we’d collaborated. I thought it quite good, Reece full of ideas that I made come alive, but now it seemed a reminder of what I was losing. It would remain with Reece because why would I want it? He’d try and finish it on his own and would fail because I was the writer. He was the idea man, as he’d often boasted. In the living room, I checked my phone and found a text from Robin, my Bay Area property manager. Tenants have given 30 days’ notice. Rent at same or increase? I started to reply, then realized I had no idea what to say. Usually I had a feel for housing prices, but this had now fled, as I supposed had my entire practical side. I couldn’t be concerned with tenants and rents, not with my life turning upside down. I needed to marshal every part of myself to insure survival. Will get back to you, I texted Robin. Even this seemed an effort, but what then? I stood at the front window, looking into the courtyard between house and street. I fixed on a fat succulent with pointed arms and knew how those points would feel in my grasp, my fingers absently working the image. Turning back to the room, I found myself still at a loss. What did I usually do with my days? The answer brought another pang because they revolved around Reece. I always remained within reach, always keyed off him, happy in his orbit. He decided what was next, whether we’d stay in or go out, attend a party or throw one of our own, shop or swim, but all of it, every minute, secure in the knowledge that at some point we’d have s*x. Reece was big on daytime s*x. Age had robbed him of just one thing: late nights. If we weren’t partying, he was in bed by ten and it was to sleep. The last few years, he’d said more than once that daytime s*x helped him sleep well, whereas evening s*x led to a restless night. I never argued on that or anything else. I was complacent, happily so. Wandering to my bedroom, which went unused except to house my belongings, I found Reece connected to nearly all my possessions. He’d given me the leather photo album, the cowboy clock, the lewd painting over the bed. The closet was full of clothes he’d bought, shoes, even underwear. I had a dozen swim suits, every one chosen by him. A few books were mine alone, as was a scruffy leather jacket I’d had for ages. I hadn’t had much in that fleabag hotel room. Stretching out on the bed, I fired up my iPad for no reason but to occupy myself. I was trolling YouTube when I heard Tracy’s loud squeal. Hurried footsteps followed and I glanced up to see the naked Tracy rush by, a naked Reece close behind. Then the slam of the bedroom door. I lasted about ten seconds before I fled to the patio. I considered a swim, but made no move toward the water because it had a taint now, s****l residue, real or imagined, floating on the surface. I pulled off my tee because the day was warming, then stretched out on a chaise and tried to doze. It surprised me when I woke with a start. Apparently I’d managed to sleep because Reece and Tracy stood over me, dressed, Reece announcing they were off to fetch Tracy’s things. “Want to join us?” he asked. “I’ll pass,” I said. “Too comfy.” “See you later,” he sang, sliding an arm around Tracy as they left. When I heard them drive away, I tried to resume my nap, but my eyes wouldn’t remain closed. I sat up, sweaty and uncomfortable, realizing I had to leave this place. Not forever, not yet, but for the present. I changed into cutoffs and a print shirt, put on sandals, grabbed keys, wallet, and sunglasses, and headed for the garage. I climbed into my little yellow Triumph sports car, another gift from Reece.