Second You Sin Read online

  Connor is my mother.”

  Actual y, I thought, your mother is Mrs. Gerstein.

  But it didn’t seem worth mentioning.

  “Tel you what,” Andrew Mil er said as they walked away. “How about you come with me into the production trailer, and I give you a behind-the-scenes tour of what we do here?”

  Step into my parlor, huh? As a working boy, I had a good instinct for when a guy was interested in me. I tried to tap into Andrew’s vibe and got . . . nothing.

  He seemed a perfectly innocent jock extending a friendly and agenda-free invitation to an old classmate.

  Damn.

  14

  He Touched Me

  We walked into one of the long trailers that flanked my mother’s shop. Al kinds of monitors, control panels, and communications equipment ran along the wal s. Andrew walked me to the back, where a bathroom took up one side and a narrow door marked “Producer” occupied the other.

  Andrew opened that door and motioned for me to join him. The smal space contained a computer station and various monitors showing live feeds from the cameras inside the salon. Andrew invited me to sit on the folding chair in the corner. He closed the door behind us and sat at the computer station, turning the wheeled task chair to face me.

  “Wel ,” he said.

  “Huh,” I answered.

  “This is awkward,” he said.

  “It’s cramped in here,” I agreed.

  “Seeing you again.”

  Sometimes, I didn’t know if it was my ADD

  causing my confusion, or if the other person real y wasn’t making sense. Had I taken my medicine today? No. Crap.

  “Wel ,” I said, looking at the cluttered space where we sat almost knees-to-knees, “nice to see you, too.”

  Andrew frowned. “You know why I’m here, right?”

  “To shoot my mother’s segment,” I answered.

  “Wel , yeah, but why do you think we chose your mother to be one of Yvonne’s makeover artists?”

  “Uh, I don’t know, but I have to tel you, holding up my mother as any kind of ‘artist’ is only going to result in disappointment and pain. Just so you know.”

  “Your mom has a lot of personality and color.

  She’s going to pop on the show, you wait and see.

  But why do you think, out of al the beauty parlors in al the world, we decided to shoot here?”

  “Someone hates Yvonne and wants to make her look as bad as possible?”

  “Wel , that goes without saying.” Andrew rol ed his eyes. “But seriously, don’t you get it?”

  “I might get it,” I said. “I mean, if I knew what ‘it’

  was.”

  “You stil haven’t figured it out?”

  We didn’t have enough time to list al the things I haven’t figured out. This was the least of them.

  “I’m not much of a detective, Andrew.”

  “It’s like this. We had this episode on the books for a while now—Yvonne gets made over at four regional beauty parlors. You know, a Midwest matronly kind of thing, the LA look, whatever. The New York segment was supposed to be at some high-class salon on Fifth Avenue—the glamour shot.

  But at the last minute the place backed out. They found out about Yvonne’s reputation and realized they didn’t want to deal with that level of drama—at least not on TV.”

  “Yvonne has a reputation?” I asked. Wasn’t she cal ed the Queen of Kindness or something? Hadn’t she started an orphanage or a religion? Or was that Oprah?

  Andrew rol ed his eyes again. I seemed to have that effect on him. It was a little annoying, but he had real y pretty green eyes that were nice to watch on their orbit.

  “That’s not the point. Anyway, when the Fifth Avenue place dropped out, we had to come up with something quick. We were going to reach out to another of those famous stylists when I remembered your mother’s shop here in Long Island. I brought it up at our production meeting, and everyone loved the idea. A local neighborhood place with native New Yorkers—the kind of neighbors you have outside, with their signs and their doughnuts. You can’t buy that kind of authenticity.”

  “You probably could,” I told him. Although I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to. Growing up, I couldn’t get away from this “authenticity” fast enough.

  “Trust me,” Andrew said. “This kind of stuff is golden. So, the executive producer is loving me because I found this great location, Yvonne is thril ed because she loves to pretend that she’s one of the

  ‘real people,’ and I’m excited because I got what I wanted out of it.”

  “A good show?”

  “No, you little jerk. The chance to see you again.”

  For a quick second, I turned around to see if there was someone standing behind me. “See me again?” I asked.

  I didn’t know he’d seen me the first time.

  “Kevin, I’ve wanted you ever since senior year.”

  “Say what now?”

  “I wanted you, Kevin. You think I didn’t notice you in the stands, watching me? You think I wasn’t incredibly aware of the cute kid sitting on the sidelines, eating me up with his eyes? You think I didn’t look for you every time I went out on the field, that I wasn’t disappointed when you weren’t there?”

  Andrew rol ed his chair closer to me and our knees touched. Electric currents ran from where we connected, up my legs, and into my crotch.

  “You like guys?” I asked.

  “I like you,” Andrew answered. “You’ve always been so beautiful. Such a beautiful little guy. I used to fantasize you’d take a job as our towel boy. I’d come out of the shower, naked, dripping wet. ‘Where’s my towel?’ I ask, and you’d run forward, dropping to your knees before me, rubbing the towel up my leg, along the inside of my thigh, final y brushing against my bal s, getting me hard so fast, my big cock slapping wet and heavy against my flat bel y.” As he spoke, Andrew took his hands and ran them along the path he described, but on me, inside my thigh, up, up, until they stopped just below my tenders.

  “I didn’t,” I began. “I mean, I shouldn’t because . . .

  I’m kind of . . .” Andrew’s hand rested firmly on my rapidly responding guy parts and squeezed.

  Released. Squeezed again. Had I been saying something?

  “I have a semi—” Boyfriend I was about to say.

  “I can feel,” Andrew interrupted. “If this is the semi, I can’t wait to feel it ful on.”

  “No, I have a . . .”

  “Kevin,” his voice was raspy. “Kevin. I want you.”

  This was al moving a little fast. I put my hands on his knees and pushed him away. The task chair scooted a few inches back and Andrew pul ed his hands back. He looked a little mystified, and I guessed he wasn’t used to being turned down.

  “Listen,” I said, “you’re a great-looking guy and don’t take this wrong, but . . .”

  I wasn’t exactly sure what I was going to say, but it didn’t matter. The door flew open and the doorway fil ed with a tal , gorgeous, and familiar figure.

  “Damn it to hel , Andrew,” Yvonne bel owed, “can’t I turn around for one minute without you bringing your latest ‘production assistant’ into your office for a quick round of Hide the Chorizo?”

  You know how, when you see people on TV or in the movies, you think that they’re probably not as good-looking as they are onscreen? That the lighting and makeup and stagecraft cover a multitude of sins?

  Wel , as someone who’s had sex with more than a few closeted celebrities, I can tel you you’re right.

  Nine times out of ten, the people you see in movies or on shows are shorter, fatter, paler, and more pockmarked than you’d expect.

  But to every rule there is the exception, and Yvonne was definitely Exception Girl. On her daily talkfest, she looks pretty but not amazingly so.

  There’s an everyday averageness about her that puts the daytime audience at ease and makes her relatable.

  In person, Yvonne was a k
nockout. More statuesque and shapely than I thought, with a bodacious figure that was al boobs and ass. Her heart-shaped face framed wide eyes, a perfect man-made nose (which matched the boobs in that respect), and ful over-plumped lips. I’d guess she had a nip and tuck along the way; her skin was gorgeous but almost too smooth. She looked a little manufactured, yes, but stil breathtaking, in the way that great architecture is magnificent.

  Which is to say, the Eiffel Tower may be a thing of beauty forever, but I can’t imagine anyone wanting to fuck it.

  Yvonne, either. Maybe I’d warm up to her, but right now, she exuded al the charm of a bul dozer.

  “Yvonne,” Andrew said, rising from his chair. “I was just talking to Kevin, here, he’s actual y not a . . .”

  Yvonne held up her hand. “Spare me,” she hissed.

  Were her brow not paralyzed by Botox, I guessed it would have been furrowed in anger. “It’s just that when I show up on set, I expect my segment producer to be waiting for me. It would be nice to know what the fuck I’m doing in wherever the fuck I am. Where am I, anyway? Is this Detroit? It smel s like Detroit.”

  Andrew grabbed a clipboard off his desk. “You’re a half hour early, Yvonne. We weren’t expecting you yet.”

  Yvonne’s mouth turned a mil imeter lower and Andrew jumped in to interrupt the frown.

  “Which is great, that you’re here early. Just great.

  That’s why you’re the best!”

  Apparently, the compliments worked, as Yvonne’s lips returned to the neutral level where I assumed the col agen had settled.

  “Let’s go to your bus and get you comfortable, and I’l let you know what we’re doing here today,”

  Andrew said in his calmest voice.

  “Fine,” Yvonne said, stil annoyed. She waved a hand at me. “And why isn’t Flavor of the Week wearing one of my T-shirts?”

  “Hi,” I said, extending my hand, “I’m Kevin, and I don’t actual y . . .”

  Yvonne looked at my hand as if it contained a steaming pile of shit. “I’m sorry,” she said, “was I speaking to you?”

  “Wel , no, but I . . .”

  She turned to Andrew again. “Would you please explain The Rules to him? Because I real y can’t bear every little peon who works here yammering at me al day.”

  OK, I take back my earlier comment. I don’t want to offend any bul dozers.

  Andrew put his hand on her back. “Let’s just go to your bus and get you al ready,” Andrew said in the manner of a kindergarten teacher taking sharp scissors away from a five-year-old.

  “Listen, lady,” I began, but Andrew turned his head around so quickly that I feared whiplash for him. His eyes opened as wide as they could and his mouth formed a long and soundless “Please.” I knew anything I said would make him look bad so I suppressed my natural urge to tel Yvonne just where she could put her precious Rules.

  “Why don’t you wait here,” Andrew said to me as he ushered Her Highness out the door. “I’l be back in a bit and show you how we monitor the show from here.”

  “I’m sure you’l show him a hel of a lot more than that.” Yvonne snickered.

  I’ve never been so happy to see a woman leave a room.

  I gave Andrew and Cruel a a few minutes to clear the decks, and then left the bus to check in with my mother. She was talking to one of what seemed like one hundred identical y dressed Yvonne staffers. I heard her as I approached.

  “ . . . more surprised than I was,” she was tel ing the thirty-something, short, plump young woman with purple streaks in her black hair and a tool belt around her waist. “I mean, my son dating a policeman! How incongruous! You should real y have them on the show. Or, better yet, you could have me back, talking about them! Maybe I could be a regular, like that cute Nate Berkus on . . .”

  “Mom,” I said. “How’s it going?”

  My mother put an arm around me. “I was just talking with Margie here.”

  “I heard.”

  “Margie’s a very important person on Yvonne’s staff,” my mother said. “I was giving her some show ideas.”

  “I hang the lights,” Margie said in a deep voice, looking a little uncomfortable with her unexpected promotion.

  “Wel ,” I said, “it’s nice to meet you. The lights look very, um, wel hung.”

  “Thanks.”

  We stood looking at the lights for a moment.

  “I have to go,” Margie said.

  My mother pul ed her into an embrace. “Darling, thank you so much for your input. I’m sure we’l be working together again soon!”

  Margie

  had

  that

  who-is-this-crazy-woman

  expression on her face that I’d come to know from a mil ion other strangers unwil ingly pul ed into my mother’s bizarre and scary universe.

  “Yeah, bye,” Margie said, scampering away faster than I thought a woman of her height and weight could move.

  “Everyone’s so nice, ” my mother effused. “I feel like Queen for a Day! Maybe I’l wind up as Yvonne’s personal stylist out of al this!”

  “If she’s crazy,” I muttered to myself.

  “What’s that?” my mother asked.

  OK, maybe muttering wasn’t my thing. “I said, ‘If she’s crazy about the hairstyle, why not?’ ”

  “This is so exciting! I’m going to be a star!”

  “Wel , brace yourself, because I just met Yvonne and, believe me, she’s not the woman you see on TV.”

  “What do you mean?” My mother’s eyes narrowed.

  “I mean, she was kind of a bitch.”

  At that, my mother gasped. Yes, actual y gasped. I thought for a second she was going to slap me.

  “A bitch? A bitch? Do you have any idea how many children with AIDS she’s had on her show? Al the money she’s raised for homeless veterans? The church she personal y helped build in New Orleans?”

  “I’m just saying . . .”

  “Yvonne is a saint, ” my mother asserted. “She’s like Mother Teresa, only she obviously fol ows a much more stringent skin-care routine. Why, with al Mother Teresa’s good works, no one ever offered that woman a bottle of sunscreen, I’l never know.”

  “Yeah, wel , not everything is like how you see it on TV, Mom. I’m tel ing you, I just met Yvonne, and that woman is as evil as a box of bees. She’s . . .”

  “Here.” I saw my mother’s eyes widen as she gazed at something over my shoulder. “Oh my God, she’s here! ”

  I turned and saw the woman I had just been describing as Hitler with breasts walking toward us with utter grace and serenity, flanked by Andrew, who fol owed two steps behind on her left. Yvonne ignored me as she approached my mother. She placed her hand on my mother’s arm. I thought I saw my mother’s knees buckle.

  “I hear,” Yvonne said, her voice pure silk and honey, “that you’re going to be making me look beautiful today.”

  Had Jesus Christ himself just descended from the ceiling in a halo of sunlight and angels, I don’t think my mother’s expression could have been any more beatific. “Yvonne,” my mother croaked, her voice betraying her awe, “God made you beautiful. I can only hope to gild the lily. The lily of you.”

  I threw up a little in the back of my mouth.

  “Oh, dear.” Yvonne threw back her head and laughed warmly. “If not for my makeup men and hairstylists, wel , let’s just say you wouldn’t want to see me first thing in the morning.”

  Throw in some plastic surgeons and personal trainers, I thought, and there might be some truth to that. But I could see Yvonne had her Humility set to high.

  “But look at you,” Yvonne continued. She put a hand on my mother’s cheek and I saw my mother resist the urge to kiss her palm. “I would kil for skin like this, dear. Now be honest—have you had a little work done?”

  My mother shook her head, but not so vigorously as to dislodge Yvonne’s hand. “It’s al thanks to Mary Kay. We sel her ful line of products here. I’l give you some before y
ou leave today. Free.”

  I doubted Yvonne put anything on her skin that cost less than one hundred dol ars an ounce, but she smiled as if she’d just won the lottery. “You are too kind. Wel , I have to get ready for the show, but I did want to introduce myself to you before the cameras started rol ing. I can tel you are going to be marvelous on the show, dear. Thank you so much for having us out here.”

  Yvonne was as lovely and gracious as could be.

  Had I not seen the scene in the bus, I’d have been in love with her, too.

  “Thank you, ” my mother gushed. “Oh,” she said, remembering me standing next to her. “Let me introduce you. This is . . .”

  “Yes, we’ve already met,” Yvonne said. She gave me a warm smile. “So good to see you again, dear.

  Now remember,” she said sweetly, “next time I see you, I want you to be wearing one of my T-shirts, right?” She playful y wagged her finger at me.

  “Naughty boy. Al right, I must go. See you al soon!”

  Yvonne floated away.

  My mother stood star-struck for a few seconds.

  “OK,” I said, “I admit she seemed nice just then but

  . . .”

  “Not. Another. Word.” My mother was ice. “I don’t know what you were thinking, but that woman is a saint.”

  “Or so you’ve said.”

  My mother looked at me as if I’d just spouted fangs. “You’re not turning into one of those homosexuals who hate al women, are you?”

  “Mom!”

  “She even offered to give you a T-shirt.”

  “She thinks I work for her!”

  “What?” my mother asked.

  “Just . . . never mind.” It was clear my mother was drunk on Yvonne’s Kool-Aid, and I didn’t have the antidote. No one could talk to my mother when she got like this, not even my . . .

  “Hey”—that reminded me—“where’s Dad?”

  “Oh, your father?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Wel , apparently,” my mother said with a long-suffering sigh, “your father didn’t want to be here today. He said something about how he didn’t need to be around me when I get ‘like this.’”

  “Hmmm,” I said. My father was a very smart man.