Rebel, Rebel
Three days after the weird ass dinner with the Broghan couple, and the semi-public slamming of my partner, much to Em's delighted thrill, I'm supposed to have lunch with my cousin who is driving me crazy. His tall, lanky self is poking around the jail, yakking it up with the workmen in workmen lingo, reminding me that not too long ago he was laying pipe of a different sort. His career seems to be taking off in leaps and bounds.
I don't get it.
He has a great voice, yeah, and of course he's pretty, we look alike, after all, but that whole Christian music scene leaves me limp-dicked and utterly confused. "Will you let them do their job?" I beg of him. "I'm paying them a fucking fortune and they're behind schedule!"
"They can work and talk," he defends. I cut him a glare. Not so much. They can barely work and work. I finally find the lost disc that we used during our temporary occupation of this space for the pitch. It was buried under some cordboards. I slip it in my briefcase and say, "Let's go." Let the men work in fucking peace! I don't say the last part, but before we make it far, the door opens and in walks David Greene, all European tailoring and elegance. He looks from Cat to me and back again. The look on his face is such raw lust that I feel poked from behind without so much as a kiss. Damn, what is up with that?
"Brothers?" he asks, practically licking his lips. I force myself to be nice. I want this fucking account. I introduce them and explain Cat is my cousin. In the back of my head, that David Bowie song, "Rebel, Rebel" is playing. Not sure why except he reminds me of Bowie and also the double image of the title, maybe. And both of us are rebellious in our own unigue way.
"Phillip's Cat?" he asks.
We are both silent. He goes on. "Phillip Markham."
"We know who you mean," I finally say. "But how do you...?"
He smiles. "Phillip and I had lunch yesterday, catching up on old times. And new ones as well."
I can feel Cathan tense beside me, jealous little twit. "Yeah," he says. "He's my boyfriend."
He puts more emphasis on the word "boyfriend" than Cloris Leachman in Young Frankenstein. I can almost hear the horses neighing as Greene grins.
"Lucky man."
"Who is?" I ask. "Phillip or Cat?"
"Yes," he responds, deliberately ambiguous.
"Cathan and I were just going to lunch. Care to join us?" I can read my cousin's tension, but I had to ask. I'm not crazy. To our shared relief, Greene says,
"Much as I would like to do so, I have a meeting. My car's out front. I just wanted to personally deliver this to you, Brian." He extends a slim leather folder that I take from him. The Birken logo is embossed in gold. "This is a formal invitation to pitch your campaign to the leadership at Birken, in Stockholm. All the information is enclosed, including the times. Tickets, for you and your significant other, activities planned for your other while you are working."
I smile. As if Justin can't find something to do on his own in Stockholm. Hum, wait. Maybe planned activities is a good thing. "Thank you, David. I'm looking forward to it."
"As are we. Young man, I hope to see you again," he shakes both our hands but strips Cathan naked with a glance as he does so. When we're alone, I put the leather folder in my briefcase and say to my cousin,
"Let's go, I'm hungry."
"He is major creepy."
"He is major instrumental to my success, Cathan, so be nice."
"Did you see how he looked at us?"
"Yeah, the same way all men who like dick look at us. Get used to it."
We walk out of the jail and into the sun. We picked a cafe closeby, so we walk. His long strides match mine, which is nice. I'm used to slowing it down so the short blond can keep up. "What about Phillip? How does he know Phillip?"
I groan and slip on my shades, realizing this is going to be a very long fucking lunch.