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Author's Note:
Since you've read this far, you'll understand when I say that I dreaded publishing the last chapter. In my original draft, Conor didn't kick Brandon out. Why did I change it? Well, because I strayed from my draft long ago. I write the story now as I "see it" played out, like a movie in my mind, and even I don't know how it will end yet.
The following chapter takes place on the same fateful day as the the last chapter. It's short, but it completes the day and fills in some gaps, for us, and for Brandon.
For those of you who are missing the sex, don't despair. One thing I can guarantee is that in The House, there will be sex.
Loving Conor - Chapter 13
Hope. I had hope again, but now what? What was I hoping for? Should I hope to get Conor back? Did I even want to get Conor back? Conor's shift in personality was confusing to say the least. I had done absolutely nothing to deserve being told to "Get the fuck out!", so something else had to be going on. Maybe the best I could hope for was to get some answers.
The hunt for a place in Miami was on hold, that much I knew. I also knew that I needed to be careful. Dealing with Julie's passing, I understood the stages of grief and didn't want to get caught in the trap of denial. Having hope was one thing, but denying reality would only cause more pain. I decided I needed to confide in someone to help me decipher fact from fiction. Sam would talk to me, but was too close to the situation, and Tom... well he was Tom. I thought of Charles but given his past with Eve, I wasn't sure he was the best person for relationship advice. One name, however, kept popping into my mind... Rose.
WIth no contact information, I set out for the boutique, hoping to run into Rose again. I knew it was a shot in the dark, but I needed the fresh air anyway. I got to the shop and stood staring at the photo of Clarissa for a moment, wondering how Rose seemed to know so much. After deciding it didn't matter, I knocked a few times, but the place was empty. I thought of leaving a note, but had nothing to write with, so I pulled out one of my old business cards and stuck it between the frame and a pane of glass, then walked down to the beach.
I found myself standing in the same spot that Conor and I once stood, watching the endless waves make their way onto the sand, then back out to sea. "Love is never complicated, Brandon, people are complicated..." Rose was right, of course. I walked myself through the complicated maze of feelings and emotions I had been experiencing; sadness, anger, fear, confusion... there was one, however, that prevailed over all the others. Whatever happened between us, I would always cherish my time with Conor. I would always see his smile, hear his laugh, and feel his smooth skin. Whatever happened between us, I would never forget the Conor that I fell in love with. I refused to let a single moment define and defile the memory of the man I once loved... the man I still loved. Conor may have given up on me, but I was not going to give up on on love!
I turned away from the water, toward the row of shops and busy streets, and realized I was hungry for the first time since I got up. As I neared the boutique, once again something caught my eye. The card I left was gone, replaced by a pink paper. I looked around but didn't see anyone, so I went up the steps and took a closer look. Written on the paper was one word, "Love". I chuckled at the impossibility of it all, then put the note in my wallet. I came with hope, and I was leaving with love. I came seeking advice from Rose, and somehow got it, even though I hadn't seen her.
Instead of sitting in a crowded restaurant alone, I ended up in the kitchen at The House. A hot dinner had been delivered by the catering company, so I grabbed a plate and sat down. After a few bites, ironically of the same food Conor and I shared on our first day together, someone came into the room.
"Oh, hey bro, you look like shit warmed over."
Coming from anyone else, I may have been offended. As it was, I nearly choked on a ravioli, surprised at the sound of my own laugh... at least I could still laugh.
"Thanks, Tom. You look wet."
"Yeah, I just got out of the shower."
"I suppose Sam filled you in?"
"Yeah, man, that was some fucked up shit. You need a blowjob or something?"
"... or something."
Tom grabbed a plate and sat across from me.
"So shit didn't work out, huh?"
"Nope, shit didn't work out."
"That's my boy Conor."
"Oh, how's that?"
"Psyco got more layers than a Siberian hooker, know what I mean?"
"I think so. Any idea why?"
"No one know that shit, not even him. You just gotta break through."
"I'm not sure if I can do that, Tom."
"Fuck that. I seen how he looks at you. If anyone can, you can."
"He hurt me, Tom. What if I don't want to..."
"Fuck that, too! I seen how you look at him. Some shit just meant to be. Besides, if you don't, I gotta put up with his hopeless ass moping around here all damn day and night."
"I'll think about it, Tom. Thanks for talking to me."
"Yeah, man. Anytime. You too fucked up to teach me how to mix some drinks?"
"Shit no, you have time now?"
I spent the next hour teaching Tom some of my favorite recipes. I had taught a few people over the years, but Tom was a natural, even improving on my award winning Zombie. Tom had a profound understanding of chemistry and mathematics, which I could tell was a secret he rarely let anyone in on. I had severely underestimated Tom... under his street tough attitude and sideways baseball cap was an actual genius. It seemed we all had layers, and I felt privileged that Tom peeled some of his away for me to see beneath. It was a purposeful lesson I knew, and one I gladly accepted.
The guests had started coming in after distributing posters, keeping Tom and I busy mixing. Carl got the lights and music going, then the evening turned into a typical night at The House. Typical, for everyone except me. I quietly slipped away before the sex started, then slipped into Jim's bed, having sampled just enough of Tom's inventions to put me out like a light.
Sometime during the night I woke up covered in sweat, shaking, and had probably been yelling. We were back in the alley. Conor had just kicked the gang leader in the face while I was being held to the ground. Three of the thugs grabbed Conor and the leader was stalking toward him with a knife. I called out, trying to provoke the asshole... only this time it didn't work, and no drag queen posse showed up to save us. Every muscle in my body and every ounce of willpower couldn't stop what happened next. Unrelenting horror filled my soul as the knife plunged into my love's heart. The gang members all pointed and laughed at the "faggot" as he fell to the ground. I was forced to my knees to watch the blood drain from Conor's body. I called out that I loved him, and Conor looked at me... his voice faltered, but his emerald eyes spoke loudly, then faded to grey as his life force left his body.
I barely made it in time to empty the contents of my stomach into the bathroom sink. Puking turned to sobbing, and it took awhile to convince myself that it had all been a twisted nightmare. Even in my dream, Conor couldn't voice his love for me, but his eyes... his eyes held the truth... they always had. The night held no more sleep for me as I watched Conor die over and over in my mind. I needed to see him or talk to him, but that wasn't going to happen, so I did the next best thing.
After rummaging through Jim's sock drawer, I found what I was looking for. Almost every man, for some odd reason, hides things in his sock drawer, and that's where I found the master key. I used the key to open Conor's room, and nearly lost it again when I saw the bed that we had spent such precious time in. The pillow I had brought from Jim's room was identical to any of the other pillows in The House, but I didn't want just any pillow. I exchanged the pillowcase with the one on Conor's pillow, then made my way to the door. It seemed a desperate thing to do, I knew, but I needed something, anything in that moment to clear my mind of the awful dream. I turned around, looking at the bed once more, then noticed something sticking out from underneath. I knew it was none of my business, but curiosity got the best of me.
Seven. I sat on the floor surrounded by seven poster-sized photographs... black and white photos, framed to the exact sizes of the photos that now hung on the wall. My hand shook as I traced the outline of Conor's face. The pictures had been taken at Brenda's place, and were all of us. Conor had obviously intended to replace his prized photos with the ones that lay before me. I now understood why he had locked his door. I also knew that he hadn't planned on kicking my ass out of his life until just recently or he wouldn't have had them made. My theory was confirmed... something, someone, or both had come between us. I had to find out what I was up against, if it wasn't already too late.
I climbed back into Jim's bed and finally found sleep again, at peace with my discoveries of the day, and with Conor's sweet scent filling my sinuses and my dreams.
To be continued...