Page 58

Tommy

Iwasn’t sure how I felt about the laptop. Amos had told me repeatedly that he wasn’t concerned about the story leaking. He’d say, “I’m on Broadway now. Seriously, who’s going to give a damn about another gay performer shaking his ass on stage?”

We’d been together a month when Amos pulled me out of the apartment and down to a burger place he said the people in the show kept telling him he needed to try. I was happy to go. I had been spending too much time in my head about the laptop, losing my job, well… Even when things were good, I spent too much time up in my head, so the distraction was nice.

“Um… Tommy?”

Amos said after he ate two burgers, his fries, and then ate the rest of mine.

“Yeah?”

I smiled at him, my heart swirling with love.

“Can… I… well, shit, it’s probably high schoolish and all that, but you know… I just wanna be able to call you my boyfriend. Is that weird?”

he asked and, for real, looked like a high school kid asking his prom date the same question.

I chuckled, then lifted his huge hand to my lips and kissed it. “Amos, I love the shit out of you, and you can call me whatever you want… except bitch. Only Owen can call me that.”

Amos smiled, then rushed around the table, swooped me into his arms, and kissed me square on the lips.

When he pulled back, my head was spinning. Then I realized we were in the freaking public, and I glanced around to see if anyone was snapping our picture.

No one was though. I guess it’s true there’s sometimes more anonymity in a big city than in a small town.

Amos was looking at me when I returned eye contact. “I don’t care who knows how much I love you, Tommy. We spent too much time not acknowledging this, and we almost lost it. So, you don’t have to worry about what others are going to think, not anymore.”

I understood he was talking about the book again. Though we both knew it as a lot more complicated than that, I appreciated his effort nonetheless. Regardless, if he could get the damned thing back before it went public, all the better for us.

I tried not to think about all that stuff. It was just too painful. Thinking about Amos made me happy, though, and he was happy as well. Like happier than I think I’ve ever seen him. The practice and rehearsals were kicking his ass hard, and he seemed to be thriving on it.

Me, on the other hand, well, the New York Press bought my story about his transition. I didn’t focus on the lawsuit against his former team at all, other than to say there was one. There were plenty of other journalists who would spend their lives trying to sniff out the details of that. Me? No. The Elliott Godfrey bullshit had put a bad taste in my mouth for that kind of journalism.

I wasn’t ever going to be like him. Hell, I never had been. Sure, I’d push hard sometimes, and more often than not, I got to the answers I was seeking, but I wasn’t willing to break into someone’s house and steal their personal stuff.

That more than anything told me I’d chosen the wrong profession. Not that I’d get a job now anyway. It was clear I’d refused to give up the article I wrote about Amos in college. Some of the news reports named me as the person who’d written it back then and questioned why I’d never exposed the truth until now.

No one had asked me point blank, or I’d have easily told them it was no one’s business whom someone was attracted to. So I was at a crossroads that I wasn’t sure how to navigate.

I was writing daily, submitting articles all across the spectrum, but still focusing on sports, since that’s where my expertise was, but there really wasn’t enough money in freelance. I began scouring the internet for job openings while Amos was away at practice.

More than anything, I was looking for what was next. What would speak to me. Unfortunately, nothing had, not yet, at least. I wasn’t really surprised. It wasn’t like I wanted to write about sports. That had just happened for me because of my following Amos.

“So, Tommy,”

I said out loud, “what do you want to do with your life?”

Images of Amos and I, our arms and legs tangled around each other, came to mind first, causing me to laugh. Yeah, I liked that a lot. I couldn’t make a career out of shagging my boyfriend though.

I closed the computer and decided to do something I hardly ever did during the day. I went for a run. It wasn’t like I was opposed to working out. Truth was, I tried to keep in shape. I usually ran on my treadmill while listening to the morning news or while I was catching up on the latest sports news that I’d missed on ESPN.

I rarely went out for a run on the street. New York certainly wasn’t set up for that kind of thing. I knew exactly where I was going to run to though— right to where Amos was rehearsing. Would I get to watch? Probably not, but hey, I had journalist credentials. That got me into a lot more doors than people would think possible.

I ran to the back door that Amos used, then walked in. “Hey, can I help you?”

a man asked when I came into the hallway where a hive of activity was taking place.

“Yeah, I’m a journalist, and I’m dating one of the actors. I thought I might check out the show’s progress and possibly make a few notes about potential articles.”

“Wait here,”

he said and disappeared around a wall I hadn’t noticed when I came in. He came back out with the same older man I’d seen introduce Amos the night he’d tricked me into performing. The moment he saw me, the worried expression he’d been wearing changed to a smile.

“Mr. Sanders, welcome. I thought maybe you were… well, never mind what I thought. We met briefly the night we introduced the show, but you were a bit… distracted,”

he said, smiling. “I’m Anton Wagner. Come with me. I’ll take you up to where Amos is learning how to be a dancer.”

I snorted before I could stop myself, then cringed as I looked at the older guy. His smile hadn’t left his face. “I take it you’ve not seen him lately?”

“Almost every night,”

I said, and this time the man chortled.

“I meant, you’ve not seen him rehearse lately.”

I shook my head. “No, there’s little to no movement when he gets home. Mostly, he falls asleep on the couch.”

“Aah, then we’re doing our job.”

We walked up a very long flight of stairs and then through a door that led to another door. This place was a labyrinth. Finally, we stood on a balcony, looking down over what appeared to be a tiny gym, with hardwood floors and mirrors all around the room. “Six, seven, eight,”

someone called out, and all of a sudden, a group of individuals danced out from under the balcony and into view. At the front was Amos.

His skin exposed, I noted a layer of sweat coated him. He was singing, although I couldn’t hear whether he did so in tune or not, but the choreography was brilliant. Amos didn’t miss a beat. He was the beautiful, gorgeous drag queen himself. Damn, he did a fabulous job.

“Impressed?”

Mr. Wagner asked next to me.

“Like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

“That man has so much talent. I dare say this is the beginning of an illustrious career. At least we’ll get him for a moment before someone Hollywood pulls him into their world.”

“He’s made to perform, so if he left Broadway, it’d never be because of anything personal. I’ve known him my entire adult life, and… well, he’s drawn to performance like a moth to flame.”

I turned to see the man smiling sadly. “I know performers like that. Have known them since I started in the industry. One thing remains constant. Those who survive and find happiness have someone in their corner. Someone who fights for them, who stands by them, and often knocks sense into them, when their ambition or love of the game takes them to dangerous heights.”

He paused, looking down at the performance below us. Then he glanced at me. “I think you are that for our beautiful Alec down there.”

I smiled. “I love him, that’s for sure, but no one tells Amos Clark what to do.”

The guy laughed. “I bet he listens to you. I’d be willing to bet he always will. Feel free to watch, and talk to anyone not performing or running around like they’re about to lose their job, because likely they are. We welcome any articles you might wish to write. The star is your boyfriend though, and you already have more access to him than any of us ever will.”

He walked away then, leaving me standing on the balcony, watching with amazement as the choreographer stopped them, gave Amos some direction, then began again. Whatever she’d told him, he must have done because a smile immediately lit her face.

They stopped and started repeatedly. Most of the time, they fixed something small I couldn’t see. There were a lot of performers on stage. Lots of moving bodies doing different but coordinated movements. It was truly amazing to watch.

I stayed, probably too long, mostly because Amos was so fucking hot to watch as he danced around the room. Truth be told, hotter than when I’d seen him tackling men on the field, and that’d been pretty damned sexy.

I managed to find my way back down the stairs and ran into a very tall, skinny man with a balding head. Although, he didn’t look like he was much older than me. “Excuse me,”

I said, and the man smiled and said the same.

“Wait,”

I heard Mr. Wagner’s voice behind me. “I’m glad I caught you. I want you to meet Orion Mattingly. He’s the owner of Proudest, an online magazine covering the LGBTQIA community.”

I nodded politely and shook the man’s hand. “I’m Tommy Sanders,” I said.

“Oh, I know who you are. Your article about Amos taking this job was well done. In fact, you captured my attention and held it until I finished reading. That’s quite a task when you’re mixing sports metaphors with the arts.”

I chuckled, “I’m a sports writer. Well, I was. I thought maybe I’d pushed the sports thing too far.”

“No, certainly not. The fact that you essentially wrote an article about a new Broadway star, using sports as the backdrop for the article…? Well, it was unique and refreshing to read.”

I blushed a bit and smiled. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

“Are you still doing freelance work?”

he asked before I could disappear out the door, especially since all the bragging was causing me to feel embarrassed.

“Yes, I am. why?”

Orion shrugged. “Anton tells me you’re here hoping to find inspiration to write. Why don’t you write something up and send it to me? Can I see your phone?” he asked.

I opened my phone, and he added his number.

After that, I quickly excused myself, not sure if I should be excited or skeptical.

I really needed a job, and I doubted a new magazine I had never heard of would be able to afford full-time writers, but since I was broke and unemployed I wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

I ran back to the flat, the entire time thinking about what I was going to write.

I probably shouldn’t do another piece on Amos—my last four published articles had been about him.

But that didn’t mean I couldn’t write about the choreography of the dancers, and what it took physically for them to perform their routines.

I’d need to do more research, of course, since I knew absolutely nothing about the process.

Maybe find a few gay dancers to feature.

Yeah, I was liking where this was going. I could write this like I was writing a sports piece. Just… about dancers instead.

Would there be interest? I had no idea, but one thing I’d learned was that people were interested in good writing they could relate to.

If I could convince a bunch of sports enthusiasts to get into the stats of whatever sports thing was happening at the time, I was confident I could do the same for the arts world.

At least, I hoped I could.