The party is elegant, and Grant feels elegant just walking through the door. No, spiffy; he feels spiffy in his new black blazer and pressed white shirt. He’d even gotten his hair cut at a salon, Donald’s idea, and had worked on quelling his second thoughts about the party as the girl had stroked a plastic comb through his goatee.

It had all been Donald’s idea. A change of scenery is good for you, Donald had said, but Grant isn’t stupid. Sometimes people forget that he’s smarter than all of them combined—and it’s not very nice to remind them—but he knows why Donald wants him to go. He’s everyone’s best party trick, and that’s okay, mostly. It’s fun working projections in his head for whomever Donald wants him to impress; it’s fun because there’s no pressure, it makes everyone happy, and later, when it’s time to go home, Donald will drape his coat over his shoulders and pat his back as they head home, almost as good as a hug.

It’s the in-between times that aren’t as comfortable, when the familiar faces are off mingling and Grant doesn’t know where the bathrooms are. Mission number one: he follows the less crowded corridors until he finds the sign that says gentlemen, which reminds him to be elegant, and he straightens his posture until he forgets just a moment later.

Mission number two: after some explaining, the bartender produces a drink that looks just red enough to go down easy, even though there aren’t any little umbrellas. There is a little sword, though, impaled through a maraschino cherry, and Grant feels a little better with his hands full of sweet familiar things.

Everyone is so dressed up. The women wear hems that glitter in the soft lighting, and Grant thinks he might sparkle a little, too, especially with red drink on his tongue and a place at the edge of the room from which he can observe the party. So far, there are lots of suits. The men are all alike, dark jackets and white collars, and they all remind him of work.

Finally, Donald calls his name through the crowd and starts toward him and oh, oh. Grant stops, his straw bumping clumsily against his lips, because Donald is bringing someone over, a guy in a white sweater with crazy dark hair.

“Grant, this is an old friend of mine from school. Joe Flanigan, Grant Jansky.”

It’s a cashmere sweater, Grant sees now that he’s up close. Downy white against the dark hair on his wrist, which Grant gets a good look at when Joe extends his hand.

“Nice to meet you,” Joe says when they’re palm to palm, and Grant steps back abruptly, his drink tucked into the crook of his arm.

“Yes, you too,” he says. “And don’t, don’t feel bad that you’re not dressed appropriately for the party,” he says. “Because that sweater is really nice.”

Donald mumbles something dark, but Joe just smiles and says, “Thanks.” He glances around like he’s thinking of leaving, which sets off a surge of panic that makes Grant almost slosh his drink onto his sleeve.

“What do you do?” he blurts, a little loud. Too much, he worries, but Joe is nice, he doesn’t roll his eyes like Donald or make that face Mary always does; he just smiles some more, shakes his glass of ice a little, and says, “I’m an actor.”

“Oh, you’re, oh. One of the pretty people, yes.” That’s what Ziggy says, when she needs a break and sits in his closet paging mindlessly through the glossy magazines she doesn’t want anyone to see.

“Uh, I don’t know about that.”

“No, it’s true,” Grant assures him, because how can he not know? New question, new question, but there are so many, so he squeezes his eyes shut and picks one. “Have you been in anything good? On television or, or movies?”

“Not really,” Joe admits, and he looks the way Grant feels when he has to admit that he’s down five hundred grand. “Not yet. I’m working on it.”

“That’s good!” Grant says as Donald starts to lead Joe in the other direction. “I’ll be looking for you.”

*

“Donald!” Grant nearly drops his stack of folders in an attempt to reach Donald before he can pick up his phone. Experience has proven that waiting for Donald to get off the phone can take a very long time.

“Remember that guy from the party? Yes, of course you do, you introduced us, and he had the, the white sweater?”

“I remember.”

“Good, good. Because I really, well, I was wondering if you had his phone number, and that maybe we could, you know.”

Donald stares at him for a minute, and shakes his head. “I don’t know, Grant. Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“I don’t know, I just, I just. Can I have his number?”

“Who’s this guy?” Ziggy asks, looking from Donald to Grant. This is why he prefers his office; out here there are too many people taking the subject in a hundred different directions when all he wants is this one thing. One thing.

“Nobody,” he says, just as Donald says, “An old friend of the family. Grant’s being weird about him. Weirder than usual,” he adds.

“Grant, you like guys?” Ziggy asks. When she moves her head, her hair shakes in all different directions like a Pomeranian, which is fun to watch sometimes, but not today.

“No, no. I mean, I liked Joe, so yes, maybe? He smelled fantastic,” he says, thinking of the way Joe had brushed past him on his way out. The sweep of cashmere had felt nice, but then Grant had caught the scent of mellow aftershave lain over the masculine, backroom scent of bourbon, and something had stirred to life in his belly, so quick and hot that he’d pressed himself to the wall and remained there, half-frozen, until Donald had tugged him away.

“I don’t think so,” Donald says. “Joe’s only in town for a couple more days.”

“Oh, give him the number,” Ziggy says.

“Please? Or you could, maybe you could ask him for a beer and then bring me? That’d be good because then you’d be there.”

Ziggy sits back in her seat. “Jeez, what does this guy look like?”

“Good,” Grant says, and maybe he doesn’t mind her butting in so much. “Messy hair, green eyes, and he smells like…well, I shouldn’t…I have to go now. Let me know, okay?”

He’s almost said too much—he does that, sometimes—which makes him fidgety with nerves that don’t completely fizzle out until he gets back to his office and feeds himself two chocolate bars, square by square by square.

*

This is what Joe smells like: the bedroom, all warm skin and the morning-after taste of bourbon that Grant is used to having on his own mouth, in his own bed. Sense-memory is strong, and even sitting at his computer, he can’t stop thinking of tangled sheets and his hips pressed into the mattress, humping lazily just because it feels good.

Joe smells like that, and Grant slides one hand guiltily down onto his lap, because he’s not in bed right now; he can’t just rub off against the sheets, no matter how big an erection he’s gotten from thinking about an exchange that lasted all of three seconds.

*

Donald manages to avoid him for the rest of the afternoon, which is disappointing but not hopeless, because Grant is good at wearing people down, and Donald can’t avoid him forever. He does some shopping, which usually earns him some good will, but as it turns out, when he gets home just after dark, Donald is already crashed out in front of the tv.

And he’s not alone.

“Hey,” Joe says, his long legs stretched out on the coffee table. He’s got a beer in one hand and he dips the other into a bowl of popcorn.

Grant hugs the shopping bags to his chest. “Hi,” he says cautiously. They’re pretty heavy, and beginning to shift out of his grasp. “I’ll just put these away,” he says, and leaves them on the kitchen counter.

When he comes back in, Joe has moved the popcorn from next to him and motions for him to sit down. “So, how am I doing tonight?” he asks. “Am I dressed appropriately?”

Okay. Dark blue jeans and a green t-shirt; it’s pretty much the same thing Donald and even Jack wear when they’re lying around the apartment—which is hardly ever—so it seems all right to Grant. Joe even has his shoes off, the arches of his feet hugged in thick clean sweatsocks, and by the time it occurs to Grant that Joe is joking, he’s lost track of how long he’s been scrutinizing Joe’s body, and Joe is smiling all the way to the corners of his eyes.

“Ah...ha, that’s a good one,” Grant says, a little breathless, and leans back onto his own side. If he gets too close, he might notice the way Joe smells, again—uh oh, he shouldn’t have gone there; he’s getting wound up just thinking about it, but god, he wants, and he doesn’t know how to deal with this hard, relentless longing. “I can make you a lot of money,” he blurts, and his eyes are on Joe but he still hears Donald’s “Jesus, Grant.”

Joe tips his head back and swallows the last of his beer. “Is that right?”

“Sure. I’m, I’m, I’m very good at my job, and I could- if you wanted, I could take a look at your portfolio and…” he mimes typing with both hands. “work my magic.” People like money, so it stands to reason that Joe likes money, too.

“That’s a pretty nice offer, but why don’t we just hang out for a while first,” Joe says, so easy that Grant can’t even tell if he likes money after all, which just makes him more baffling. That’s something Grant had noticed at the party; Joe carries himself with an ease that none of the traders possess. They’re tense and hurried and short, but Joe is genuinely relaxed, as though he doesn’t have anywhere else to be. Maybe this means he’ll stay.

Sure enough, Donald’s phone goes off and he answers it on the first ring. “No, not a bad time at all. I was just getting in,” he says, already scrambling to get dressed.

“He doesn’t lie all the time,” Grant tells Joe. “Only sometimes, for work. Not lying really. Just- bending,” he bends an imaginary truth in the space between them, delicately, to show that Donald’s not a bad guy. “Will you excuse me a minute?”

He hurries to Donald’s room, where Donald is kicking off sweatpants and wrestling into a button-down shirt. “Wait, wait wait,” he says, grabbing at Donald’s sleeve before he can slide his arm inside. “You’re not leaving me here with him, right?”

Donald yanks his sleeve away and starts to work the buttons into their holes. “What? Grant, yes. You’ll be fine. I thought you wanted to-“

Panic, sharp and quick, beating its way through his veins. “Please, please please please, don’t leave us alone. I don’t know what to do! Or what to, to say.”

Donald evades every attempt to grab onto him, but Grant keeps trying, until they’re caught in a frantic game of tag that ends with Donald leaping over the bed. “Stop right there!” he hisses, and oh, quiet, that’s smart. So Joe won’t know anything is wrong. “Why don’t you show him your computers?”

Grant sags against the door frame. “You think he’d like that?”

“Can’t hurt to ask,” Donald says, and lands a couple hard shoulder-slaps on his way out.

*

The bathroom is always a good place to hide. Not hiding, no--recuperate, yes; to recover and breathe and…he looks at his face in the mirror, wide-eyed and a little unkempt.

Breathing hard, he yanks open a drawer and peers into the back until he finds what he’s looking for. Half a bar, the foil folded over the end. It feels more like a nibbling situation, so he takes small half-bites from the corners until he feels good enough to splash his face with water and set his hair in place with a wet comb. For good measure, he sniffs inside his shirt and under his arms, unsure of the verdict. It smells like his body, a little like deodorant and soap, but not unpleasant. It’s probably okay. Well, mostly.

“You okay in there?” Joe calls from the living room, and Grant wipes off the counter with a towel while stroking his beard into place with his fingers.

“Coming!” he calls back, and when he opens the door, Joe is right there.

“Oh, hi.” Joe is right there. Grant ducks his head and shuffles back and forth, his eyes on Joe’s immaculate socks. “Do you want to see my computers?”

“Sure,” Joe says.

It’s a good thing he’d made his bed that morning, put on clean unsexy sheets and folded all his extra cocooning blankets at the foot of the bed, so that when he leads Joe into his bedroom, everything is innocuous; completely unremarkable.

Joe walks around while Grant boots up his computers. “See, this one is for running simulations,” he says, pointing at the monitor on top. “Which frees up the others for chatting or, or—other simulations. And games,” he adds, and he can’t believe he forgot games, but that’s the influence of Joe, standing just over his shoulder and wearing the same aftershave from the party.

“Cool,” Joe says. “Do you have Diablo?”

Pleasure springs up from nowhere and all Grant can do is smile, smile, smile. “Here,” he says, dragging a spare chair over to the desk. “You sit here.”

*

He hates it when they do this. Let’s see if you can make up your losses today, Grant, and he can—probably can—but it’s not any fun when everything is too much pressure, like swarming bees, and then the suggestion that Sally might be down later. Why, when Sally never looks over his shoulder?

When someone knocks on his door, he crouches in on himself because he’s playing it safe with futures and there’s still a dip slashing its way across his monitor, which he covers with one sleeve to make it disappear as he yells “Busy!”

Donald barges on in anyhow. “Too busy to say hello?”

“Actually, it’s goodbye,” says another voice, and Grant scrambles to his feet because okay, Joe, yes, his sublime smell already filling up Grant’s small closet as Donald crowds him inside.

“Joe, hi, hello.” Joe reaches for his hand, and Grant hangs on. “You’re here. Which is good, really good, but I usually don’t, um. Donald?”

“Right, sorry. One at a time,” Donald says, and slips out the door.

Once he’s gone, Joe looks around the closet. “This is where you work?”

Grant glances around, trying to locate the source of Joe’s bemusement, but everything seems in order. “Yep. It’s small, so that’s why it’s one at a time. Otherwise, everybody would be, be, you know.”

“Making copies?”

“Interrupting.” Grant looks at Joe. “And…you look good.”

Joe glances down at his black trench coat. “Yeah? I just came from a sort of modeling job.” He gestures to the folder tucked beneath his arm.

“Are those your pictures? Can I see?”

“Sure,” Joe says, and pushes his floppy hair away from his forehead. “I should warn you,” he begins, but the folder is already in Grant’s hand, sleek glossy photo paper slipping through his fingers.

The room suddenly seems too big. Grant flops into his seat and slides the top photo to the bottom of the pile, to find that the second is nearly the same as the first—and the third, and the fourth, and so on.

“It’s some Ad-work,” Joe’s is saying, but Grant barely registers it. “It’s something I’m trying.”

Grant had had no idea you could just try something like this, or that Joe might want to—of course, he is an actor, and apparently a sometimes-model, but Grant has never paid enough attention to the people on the pages of magazines to realize that there were real flesh and blood men behind the clothing, with smooth toned thighs and, and shoulders, and above all, the thing he can’t look away from, the thing that makes his stomach flip upside down as his eyes skitter guiltily past: the contours of Joe’s body inside the name-brand cotton briefs.

“You’re an underwear model,” he blurts, his eyes still on the photos, like seeing Joe in his bedroom first thing in the morning. Like spying, but permitted.

A strange, strangled laugh, and “Hardly. I’m just between projects right now,” Joe says. “You know, building my portfolio.”

“Right, yes,” Grant says, but “portfolio” reminds him that he’s in the middle of something, a spike of panic that makes him shove the sheaf of photos into Joe’s arms and spin back to his computer, tapping out inquiries and oh, thank God. “I’m up,” he sighs, and for a while he forgets that Joe is even there as he checks the foreign exchange and than makes a few adjustments, watches his profits dip fascinatingly low before they begin to climb.

“Looks pretty intense,” Joe finally says. “Impressive, but intense. Should I leave you alone?”

Grant startles and slips his fingertips between his teeth, hunched over his computer while he thinks. Does he want Joe to leave him alone? What he wants is all mixed up in the slope of Joe’s neck and his remarkable easiness, the way he’d just stood in Grant’s office for fifteen minutes and didn’t ask him anything. Didn’t want anything at all, except…

“Oh, you said—goodbye?”

“Yeah, I’ve gotta head out. I stopped by for a coffee with Donald, and while I was here I figured I’d track you down, say thanks for last night.”

Grant gets to his feet and goes in for a hug before he catches himself. Luckily, Joe follows through and holds onto Grant for one brief moment, a low you’re something else against Grant’s ear before he lets himself out.

Donald must be waiting outside, because he eases his way inside a few seconds later and says, “Listen Grant, this thing with Joe, you’re not…I mean, I’ve known him a really long time, and he’s a pretty popular guy.”

That isn’t at all surprising. Why wouldn’t Joe be popular? He’s good looking and always so calm, like he’s just spent an hour with hot stones lying across his skin.

“I know,” Grant says, and goes back to work.

*

What Donald doesn’t know is that Joe is most popular in Grant’s bedroom; someone to examine with measured curiosity: his voice, his hands, his mouth. Grant wakes to those images—and more, because Joe had shown him those pictures, had handed them over and let Grant look at his bare shoulders and the crease of his thigh, all the places Grant has never really cared about on others—with unapologetic gratification, and he’s never really understood what the big deal was about other people’s bodies, but now he understands. Joe is a big deal.

Grant isn’t one for secrets. Everybody else; they’re always telling him their secrets, or accidentally spilling them all over his lap, or getting hurt because they were a little too good at keeping them, but Grant likes to say what he thinks because it’s safer that way.

So it’s not that Joe is a secret. There’s nothing to hide, nothing to tell, except for the way Grant finds himself hoarding the memory of him like a tip that could yield millions. And when the mailcart comes by and delivers a sleekly packaged box of dark Richart chocolates, he secrets them away so he can eat them in his bedroom with the door closed.

Cross-legged on wrinkly sheets, he feeds himself the half-melted shapes and rereads the note: I heard you like this kind of thing. Let me know what you think.

It tastes better that way.

*