"What the fuck, man?" he shouts as he staggers back a little and puts his hand to his face. I put all my anger into that punch but my brother's still a pretty big guy; I haven't been able to knock him down since we were kids.
I'm still seeing red and as I pull my fist back to take another swing he immediately raises his arm. I don't know whether it's to block my punch or to hit me back but it doesn't matter, that one action is like turning off a switch. My gut senses it as a potential punch to the face; I instantly step back and raise both arms in front of me. My face is my livelihood and I absolutely cannot let anything harm it.
"STOP!" I yell. He drops his arm and stares at me.
"What's going on here, bro? What are you so upset about?"
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Putting my hands down, I struggle to control the red tide rising again in me. Can he really be that fucking stupid? Does he truly not see why this would bother me? Obviously not. Summoning all my reserves of control, I try to explain it.
"I have one god damn friend in the whole fucking world," I growl at him, "And you have to go fuck it up."
"What did I fuck up? It was a booty call, nothing more," he tries to explain, "She left her business card in my pocket last night. I didn't find it until after you left so I called her to see if she wanted to go to the ball game with me. We left after the fifth inning and ended up back here. We raided your liquor cabinet for a couple drinks and one thing led to another. I still don't see what the problem is."
He stands there looking totally befuddled. I try once more.
"You don't understand," I continue, talking as if to a little child, "You'll go back to Seattle and troll for your next conquest and I'll be stuck here picking up the pieces, just like back in high school."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a minute! There will be no pieces to pick up. IT WAS A BOOTY CALL, A FUCKING HOOK-UP, NOTHING MORE!" he shouts, then continues in a reasonable voice, "This isn't high school any more, Christian. She's a grown woman, I'm a grown man. She was lonely and horny and so was I. That's IT!"
My shoulders sag. I need to think this through but it's been a long day and I'm tired. He's standing there, looking at me warily, probably remembering my teenage outbursts and wondering if I'll go ballistic on him. I wave my hand at him in a get-outta-here gesture and tell him, "Forget it, Elliot. Do what you want. You always did."
Stopping at the sideboard to pick up my untouched drink, I head out to the balcony. I turn on the heater and settle back in my chaise. While I'm pondering the fact that Luba dropped her card in my brother's pocket, he comes out here and sits in the chaise next to me. Ignoring him, I stare straight ahead, sipping my scotch. I hear the pop of a beer can opening and then the sound of him swallowing. Good, he chose the cheap stuff. I don't know if it's to placate me or just his naturally shitty taste but either way, it's strangely gratifying.
"You know, man, she really thinks the world of you," he starts. When I fail to respond, not even turning to look at him, he goes on.
"You're like a brother to her, Christian. I don't understand it and neither does she but ever since you caught her eye in Vegas, she's felt like she has to protect you. She'd never do anything to hurt you. And she really can take care of herself. She and I both know we're not in it for the long haul. She's between husbands and wanted some personal attention and I was more than willing to provide it, no strings attached. But the bigger issue is you, brother."
Oh, no, here it comes. I'm still staring straight ahead; I'm not giving him the satisfaction of any acknowledgement.
"I know you're listening, Christian, so I'm gonna keep talking. As far as we both know, you haven't been laid since Vegas and that was what, five, six years ago? Way too long, dude. And have you had any female companionship besides your clients? I'm pretty sure you haven't. That's not good."
God, I'm so sick of hearing this. I want to turn and tell him to shut the fuck up but I'm not sure I'd be able to leave it at that so I take a few more sips of scotch and continue to ignore him.
"So many people are worried about you, dude. Me. Luba. Mia. Even mom and dad. I let them know you're okay whenever I've talked to you or seen you but they still worry and miss you. Dad won't admit it but mom tells me he does."
Well, fuck them and the horse they rode in on. When it came down to it, my father was more concerned about his reputation than the welfare of his son. That and the fact that he lost one of his biggest clients. And my mother's not much better, always taking his side.
"You really gotta let go of what happened. I don't know the full story and you're obviously not gonna talk about it so all I can say is that whatever went on between you and Mrs. Lincoln, man, that's your business but you gotta understand – mom and dad were shocked. They had no clue about you and her. The police came to the house in the middle of the night and that was the first they heard of it."
I shift in my seat, squirming a little. I really want to haul off and punch him again just so he'll stop talking but instead I contemplate my drink. My father kicked me out and I don't care if he gets down on his fucking knees and begs me to come back, I never want to speak to him again.
"Look, I'm no psychologist, I barely got a C in Psych 101, but even I can see you've been punishing yourself for what went down that night. First you hooked up with all those MILFs and now you've gone the celibacy route. You could get any woman you want, dude; how about trying some women close to your age?"
I now have a heavy feeling in my gut. I see an opportunity to make a statement and seize it, so I lift my left buttock a few inches and let one rip. It's loud and lengthy and extremely satisfying. It's not as fragrant as I'd like it to be and with the slight breeze blowing out here it has very little hang time, but it still gets my point across without me having to say a word.
"Okay, dude, you made your point. I can see you're not going to listen to me." He sounds miffed as he continues, "You never have so I don't know why you'd start now, but I have one final thing for you to hear." And in less than two seconds I hear a loud one rip from him.
My mood changes in an instant. Not to be outdone, I force another one out, longer and louder than my first one. Almost immediately he matches me toot for toot. We go back and forth this way for about three or four minutes. I admirably (if I do say so myself) succeed in keeping a straight face while farting my ass off. I still haven't said a word nor have I looked at him.
Finally, he gets up and, laughing, says, "You win. Just like when we were kids. I'm going to bed. Get me in the morning when you go running." And with that he goes back into the penthouse.
I stay out a while longer. Even though I don't want to, I think about what he said. Part of me wishes I could give him the complete story about how fucked up I am, but the wiser part knows that would be the worst thing I could do. I'd probably never see him again and much as I hate to admit it, I'm glad he's around. He's the closest thing to a male friend that I have. And I suppose I should be glad he and Luba hit it off so well. He's right, they're adults; what they choose to do with and to each other is really none of my business. Besides, and this thought makes me chuckle, she might chew him up and spit him out, just like I warned him.
I doubt it, though; Luba's nothing if not considerate and all her marriages ended amicably. He might get his heart broken but she'll most certainly try to ease the pain. Oh, shit, what am I thinking? It was just a booty call, nothing more. I'm tired; it's time for me to go to bed, too.
Next morning is the usual routine. I must have slept off my animosity since I knock on Elliot's door for him to join me on my run. Being Monday, there are more runners on the trail than yesterday and he slows down for every good-looking chick we come upon. Finally, I tell him to meet me at the penthouse and I break out in my full sprint. Remembering how he fell behind yesterday, I know he won't even bother to try keeping up this morning.
I pass him on my way back and he's jogging behind three young women, just staring at their asses; he doesn't see me at all. After finishing my run, I start fixing breakfast for the two of us while waiting for him to return. Forty-five minutes later, he walks in the door all sweaty and hungry and we eat in amicable silence.
He showers, dresses, and heads out to his meetings. I don't bother showering since I'll continue with the full workout I do three times a week. Weights, pilates, more cardio, and finally yoga are all part of the routine and it takes me well over five hours plus a break for lunch. By the time I finish, Elliot's back. I shower and change while he relaxes on the balcony.
When I'm ready we head out for dinner; we're going downscale tonight. I take to him Portillo's for that mouthwatering Chicago favorite known as an Italian beef sandwich and I watch in amazement as he eats three of them, the jumbo ones, not the regular size.
Afterwards we walk around the area for a while, enjoying the late spring air. We stop at a couple of bars and have a beer or two at each. Elliot's checking out the women and I watch, amused, as they check him out.
We end the night at the Redhead. We only stay for one set since he has an early morning flight but amazingly, by the time the set's ended, he's scored. I head back to the penthouse and he heads to her place.
The next morning I forego my usual routine to take him to the airport. He's in the kitchen ahead of me and we down a quick breakfast of bagels and coffee before leaving. Last night's hook-up was obviously a quickie.
Now that I know he only has a carry-on I treat him to a ride in the Spyder. He lets out a low, long whistle when I click it open in the garage. "Nice ride, bro," he murmurs. I grin.
"These are the things a guy can own when he doesn't have to spend money on women," I tell him. He snorts.
The ride to the airport has some slow spots but we're there in plenty of time. We pull up to the American terminal and I get out to say goodbye. After he pulls his carry-on out of the trunk we do the man hug thing and then he's on his way.
When I'm back home, I do my run and then do a modified version of my Monday workout. I'm finished by lunchtime and as I'm eating my sandwich on the balcony my phone rings. The name comes up as Carla Adams and for a few seconds I wonder who that is. And then it hits me - Agnes's friend, a potential new client. Great!
"Hello, Mrs. Adams. How may I help you?"