your heart to yourself.”
“Maybe I can,” I told Marc.
But I knew I probably shouldn’t.
I sneaked into my apartment somewhere around one. My mother’s snoring combined with the lumpy couch to defeat any chance of sleep. I tossed and turned for awhile, but eventual y gave in to pharmaceutical assistance and popped an Ambien.
What do you get when you cross someone with hyperactivity with a sleeping pil ? Someone who can’t wait to fal asleep. Get it?
So, after ten restless minutes, I popped another pil . That did the trick. Sleep hit me like a hammer.
CHAPTER 8
In Which Our Hero Goes to the Gynecologist
“GOOD MORNING, GORGEOUS!” someone shouted into my face. I groggily opened my unwil ing eyes. Features slowly came into focus: blood-red lipstick, long, false eyelashes, heavily teased wig.
Oh my God, I thought, a demented drag queen has broken into my apartment!
Then I remembered.
“Mom. What time is it?” I croaked
“Wake up time,” she said. She leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. “Smel .”
I covered my mouth. “I haven’t brushed yet,” I explained.
“No, you don’t smel ,” she said. “Wel , maybe a little. I mean: smel .” She took a deep breath.
I did too. Oh my god. Bacon. French toast.
Hazelnut coffee. If I hadn’t woken up with a morning erection (thank you Lord for the blanket that covered my lap), I’d have sprung one there and then.
“See what you can do with food?” my mother said.
“It’s cal ed ‘cooking.’”
After breakfast with my mother, I went to the gym. I was doing pul -ups, my least favorite exercise, and thinking about what Tony told me.
“Just walk away.”
He was right, of course. I had about as much business solving a murder as Sherlock Holmes did turning tricks.
Stil , several things nagged at me.
Not the least of which was that I couldn’t believe Al en would have kil ed himself.
I don’t care what Tony told me about a recent rash of gay suicides. Al en was a happy, vital man, and he never would have taken his own life.
Someone must have kil ed him.
But who?
His children were obvious suspects.
Both Michael, the tal , handsome one, and Paul, the fey dandy, hated their father. Perhaps they had other motives, too. Maybe they didn’t believe he had cut them from his wil . Were they expecting a windfal from Al en’s fal from a window?
There were other suspects, too.
I stil had questions about Randy Bostinick, the hustler I had hooked Al en up with. Randy had a kil er temper. But did he have a killer’s temper? I couldn’t say.
Then there was Roger Folds, the development director at The Stuff of Life. While I didn’t have any reason to think he was capable of murder, it was pretty strange that he stopped coming to work right around the time of Al en’s death. And his co-worker Vicki had told me something else … what was it?
Focus, Kevin, focus.
Ah yes, she thought Roger and Al en had been fighting about something.
And I stil didn’t know enough about Paul and Michael Harrington. What was Paul doing with that shrew Alana? And what was up with Michael’s group, The Center for Creative Empowerment Therapy? It sounded like a quack factory to me.
Al these thoughts swirling around in my head—it was time to get organized. My psychiatrist often told me that people with AADD should make lists. I was lazy about fol owing his advice, but I felt overwhelmed enough to admit I needed al the help I could get. I took my iPhone out of my shorts. Along with a very smal canister of Mace I kept on my keychain (we little blond boys need al the help we can get), it was something I carried with me al the time. I opened up a note and started typing.
1. Fol ow up with Roger Folds—fight?
2. Talk to Randy Bostinick
3. Research Paul and Michael Harrington.
4. Look into those gay suicides—was that true?
Then, just for the heck of it, I added
5. Fuck Tony
I wasn’t sure how I meant that last item, but what the hel . Either way would be
“Maybe I can,” I told Marc.
But I knew I probably shouldn’t.
I sneaked into my apartment somewhere around one. My mother’s snoring combined with the lumpy couch to defeat any chance of sleep. I tossed and turned for awhile, but eventual y gave in to pharmaceutical assistance and popped an Ambien.
What do you get when you cross someone with hyperactivity with a sleeping pil ? Someone who can’t wait to fal asleep. Get it?
So, after ten restless minutes, I popped another pil . That did the trick. Sleep hit me like a hammer.
CHAPTER 8
In Which Our Hero Goes to the Gynecologist
“GOOD MORNING, GORGEOUS!” someone shouted into my face. I groggily opened my unwil ing eyes. Features slowly came into focus: blood-red lipstick, long, false eyelashes, heavily teased wig.
Oh my God, I thought, a demented drag queen has broken into my apartment!
Then I remembered.
“Mom. What time is it?” I croaked
“Wake up time,” she said. She leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. “Smel .”
I covered my mouth. “I haven’t brushed yet,” I explained.
“No, you don’t smel ,” she said. “Wel , maybe a little. I mean: smel .” She took a deep breath.
I did too. Oh my god. Bacon. French toast.
Hazelnut coffee. If I hadn’t woken up with a morning erection (thank you Lord for the blanket that covered my lap), I’d have sprung one there and then.
“See what you can do with food?” my mother said.
“It’s cal ed ‘cooking.’”
After breakfast with my mother, I went to the gym. I was doing pul -ups, my least favorite exercise, and thinking about what Tony told me.
“Just walk away.”
He was right, of course. I had about as much business solving a murder as Sherlock Holmes did turning tricks.
Stil , several things nagged at me.
Not the least of which was that I couldn’t believe Al en would have kil ed himself.
I don’t care what Tony told me about a recent rash of gay suicides. Al en was a happy, vital man, and he never would have taken his own life.
Someone must have kil ed him.
But who?
His children were obvious suspects.
Both Michael, the tal , handsome one, and Paul, the fey dandy, hated their father. Perhaps they had other motives, too. Maybe they didn’t believe he had cut them from his wil . Were they expecting a windfal from Al en’s fal from a window?
There were other suspects, too.
I stil had questions about Randy Bostinick, the hustler I had hooked Al en up with. Randy had a kil er temper. But did he have a killer’s temper? I couldn’t say.
Then there was Roger Folds, the development director at The Stuff of Life. While I didn’t have any reason to think he was capable of murder, it was pretty strange that he stopped coming to work right around the time of Al en’s death. And his co-worker Vicki had told me something else … what was it?
Focus, Kevin, focus.
Ah yes, she thought Roger and Al en had been fighting about something.
And I stil didn’t know enough about Paul and Michael Harrington. What was Paul doing with that shrew Alana? And what was up with Michael’s group, The Center for Creative Empowerment Therapy? It sounded like a quack factory to me.
Al these thoughts swirling around in my head—it was time to get organized. My psychiatrist often told me that people with AADD should make lists. I was lazy about fol owing his advice, but I felt overwhelmed enough to admit I needed al the help I could get. I took my iPhone out of my shorts. Along with a very smal canister of Mace I kept on my keychain (we little blond boys need al the help we can get), it was something I carried with me al the time. I opened up a note and started typing.
1. Fol ow up with Roger Folds—fight?
2. Talk to Randy Bostinick
3. Research Paul and Michael Harrington.
4. Look into those gay suicides—was that true?
Then, just for the heck of it, I added
5. Fuck Tony
I wasn’t sure how I meant that last item, but what the hel . Either way would be
Similar Books
