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after all of those shopgirls. Don‟t suppose you‟d share?”
“Shut up, Dad. He‟s going to think you‟re serious, you
sicko.” Blake reached out to touch Tyrone‟s shoulder, but
thought better of it and stopped short. Tyrone's tawny skin
glowed bright red over his high cheekbones.
And why wouldn‟t he be ashamed? What did Blake
think, that Tyrone was suddenly going to get down on one
knee and ask him to change his name? That was a little
ridiculous, but Blake had thought that they wouldn‟t be
entirely on the down-low. It wasn‟t like he was a clerk. He‟d
even been to a business dinner with him…. Where Tyrone
pushed him off on someone else.
Still, they arrived and left together.
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Lionel was clocking the evolving expressions on Blake‟s
face with a stomach-turning glee. He lived up to his leonine
name, and Blake‟s show of weakness only incited his
predatory instincts, like the scent of blood. His father sat
back and grinned. “Had I known that was how you were
making rent, Blake, I might‟ve let you stay here. You have to
tell me these things, my boy.”
Blake shook his head as he pushed his bacon away. “It‟s
not rent.”
Lionel leaned forward, head tilted. “Oh, what is it?”
What could he say? Blake shrugged and stirred his
coffee.
Lionel sighed. “Well, that‟s your life, isn‟t it, Blake? One
big shrug. You‟re given beauty, youth, money, a beautiful
wife and baby, and what do you do with it? Nothing. She
leaves you, and you don‟t even have the wherewithal to fuck
your way out of it.”
Blake thought of Mitchell and almost laughed. Would
that have made his father proud? He could fuck his way out
of it. Or maybe that was what he was doing with Tyrone. It
didn‟t seem possible from what he felt while they were
fucking that it had meant any less to Tyrone than it did to
him, but Tyrone wasn‟t even looking at him now, let alone
defending him.
Then Tyrone spoke, pushing away his plate just as
Blake had his. “You‟re a repulsive old letch, and you will die
alone. No one will remember you young and beautiful like
Blake. They‟ll remember the old man with a plasticized face
who was found by a servant a day later in a puddle of his
own urine and feces with livor mortis dappling and distorting
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his body. Disinheriting him may serve you now, but in the
end, it just spares him having to care, and no one else
would. That‟s your life, isn‟t it, Lionel?”
Tyrone rose to his feet and paced over to the window
opposite his host, but it took him away from Blake‟s side as
surely as it did from his father‟s. Tyrone looked nauseated,
unnaturally pallid. “Maybe I can‟t be what Blake needs or
wants, but even if he racks up as many failed marriages as
you, I will still be there at the end. That‟s what family does,
and Blake is my family even if you eject him from yours.”
Tyrone lapsed into silence then, suddenly, as if he
wanted to say more and wouldn‟t. He turned his back to
them and stared out onto the beautifully manicured garden,
his shoulders a taut, angry line.
“Oh ho, the young Turk speaks from his vast experience
and wisdom.” If Lionel was angry, he didn‟t show it. Instead
he smirked. “Seems to me that disinheriting him served you,
did it not?”
Blake watched Tyrone anxiously. He was visibly upset,
though over what exactly, Blake wasn‟t sure. There were so
many reasons he could be angry. Lionel had that effect on
people. Blake pulled his napkin from his lap and folded it. As
he stood, he tossed it at the old coot and went to Tyrone‟s
side. “I‟m sorry. I shouldn‟t have brought you here. He gets
off on being repulsive.”
Blake rested his chin on Tyrone‟s shoulder, trying to
figure out what was bothering his friend the most. It seemed
like the closer they got, the less Blake could read him.
Before he could say anything more, Lionel got up and
moved behind Blake, resting his chin on his son‟s shoulder
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97
in grotesque mimicry of Blake‟s posture. “So what is this, a
three-way? If Tyrone considers himself your family and gets
to do it, why not me?”
Blake elbowed his father away. “Because you‟re too old.”
Tyrone gagged, his shoulder lurching under Blake‟s
chin. He turned his face toward Blake, and whatever color
had been in it drained away, leaving him almost green. But
Tyrone‟s eyes didn‟t look at either of them, focused instead
on some middle distance. Tyrone‟s voice was flat, as if he‟d
shut down all emotion. “I can only imagine you find yourself
extraordinarily witty, but you must forgive me. I seem to
have misplaced my sense of humor. This is a dangerous
situation, as it leaves me convinced the appropriate response
is not laughter but smashing my fist into your face.”
Lionel took a step back, looking between Blake and
Tyrone as if they would start laughing. When they didn‟t, he
shrugged and headed back to his spot at the breakfast table.
“If you can‟t take a joke, get out.”
Blake searched Tyrone‟s face, willing him to look him in
the eye. He didn‟t know what to say to make it better. Lionel
was horrible. He always had been, always would be. But he‟d
never laid a hand on Blake. He‟d joke about it when it suited
his mood simply because Lionel held nothing sacred. Blake
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