Green Room II
Chapter 4

Brett vanished before I had a chance to say a word in my defense. Suddenly, I regretted my decision to visit Fremantle. What the bloody hell for? What was the point? Brett didn't trust my motives. I needed a friend, but all I got was a bloke who hated me, who figured I was there because my boss sent me. MY EX BOSS! But, hey, what choice did I have? None, except to stay for the duration, and to follow Brett's orders. I knew that heavy shit waited for me back in Byron anyway.

I began to sand, and sand, and sand, and sand until my arms almost fell off. The barn heat was stifling. I tied the top of the overall around my waste so that my torso could breathe. Rivers of perspiration ran as if I'd just stepped from a shower. But I continued to sand and sand and sand.

An electric sander just outside the stateroom door sent thin clouds of dust floating around the warehouse interior. After a couple of hours torturous labor, one of the Aborigines told me to take a break. I followed him outside where Brett and the other two Aborigines drank cold drinks and ate sandwiches. The bossman was also there, and stared at me. Brett noticed, and ordered me replace my overall top. "That place is loaded with fiberglass dust. You're gonna shit yourself if you don't cover up." However, outside the barn, all the guys had their tops down just to cool off. Now I appreciated why Brett's body was more defined than ever--with all the sweat and intense labor, he couldn't help but look so damn cut. A real head-turner.

The bossman struck up a conversation with me--a welcome change from being ignored by Brett, who chatted to the black guys. The boss asked questions about my school, then the subject got around to surfing. He seemed a really pleasant bloke. Then he informed Brett that the yacht's designer was due later that day to check on progress.

Following the half-hour break, work resumed. I couldn't handle the heat, so I removed my top again. Brett was busy at the blunt end, sanding the hull. He resembled a pro-painter, working carefully as he went. Mr. Perfectionist. I understood now why the work took so damn long. Brett had been involved with the project from day one, and was obviously proud of it.

Later that afternoon, the designer showed. He was early-30s and chatted to Brett about the onboard showers and toilets, where the plumbing should go, etcetera. I had no idea what they were on about--all nautical gobbledegook to me.

After another short break during mid afternoon, work continued until 8pm. In all that time, slaving my guts out, not once did Brett visit the stateroom to inspect my efforts. What an asshole! Only one conclusion could be reached; he didn't want me there.

Back in Brett's suite, I peeled off my overall. Brett noticed my upper body. He told me I'd be in shit because my back was covered in fiberglass dust. "You shower first."

I was exhausted, but nonetheless felt good after working my ass off all day. I was also pissed at Brett for not bothering to check the results of my efforts in the stateroom.

After toweling, I saw that my chest, stomach and back were red raw, not to mention ITCHY! I didn't inform Brett because I knew he'd give me a load of uphill, like `I told you so' bullshit. I figured he would get great pleasure from gloating.

With a towel wrapped around my waist, I walked into the room. Brett was on the phone, talking to Candy--his regular evening call to catch up on all the gossip.

Following the call, he wrapped a towel around his waist before removing his shorts. Like he didn't want me to get an eyeful of his schlong? *Shrug*. Then he showered.

I had no idea what to expect that night until he entered the room and told me to dress. We were to dine with Fingers. Fingers? I remembered Kyle's reference to Brett's boss as Fingers but had no idea Brett also used that nickname. Kyle must have told G just about everything. Brett knew zip about G, so I decided to play dumb. Hey, I'm blond, right?

"Why do you call him Fingers?"

"Because he likes to touch guys. Just be cool about it, and don't let him get too touchy."

In the dining room, I noticed the table set for three places. Three poured beers waited, along with a ton of food--a casserole of chicken with chilies and rice.

The dinner conversation was dominated by Fingers and Brett, who discussed the yacht and the designer guy who was due again next day. Meanwhile, I squirmed around in my chair in a futile attempt to ease the itching.

"What's the problem?" Fingers asked.

Brett was quick to volunteer the answer. "He wouldn't listen, that's what the problem is. He's covered in fiberglass dust."

Fingers smiled and said he had stuff that would fix the itch. "I'll go fetch it."

At Fingers' departure from the table, Brett glared at me. What his beef was, I didn't know. Then Fingers returned and requested me to remove my shirt. I glanced at Brett, hoping for some sign of approval, but it wasn't forthcoming. All he did was shrug. Fingers asked me a second time to remove my shirt, which I did. Hey, there was no doubt I scored pretty high in the bod stakes. It was obvious to everyone, including me. Also obvious was that Fingers' boner was fighting for air inside his jeans at the thought of touching me.

He instructed me to stand, then rubbed oil over my back. He remained behind me as his oiled hands found my pecs and abs, those same muscles that Kyle found so attractive. Brett tried desperately to withhold a smile, but couldn't resist. In an attempt to hide his reaction, he rose from the table and announced that he would make coffee.

Fingers' breathing became more hectic. However, I enjoyed turning him on, as well as his turning me on. His fingers did a minor invasion of the waistband of my shorts, and felt my pubes. Then he asked me to turn and face him. He blushed from ear to ear. "Do you mind what I'm doing, Stuart?"

"Not at all. It feels cool, and the itch has eased. Thanks."

Fingers' hands moved to my abs again, so I flattened my stomach to increase their prominence. It was fun to watch this guy get his jollies from touching me. Brett returned with the coffee, paused for a quick gawk, then left again to wash his hands. Fingers, meanwhile, asked me to leave my shirt off to allow the oil to do its thing. Hahahaha! Yeah, right.

When Fingers vacated the room to return the oil, Brett took advantage of the opportunity. "You need to be careful," he smiled. Oh, what a smile! Kyle loved it. "He'll do whatever you allow him to do, so watch yourself."

"Hey, as long as he doesn't whip out his wrinkly, it's cool."

"That's not what he wants. He wants yours."

"And yours?"

"Fuck you."

"He checks you out all the time, Brett." But my remark went unheeded, so I continued. "Does he oil you as well?"

"Sometimes he visits my room and gives me a massage with my morning coffee. But I don't think he will while you're here."

"Cock massage?"

"Fuck off, Stuart."

"This is the first I've seen you smile since I arrived."

The subject quickly changed upon Fingers' return. Hahaha! The bossman talked to Brett, but his eyes couldn't resist my chest and gut. I teased a little by tensing my muscles as I drank my coffee. It was the most fun I'd had in a long time. When Brett and I retired to his room, I fell on the couch, laughing. "That bloke will be jerking his turkey all night long!"

"You as well by the look of it."

My erection was not full on, but the blood was certainly flowing in all the right directions--something that hadn't escaped Brett's attention. But it was cool, Brett was a lot more relaxed than I'd seen in quite a while.

"You better wipe off that oil before you turn in," he suggested.

I took a towel from my bag and proceeded to remove the excess from my chest and abs. Then Brett took over and cleaned my back. "I'd prefer you to oil me than Fingers," I said. "He bathed me in the damn stuff."

"He was enjoying himself."

We undressed to our boxers, then I chose to sit on the couch and watch Brett. There wasn't an ounce of fat on that guy. Not one. He made more coffee, then sat at the small table. "Can I swim with you tomorrow?" I asked, sounding like a grommet who needed permission to be with the big guys.

"I'll be in the gym tomorrow, smacking a bag around."

"Sounds cool."

"Whatever blows your hair back."

After coffee, he laid on his back on the bed. My eyes traced the awesome contours of his chest, then down a steep descent to his stomach, which undulated over his six pack. I focused on the bulge in his boxers that flowed down to his strong muscular legs. `How the hell had Kyle gotten through to this guy?' I wondered. Must have been Kyle's magic, there could be no other explanation.

"You're looking pretty good" I said, unable to resist the comment. "Do you swim or workout every day?"

"Most days." He followed that with an unexpected verbal sledgehammer. "You're looking shit. Do you get trashed or stoned every day?"

I didn't realize I looked that bad, and couldn't understand the motivation for the insult. In fact, I thought I looked pretty damn hot. So, for that matter, did Fingers. "I'm trying to get clean," I offered, "and it's been hard for a while now. But you wouldn't understand that."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah--when you stop all the self-pity shit and get a life."

The exchange was interrupted by a phone call. Brett answered it and, upon his return, said it was Candy. He had a leaking cockstand that he didn't bother to hide. "Must've been a pretty hot convo," I smiled. Then I got an erection that I also didn't bother to hide. Instead, I placed one hand inside my boxers and caressed it. He noticed, but refrained from comment. Meanwhile, I wished he'd lighten up and stop being so damn aggro towards me.

"Good night," he said before turning off the light.

I stared for ages into the darkness and thought about Kyle. My eyes began to sting. Brett was right; I was on this whole self-pity trip. How does one stop it, though? I pulled off my boxers and tossed them on the floor. I hated sleeping in any clothing. `If Brett doesn't like it,' I thought, `fuck him.' Hey, I was certain Brett didn't like sleeping in boxers either, so if he wanted to act like a precious virgin around me then I hoped the cotton would strangle his dick.

I eventually cried myself to sleep. I felt so worthless. You know something G? Kyle was the only person who found anything worthwhile in me. Everyone--and that includes you--thinks I'm the scum of the earth. I guess Graham thinks so as well. My folks don't give a shit and my friends--who are not really friends--either deal with me or buy from me. Now Brett has made it clear that I'm disrupting his life. Who knows? Maybe Fingers is fucking him or blowing him or whatever. It was pretty open at the dinner table. Now Brett acts all fucking shy around me like some nerd boy.

At the time, I made it my mission to tell Brett what happened outside the Gold Coast nightclub, where I organized a couple of my druggie mates to beat him up--and to tell him how much I hated him for coming into Kyle's life, and stealing his heart.

But at the same time, G, I'm scared shitless of Brett's temper. I'm determined to come clean and then say `fuck it' if people don't like me. I've never written anything like this before but I read some of the stuff Kyle wrote you. He was sending reams of paper to you every day!

Don't get upset about what I'm writing here. It's how I felt at the time in Fremantle. I know you think Brett was God's gift to Kyle so don't get upset about my own thoughts. I told you to expect honesty when I write.

When G responded, he included this paragraph: You're doing fine, mate. No amount of half-truths, deception or lies could ever compare to a single word of truth. I appreciate what you're doing and how hard you're trying.