Date: Wed, 24 Mar 2010 09:12:58 -0400
From: hardreader2000@aol.com
Subject: The Further Adventures of Justin & Billy, Chapter 19, Part 3

The Further Adventures of Justin & Billy
Chapter 19, Part III
From Justin's viewpoint

"Do you love Tom?" Billy's words echoed in my head. It was like I had been
ready to ask him the same question, only I didn't know to ask it until I
heard the words come out of his mouth. I know that may not make a lot of
sense, but it's how it was.

"No, I don't," I said calmly, as though Billy had asked me if I'd like a
drink of water or something. "But I've thought about it. I like him so
much. He's so much fun. The sex with him has been fantastic. It's like I
think I should love him, but I just don't. I just like things the way they
are."

Billy nodded like he understood, but didn't say anything more.

After a brief pause, I asked Billy, "So do you?" And then realizing that
the question might not be clear, I asked, "So do you love Tom?"

"No," he said. "I guess, like you, I've just been enjoying getting our
rocks off with him." My heart skipped a beat when Billy said "our rocks."
It was like a sign that told me immediately I had nothing to fear. He
didn't see the sex we'd been having as him and Tom. But as us and Tom.

"After all that fucking shit with Joe and the trouble with Todd and Phil
and all . . . I just didn't want more of that between us," Billy said. He
leaned over and kissed me on the lips. Pulled back. Looked me right in the
eyes and added, "I just thought we should talk about it."

I thought at first it was going to be one of those nights when we talked
forever. But it wasn't. It turned out we both felt just the same about
Tom. He made a great friend for the two of us. He was a wild man when it
came to sex. A perfect fit for the two of us. It seemed we were both
enjoying being his "fuck monsters."

Best of all, neither of us felt that tangle of emotions that had tripped us
up before with other guys. The week really was unfolding perfectly. Of
course, it was still only Monday night. But we slept so damn good that
night. Exhausted once again by Tom and . . . I guess it was just Tom that
wore us out.

Tuesday was uneventful, except when I went into Joe's office to take care
of some business. He wanted to know what I thought of the idea of asking
Tom to join us for dinner Wednesday night. "A chance to get to meet this
young charmer," Joe suggested.

I told him I'd give it a little thought and let him know later that
afternoon. I called Billy. He was cool with it and would join us for dinner
if Tom was going to show.

That's how it happened that the four of us went to dinner together that
Wednesday night.

Joe came by our place early, driving the new Audi. My new Audi. My
beautiful black Audi. I got to drive it for the first time as I drove it
around a little on our way to pick up Tom. He was standing in front of the
dorm. Waiting.

I was so caught up in my new car that I almost forgot that Tom and Joe were
having their all-important first meeting. When Tom climbed into the
backseat with Billy, Joe quickly turned in his seat, reached back with an
extended handshake and introduced himself.

As he turned back in his seat, I glanced over at him and saw this big old
grin on his face. He seemed to like what he could see of Tom. So far so
good, I thought.

When we got to the restaurant and the valet had taken my car, promising to
treat it with care, I got my first good look at Tom that night. He was
usually just dressed like any college kid, but tonight . . . Tonight he was
wearing black slacks that really drew my eyes to his slim hips and, when he
turned around, to his tight butt. I knew Joe couldn't fail but to notice it
too.

Tom had on this kind of crumpled . . . I think maybe like linen or
something shirt. Like it's supposed to look all wrinkled. With a tie that
was tied loose and hanging. He just looked so hot. Even hotter than usual.

Oh, yeah, his hair. It's usually just a shaggy mop. Hanging straight down
all around. But that night he'd used gel or whatever and made it kind of
spiky. It looked cool. He looked cool. Like maybe he was a theater jock or
model or something.

It didn't really matter what I thought, because he had Joe's undivided
attention. I guess I felt a little pissed cuz Joe didn't pay much attention
to me and Billy. At least not at first. And we were both wearing expensive
new clothes. Clothes Joe had even helped us pick out. And had paid for.

When we got in the restaurant and were seated, the four of us chatted about
how great it was we were all getting this time together before the big
weekend and stuff like that. Joe ordered a bottle of wine and four
glasses. The waiter never said a word or asked if we were all old enough. I
love expensive restaurants.

Then Joe said to Billy and Tom that he was sorry but that he and I had a
little work to discuss. He turned to me and handed me a list of clients he
wanted researched. What we had sold them, when and for how much. When we
had last heard from them, or had recorded a visit by them to any of our
galleries. Then he started directing me as to how to come up with some
recommendations we might make to each of them.

As we were talking, the wine came. Joe tasted it and our glasses were all
filled. I offered a toast to Joe "and a wonderful weekend ahead."

As we each took our first taste of the wine, Joe turned to Tom, who was
sitting to his left, and asked, "How do you like the wine?"

Tom said some funny little rhyme I'd never heard. I just remember it rhymed
"wine" with "time," and I thought it didn't seem right.

"What was that?" Joe asked Tom.

"Oh it's from A Taste of Wine. It's a poem by . . ." but I didn't catch the
name. And with that Tom started to recite the poem. It wasn't long, but
told of a young man asked if he liked the wine. He praised it as the best
he'd ever had, but then said it was made even better by the company in
which it was served.

I wish I could remember how it went. It was very clever and was absolutely
perfect for the moment. Joe was clearly impressed.

Joe asked Tom about the author. I think Tom said it was a guy from New
Jersey. And how had Tom come to learn it? It turned out that Tom's mother
taught poetry at his and Billy's university. I guess I didn't really know
anything about Tom's family before that. Soon Tom and Joe were in deep
conversation about poets and poetry. Billy and I were left to listen.

I was relieved when the waiter came back to take our orders and again when
he brought the salads. It at least gave temporary breaks from the non-stop
poetry talk. As the waiter set my salad before me, I was left awkwardly
holding the client information Joe had given me at the outset.

Joe noticed my uncertainty as to what to do with the papers. "Oh, put those
away. We'll finish up with that tomorrow. I can see tonight is going to be
far too pleasant an evening to spoil with work."

From that point on, the evening went perfectly. We talked and ate and drank
in a seamless evening of pleasantries, humor, flattery and, with incredible
subtly and skill on Tom's part, flirting.

As the evening drew to a close, I could tell that Joe was looking for a way
to extend his time that night with Tom. And Tom's flirting. But the plan
was for me to drive everyone home after dinner and there didn't seem to be
a good and workable way to leave Joe and Tom to their own devices. Although
Joe did mention a taxi at one point.

But in the end, we stayed a little too late. Drank to our limits and then a
little more. Laughed until it seemed we had laughed almost too much. Then I
drove them home.

I thought it was funny when Joe said he wanted to see how much legroom
there was in the backseat and so rode home beside Tom in the back, while
Billy and I rode up front. Nothing happened. But I think Joe had his hopes
up. At least a little.

After we dropped Tom off, Joe was non-stop questions about Tom. Like a high
school girl with her first crush.

My hopes for the weekend were sky high at that point.

* * *

The next morning I was getting out of the shower. My cock still swollen and
red and leaking. Memories of last night very alive in my head. The phone
was ringing. I couldn't ever remember our phone ringing at that hour. For
some reason I immediately knew it was going to be my mother calling to say
my dad had another heart attack. Or worse.

Dripping water, struggling to get my towel wrapped securely around my
waste, I grabbed up the phone. "Hello!"

But it wasn't my mother's voice. It wasn't even a woman. It was Joe. I was
sort of pissed at him for worrying me and I guess he could hear that in my
voice when I said, "Why are you calling me at this hour of the morning?"

"Aren't you up already?" he asked.

"Well, yeah, but when the phone rang I thought . . . Well, I thought it
must be an emergency or something for anyone to call at this hour."

"It is sort of an emergency," he said. "It just occurred to me that if you
are going to drive us to the country house in your car, we won't have room
for our luggage and your artwork. And we'll need both.

"I have arranged to have our driver take your work up this afternoon. So
you need to have it ready and in my office by noon. I just want to make
sure . . ." And from there the conversation became a picture-by-picture
discussion of which paintings and drawings I needed to bring.

I took a deep breath, trying to think how the hell I was going to get that
all together and get to both of my classes that morning.

I ended up getting Billy to help me by delivering the pieces to Joe's
office and I still had to cut a class to get it all together.

When I finally saw Joe in his office about 3 p.m., he seemed edgy and
started bitching about a misunderstanding that had caused Billy to leave
one drawing Joe wanted at our place. It hadn't gone to the country house
with the others.

"It's not a problem," I said. "We'll have plenty of room for one sketch in
the Audi. Even with all your luggage."

"That's not the point. The point," Joe said pointing a finger at me just
like my dad used to do, "is that you should have thought of this. These
kinds of arrangements are what I count on you to take care of. I shouldn't
be worrying about these organizational details."

I was as pissed as Joe. This whole blow-up was stupid and I was pretty sure
it didn't have anything to do with one lousy drawing. Or the fact that I
hadn't thought about how we were going to get my work to the house. "So
what's this really about?" I asked, frustration and a tinge of anger
evident in my voice.

"It's about you taking responsibility," Joe lashed back.

I knew I wasn't really in a position to pick a fight with Joe. That would
be foolish. And so, despite the way I really felt inside, I backed
off. "OK. You're right. It is my job. I guess I just got so excited about
the car and the weekend and how much fun it was all going to be with Tom
and all. I'm sorry. You're right."

With that, the phone rang. I was happy to answer it instead of having to
continue this whatever with Joe. It was the restaurant where we were going
to have dinner Friday night calling to confirm that we would now be having
four guests rather than three.

I hung up and started going through the mail, trying to avoid even looking
at Joe.

"I'm sorry," Joe said quietly. "You're right. It isn't about the drawing."

I looked up at him as he stood beside his desk. He looked uncomfortable,
which was something I didn't think I'd ever seen before. I waited for him
to explain further.

"It about Tom."

"What?" The word almost exploded out of my mouth.

"How long have you known him?" Joe asked.

"I've known him . . ." I kind of screwed up my face like I was trying to
remember exactly. But what had hit me as soon as he had asked was that I
had only known Tom . . . Could it be true? It didn't seem like it. But the
fact was I had only known Tom for . . . for less than a week. It seemed
like months. Or even like a lifetime.

My mind raced. I needed to finish my answer. It suddenly flashed in my mind
that Billy had known Tom since that night at the club. "Billy and I have
known him . . . for a month or two."

"Do you know where he goes to school?" Joe asked, his voice sounding like
this was a pop quiz or something.

"He goes to the same college as Billy?"

"And where does he live?"

"In the dorms. Harkness. I think it's called Harkness Hall."

"You're sure of that?"

I didn't like this at all. "Pretty sure. Why?"

Joe paused as though trying to decide whether to tell me or not. Then he
looked right at me. "He said something last night that got me wondering. He
said his mother taught English at the college. I started wondering why, if
his mother taught at the college, why would he live in a dorm. It doesn't
make sense."

"Maybe" I said, my mind racing a million miles an hour, "maybe he just
wanted to have the experience of living away from home. Maybe his parents
were ready to have their place back to themselves. I don't know. But there
could be a lot of good reasons."

"There could be," Joe said in a slow and deliberate tone. This sounded
ominous. "But I told you this got me wondering. So I called the university
and found that there is no student registered there under that name.

"But . . ." My voice failed to come. My mind failed to find the words. I
didn't know what this meant. For Tom. For me. For anyone.

"I need some answers," Joe said. His voice had turned more gentle. More
understanding. But still it was clear that Joe "needed" answers. "By
tonight!"

He leaned down and picked up some papers from his desk. Then looking back
up at me, he said almost as though he were letting me in on a secret, "This
is important."

To Be Continued . . .

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the second book in the "I Thought I Knew" series. It
is not necessary to read the books in order, although Book 1
chronologically precedes this book. It can be found under the title "I
Thought I Knew" in the High School section.
/nifty/gay/highschool/i-thought-i-knew/

The characters in this project are real. The names and some other
identifying information in this story have been changed to conceal the
identities of the characters described. The Copyright for this story is
held by Hardreader. The story may not be reprinted or distributed elsewhere
in print, electronically or digitally without the permission of the
author. I would love to receive comments on this story from readers.  Email
me at hardreader2000@aol.com

While you're waiting for the next episode, I hope you'll stay happy. And
stay hard! -- H.R.