Second Star to the Right

Chapter 1-2

The game was on above the bar, the jukebox played in the corner, and the beer was almost cold. While it wasn’t busy, there was enough of a crowd that they could both blend in, mostly unbothered but for the occasional refresh or washroom break. It was good, Mason decided; much better than sitting at home alone, even if he did have packing to do.

“So, are you really going to go on vacation all by yourself?” Greg asked, leaning close enough for conversation but not taking his eyes off the game.

Mason didn’t let the question bother him. Unlike Henry’s earlier distaste, he knew Greg meant well in asking. Perhaps even had concerns about it.

“And this surprises you why?”

Greg shrugged, and tried to catch the server’s eye. “Dunno. I guess it just seems kind of pointless to go away and—” he stopped talking and turned to look at Mason with a smirk. “Hey, it’s not one of those deviance getaways, is it? With like orgies and s**t?”

Mason stared, pokerfaced. “Did we just meet?”

The laugh that started to bark out of Greg’s mouth dissolved into carnal triumph as he finally secured the attention of their waitress. He watched Greg paste on a big grin, lean towards the waitress and shout-ask for an order of wings, smiling at the carefree way that his buddy managed to interact with humanity. Mason liked that. He liked it very much; enough that had the hairy bugger not been so insistently straight, their casual friendship would have been ruthlessly chased for more.

Mason lowered his eyes to the table and chuckled at the thought. Well, maybe not ruthlessly. But definitely with every bit of his heart and talent.

“So no seedy bunkers with panting young dudes ready to fulfill your every fantasy, hmm?” Greg asked, his eyes trailing after the departing girl.

Mason laughed. “Just me and my palms, Greg. Like usual.”

“Yeah, I never did figure that one out,” Greg said, suddenly serious. “I get the whole thing about how it’s probably harder to find someone to date when you’re in the, what? Thirty percentile or whatever the hell it is now. But, come on. You’ve got a f**k-ton of cash, you’re decent looking,” Greg shrugged, “or so I’ve been told. You drive kick-ass cars, and you own your own f*****g company. How is it you aren’t hooked up?”

Mason reached for his glass but instead of bringing it to his mouth, he just stroked his fingers up it, collecting the balls of condensation as he went. “Because,” he explained, “I have a f**k-ton of cash, I drive kick-ass cars, and I own my own f*****g company.” He lifted his hand off the glass and watched the drops of liquid slip off his fingertips and fall to the table. “Apparently, those are the things most people see. And I’m not looking for one of those people.”

When he looked up Greg was eyeing him with an expression that could have been distaste or gas pain. “Stop doing that,” Greg told him flatly. “It looks f*****g creepy and you’re going to freak out the entire bar.”

“Bah,” Mason flicked his fingers, laughing when Greg flinched. “You mean freak you out. But all right, I’ll stop.”

“Good,” Greg took a long drink from his glass and set it back down with a barely-contained belch. “And stop distracting me. We were talking about your out-of-the-blue vacation plans.”

Mason shook his head. “It’s not out of the blue. I’ve been thinking about it for some time. It’s been too long since I’ve been up to the cottage.”

“Then why haven’t you mentioned it? Or asked someone to go with you?”

“Are you offering?” Mason teased, though the joke was belied by his gut’s clench at the thought. To the good, to the bad, Mason wasn’t even sure. As much as fantasy and fiction led one to hope for the possibility of conversion, Mason had too much experience in holding out for things that would never be. More likely a vacation like that, him and Greg in a solitary environment, would just leave him pining and frustrated.

Greg snorted. “Yeah, not so much. I, unlike yourself, Mr. Moneybags, have to work for a living.” A shout drew both their attentions back to the television, a round of congratulatory whooping for the team of choice followed, and it was several minutes later before Greg said, “You should buy somebody.”

Mason frowned. “Buy?”

“You know,” Greg pantomimed the act of holding a phone to his ear. “I’d like to order a hot blond with a tight ass, preferably early twenties, to go.”

Mason merely laughed and swallowed a mouthful of beer.

“Or whatever. A smoking hot redhead, a little Asian fellow; whatever turns your crank.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.” Mason nodded at the advancing waitress, carrying a tray of chicken wings that all but screamed their promise of saturated fats and intense spice that would be both delicious and destructive.

“Why not?” Greg shifted glasses to make room for the platter before tapping the table and smiling at the waitress with unfettered glee. “It’s not a big deal. Everyone does it.”

“No one does it.”

“Everyone does it.”

Mason set his glass down and glared. “Name one. One person, Greg. One person that you and I know that will validate this story and prove your elusive claim of everyone.”

Greg took a drink from his own and eyed Mason right back.

“One,” Mason prompted again.

“Okay, maybe I can’t think of one right now,” Greg said with a sniff before lifting his finger and cutting off Mason’s retort. “But trust me! It’s a million dollar industry, buddy. Which means people are doing it. Besides, it’s not like I’m suggesting you start sniffing through dirty alleys for God’s sake. I’m talking about the real deal here. Professionals that get health tests and s**t, like, places where you can pay with your credit card and get references.”

“They don’t exist, dumb ass.” Mason reached across table and snagged one of the wings. “This isn’t Hollywood.”

“They do.”

“They do not.”

Greg laughed. “No, Mason, buddy, trust me. They really, really do.”

“And you know this because…?”

“Because everybody does it,” Greg repeated cryptically. “I’m not talking poor little girls sold into slavery here, Mase.” He chuckled at Mason’s eyebrow lift. “Or little boys in your case; whatever. I’m talking consenting adults, doing legitimate trade for the exchange of the almighty loonie. It’s like…you know, hiring a contractor or something.”

“Right. And I suppose you just happen to know where I’d go about finding someplace like that too, hmm?”

Greg set his beer down and frowned at Mason. “Are you asking? Or are you just jabbering?”

That’s when it hit him—Greg wasn’t kidding. And something hungry in him answered before his mind had a chance to shut it down. “I guess I’m asking. I think. Maybe.” Yet even as tension stole back his fleeting braveness, his mind was racing with the possibilities. It was a stupid thought, really. But what if? What if he really could…well…hire someone…to just be there with him? To do things…to touch him…God; it had been too long since someone touched him. Way too long since he’d had the chance to lie beside someone. It got so hard to find someone in his circle that was both gay and out, harder still to find someone who wasn’t just looking to get their claws into his bank account. And he was too damn old to go barhopping for a one-night stand.

“So is that a yes or a no?”

He could afford it. That wouldn’t be an issue in the least. And it wasn’t like anyone would find out. Not anyone he cared about anyway. He would be hours from home, in a place way too rural to catch the eye of his friends or associates.

“Mason?”

A week. A whole f*****g week. Of someone that would be, at the very least, faking an interest in what he wanted. Someone that was doing everything in their power to make him feel good, in all kinds of ways. That was an alluring thought.

Greg held his hand up to his mouth, speaking into it like it was some kind of communication device. “Earth to Mason, come in Mason.”

Mason caught Greg’s eyes with his own and swallowed hard. He dropped the as yet untouched chicken wing on to his napkin, his appetite gone. “It’s a yes.”