Ernesto signaled to Devon, who was busy emptying his wallet, paying Ian some ill-gotten wealth.
Today, by Smashing Pumpkins blared from the jukebox. Its music box-like opening broke his heart. He only wanted to protect him, like Ernesto wanted to protect him by giving him Jake’s letter. That could have gotten him fired. He was so sure Ricky deserved to read it. After all his sacrifices. His eyes teared up. He’d destroyed their friendship. Worse, Ernesto left thinking he pitied him rather than worried about him.
“I love you, but you should have just buttoned your lips like I was.” Ian slowly stepped out from behind him, smirking.
“You hate the guy. I just think Ernesto could do better.”
“I agree.” He looked him in the eyes. “But he’s the first queer friend you’ve had in a long time. He took you under his wing right after I dropped you into it. I’ll always be grateful to him for that.” He yanked his arm, so his attention went to Ricky.
A reminder that they might be out but couldn’t hold hands, much less kiss, on their Valentine’s Day date. Ricky didn’t want to go back to Fantabulous! or the house. “So much for a normal evening out.” He sighed. “So much for Valentines.”
Ian twisted his wrist and peeked at his Mickey Mouse watch. “One more hour before we promised we’d be back. I have the perfect idea. There’s a convenience store we passed on the way here. We can have a picnic by the beach. It’ll take your mind off Ernesto and my mind off Grossman.” He coughed.
“Uh… what did you and Devon talk about?” he asked. His cheeks burned again to say the man’s name. Ian’s cough, theatrical, meant more to the story than Ricky wanted to hear.
“What do you think about my beach idea?”
“I think it’s perfect.” He had goosebumps as they left Gumshoe. It was dark gray outside, but the boulevard lit up with its neon loveliness. “Don’t get any bubbly for me. Champagne always fogs my judgement. Makes me…”
“Horny,” Ian whispered in his ear, grabbing him from behind. He took advantage of the darkness.
“Maybe we should skip the beach.” Ricky snickered. His finger teased Ricky’s left nipple. The most sensitive one. As if his hot breath on his earlobes, now the nape of his neck wasn’t enough. He wanted his lover now. The last two months had truly tested them more than the last two years. He thought coming clean about his affair and Ian’s relapse would break them. It didn’t. He thought that inheriting Fantabulous! from the man Ian loved first. Maybe loved most? Would that? Ian thought that tearing the letter answered that question. Maybe it didn’t.
“Why? The beach will salvage our first Valentine’s Day in our new home. I mean the new house. And Venice Beach.”
“Okay.” He turned in the direction of his lover’s voice behind him. “I’ve been to that convenience store. It’ll be funny to see what kinda gourmet picnic you’ll come up with.”
“I never said gourmet. I’ll leave the fancy cooking to the chef in the family. They make you microwave your own burritos so it’ll be like I cooked them.”
His tummy grumbled in protest or in anticipation? Chef Ricky wasn’t sure. He chuckled. “I never got to taste the best and cheapest burgers in town.”
“I promised you a first-class life when we first–”
“Don’t use any words your old director used or you’ll never…” He quickly regretted thinking of Devon Grossman again. What awful night was Ernesto putting up with? He looked at the swarms of people they passed. Was he there somewhere?
Dim cyan lights hummed above their heads, snugly hugging an archway. It welcomed them inside but failed to hide the sloppy graffiti all over its pillars. The heaviness in his chest fell to his tummy as Ian let him go. The cold fluorescent lights of Lucky Luke’s Mart attacked them. The teensy store’s once sickly, yellowing walls were at least freshly painted. A line formed at the cashier, a forever-smiling Korean woman who resembled his Mama Nessa. His throat hurt. By habit, he checked his watch. 8:15 PM. He used to automatically know what time it was in Manila. There was enough time to get back to Fantabulous!
Ricky grabbed a box of Twinkies while Ian microwaved their burritos. He hummed Roxette’s It Must’ve Been Love. The song he’d last heard at Jake’s memorial. Why that song? His throat burned. He darted for the fridge. Two ice-cold Diet Cokes would improve their less-than-half-hour beach picnic. He might as well hear it from the horse’s mouth. Ricky choked. “Ian?”
“I talked to Bee today. He agrees that Only One Love and Treat Dobbs are up to their eyeballs in Jake’s murder. He doesn’t have anyone to send.” He babbled, swinging the steaming plastic bag of reheated burritos.
“I give up, Ian. On reining in your Glock instincts. Don’t try to convince me the real police would let a clueless civilian unofficially investigate a hate group.”
“I’m not clueless.”
“Neither am I. Tell me the truth.” As if the word mattered. He didn’t want to cry. It’d be his heart he’d break first.
“I volunteered to do it. Unlike them, I have an open invitation to get the scoop on Only One Love. Treat only wants me to take a tour of their facilities in Glendale. Then talk. If I don’t call Bee by tomorrow night, he’ll–”
“Send in the marines?” he shouted. He wanted to vomit before he touched Ian’s cooking. “Good luck, Ian. I’ll be praying for you. Don’t expect me to stay put. I’ll do a little investigation of OOL myself.” Images of the OOL tattoo on Tyler’s dripping back engulfed his thoughts. He stepped back from Ian. The memory of Tyler’s feverish lips on his. The soapy, spicy odor of his Drakkar Noir. His tummy bubbled. He started to walk away. “Take care of yourself, Ian. Our new house. Jake’s business. I don’t usually stray too far from home. You know where to find me.”
“Ricky, I never told you.” He reached out for him. “Jake had something. Something of sentimental value to me.”
“I don’t want to hear it. Get Tommy Glock out of your system. If you’re still alive, you know where I am.”
“But, Ricky.” He whimpered. “Ricky?” Tears flooded down his already reddened cheeks.
He refused to look at him. Just as defeated as he probably looked. He glimpsed his reflection on the glass door. His mouth shut, close to throwing up. His body hunched, ready to fall. His legs stumbled, felt like cement.
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