Truth or Dare By Lee Brazil

From Keeping House

"So, tell me why you want to work for me." That should give him pause.

"I don't. My brothers dared me to get a job, and it's been a lot harder than I expected. I just came from a McDonald's where the manager had a guy with a BS cleaning the toilets and an MBA flipping burgers. The economy sucks." Mischa sounded dejected.

"Ahh." He wanted a job on a dare? What the hell? Who told a prospective employer they didn't want to work for them? "Let me tell you a little about the parameters of the job."

Mischa gazed at him quietly, waiting. Maybe the daunting aspects of the task would send the kid the way of the first applicant. "You'll be responsible for preparing meals. I eat breakfast at six, daily, take a boxed lunch to work, and expect a minimum of a three course dinner. Sometimes I have guests, and occasionally dinner parties." He didn't really, but threw out the possibility anyway. For a moment, he was distracted by the amusing vision of a room full of elegantly clad clients and coworkers staring in horror as a Goth-garbed Mischa, hair spiked and piercings glittering in the candlelight announced that dinner was served.

"Got it. Cooking. I can do that." Mischa seemed to be trying to convince himself as much as Donovan of that fact.

"You'll have to do the shopping. I don't have time for things like that. Then there's the cleaning. I expect the house to be spotless at all times." He assiduously ignored the fact that the house was currently anything but clean.

Mischa wasn't inclined to be so kind, though. He glanced pointedly around the kitchen, at the stack of dirty dishes in the sink, the debris from several takeout meals on the counter tops, and the unpacked boxes of kitchenware. "OK. Clean. I can do that."

"I need the house put together, too. The boxes," he waved around, "unpacked and stuff put away. The walls painted, furniture ordered and assembled and put in place."

Mischa looked shocked. "You trust me to decorate your house?"

"No. I have the plans here." He thumped the red leather-bound album that held the dream house drawings he'd labored on over the years on the marble counter. "I need my housekeeper to coordinate the workmen, decorators, deliveries and so on."

More nods. "I can do that."

Donovan stared helplessly at the kid. Stop calling him kid. It's too pervy. What else? "References? Do you have references?"

Mischa bent over and the tight black t-shirt rode up as the skinny jeans inched down. Damn. All that creamy white flesh, hairless and smooth tempted him to reach out and touch, to examine the texture and resiliency. He wondered if there were any more shiny piercings hidden under that severe black garb.

"Hey," Mischa was waving a handful of papers in front of his face, and Donovan flushed slightly. Could Mischa tell he'd been staring inappropriately at his exposed skin?

"I'll, ahh, I'll keep these. I need to call on them later." He searched desperately for something, anything to turn the kid-man off the idea of working for him. Recalling the indignation and vitriol of the second applicant, he took a shot in the dark and threw it out there. "I'm gay."

No response.

"I said I'm gay, a homosexual, a flamer."

No response. Just inquiring green eyes locked on his face. Someone must have told the kid—man that eye contact was important.

"I sleep with other men?" Shit now he was making statements as questions.

The pierced brow rose slightly at that in an enigmatic gesture, but no response was forthcoming.

"This is a live in position. You don't mind working for and living with a gay man?"

Finally, Mischa smiled. Donovan's heart lurched at the sexy sweetness of that smile. The tiny silver hoop in his lower lip glinted seductively. Wonder how that piercing would feel when he pressed his lips to Mischa's? It certainly drew attention to the swollen plumpness of the full red lower lip. Yeah—he really needed to get laid this weekend.

"No. I don't mind working for a gay man, as long as you don't mind hiring one." Mischa's smile was now a broad grin, and he settled back more comfortably on the barstool, as though he were suddenly making himself at home.

Sudden sympathy overrode Donovan's concerns. Why not give the kid a chance? If Martin Weston hadn't hired him to work in the copy room at his company all those years ago despite his being an underage gay hippie he wouldn't be where he was today. He'd probably regret this, but it looked like the skater-Goth-boy/man had talked himself into a job. And the corporate advertising executive was sentencing himself to a series of cold showers.

From Telling the Truth

When he opened his eyes again long moments later, he caught sight of two young men, nearly identical in appearance, standing in the shade of a leafy palm tree directly in his line of vision. Stunned, he stared in disbelief. They were absolutely beautiful. Were they actors from the studio? Pale skin, black hair, identical bright blue eyes, rosy-red lipped mouths, slender, athletically built; they were so absorbed in one another they seemed alone in the crowded yard.

As he watched, the boys turned closer in to each other, leaning forward to whisper together. Lowering his lids, Terry watched covertly. There was something illicit about the pair, something almost sexual. But surely they were related? Two young men who looked so much alike had to be brothers.

One of the boys tugged the other deeper into the shadows of a tree and the privacy fence. They looked around, and when one bright blue glance settled on him for a minute, Terry's heart rate increased and his skin heated. They couldn't tell he watched from under his lashes could they? Apparently deciding that he was asleep and no threat, the two embraced, sharing gentle kisses and petting each other with slim white hands.

Enthralled, Terry stifled a groan as his cock stirred against the zipper of his khaki shorts. Damn. That hadn't happened with so little effort in a long time. What the fuck? He tried to look away from the boys, told himself he should be disgusted, but he couldn't. Bottom line, he'd never been so turned on in his life. He'd spent his whole life doing and feeling exactly what everyone felt he ought, and what had it gotten him? A corner office in the family business and a lonely bed at night. Fuck it. He was done living for everyone else. If Mischa could find his own way, then Terry damn well could too. And he'd get started on doing that as soon as his erection subsided enough to get out of this chair without causing himself a lot of embarrassment. He crossed his hands over his lap and continued to watch the boys in the corner of the yard.

Mm, and why rush off? This lovely couple was really getting into their embrace now, and since no one else seemed to notice, Terry felt kind of included, almost as though he were participating in the act instead of witnessing it. He could practically feel the sweep of tongues in his mouth, the touch of two sets of hands tracing his shoulders, his abdomen. Damn, he really wished he had Dan's bold personality or Mischa's rebellious streak. He'd be over there in a heartbeat taking his share of kisses.

Down boy, he whispered to his newly overactive libido. Baby steps; we'll get there eventually. Jumping from mild-mannered straight accountant to gay threesome in seconds made for too drastic a change.

"Terry? Are you all right? Do you need a drink or something?"

Damn. Somehow Mischa had walked up and knelt next to him without him noticing.

"I'm fine. Fine. It's a little hot here, that's all." Terry spoke, but he didn't look at Mischa.

From Giving Up

He stood automatically, reaching out to shake her hand in greeting and murmuring a polite good morning. A slight heat rose in his cheeks, and he hoped to hell the blush wasn't visible. And why the fuck a simple handshake with the doctor should cause him to blush, he didn't know, but something about her made him feel self-conscious and uncertain in ways he hadn't felt since he was a wild sixteen-year-old serving as his beautiful mother's escort to wild Hollywood parties.

He stiffened his spine and forced himself to meet those sharp blue eyes, unwittingly squeezing her hand just a little too tightly. He watched as the blue eyes flared wide then narrowed, and Dr. Grey gently removed her hand from his. The heat in his cheeks grew, and he felt his stomach churn alarmingly. He and Trick were about to have more in common than he'd ever thought possible if he couldn't calm down soon.

Dr. Grey led him into her office, and he took his usual seat on the plush leather chair in front of the desk. Somewhat surprised, he noticed that instead of taking the chair adjacent to him as she normally did, Dr. Grey seated herself behind the neat steel and glass desk. Crossing her hands on the desktop, she met his questioning gaze calmly, and Brandon let out the breath he hadn't realized he held. His roiling emotions calmed as he took in her stillness, and even his churning stomach was soothed. This was different, but not wrong.

Or so he thought until she spoke.

"I'm afraid, Brandon, that I can't keep you on as patient any longer."

Panic flared. "What? Why not?" His stomach heaved, and he forced himself to breathe deeply through his nose, swallowing rapidly to prevent the consequences of the sudden lurch. He was sure nothing of his feelings showed on his face. He had twenty-three years of practice since his mother's death at making sure of that. He couldn't have heard correctly.

"Because I can't help you in a professional capacity. I've given you the tools to manage your problem; you're an intelligent man, and you can resolve your issues from here on your own." Her voice remained the same as it always had, soothing and cool, her gaze untroubled and calm.

Damn. How had he come to depend on that calmness in such a few meetings? How would he deal without the soothing effect her voice had on his nerves and stomach? Quickly pulling in resources to hide the shocking sense of abandonment he suddenly felt, Brandon grasped the tiny thread of anger and blew it up.

He surged upright and waved his phone in her face. "Fuck. I could have been at the office heading off a dozen major crises! See this? It's called a cell phone. I have it with me all the time. Next time you need to change our plans, use it!"