Spencer Cohen is the guy who gets answers to relationship questions. Playing the role of the new lover, his job is to make his client’s ex realise one of two things: he doesn’t want to break up or he really does. Either way, his client gets answers.
The ex would either apologize and beg, or turn and walk. But in the end, Spencer’s client won. If he wanted his ex back and got him, it was great. If the guy walked away, then as hard it was for the client, he knew it was over. Regardless of the outcome, Spencer’s work was done.
Andrew Landon’s ex left him without so much as an explanation. But his sister can’t stand to see him miserable, so, much to Andrew’s dismay, they hire Spencer to be Andrew’s new boyfriend to get the ex back.
For Spencer, it is never personal. Merely a business transaction. No emotions, no strings, no complications.
Yeah right.
Even a blind man could see how this would end.
“Come on,” Andrew said, standing up. “Let’s go.”
I slowly closed my laptop. “Uh, where exactly are we going?”
“You’re going to buy me my first Jeff Buckley album.”
I grinned at him. “Oh, am I?”
“Yes, you are. Unless you want to give me that one.” He pointed to my record player.
“Like hell. That’s my favourite.”
“That’s what I thought,” he said, walking to the door. He turned back to look at me—where I hadn’t moved from—and clapped his hands together. “Look alive, Spencer.”
“Alright,” I said, collecting my wallet and keys. I quickly grabbed two bottled waters out of my fridge and handed one to him as we walked out the door. “Are you always so pushy?”
He laughed, and those little lines crinkled the corners of his eyes, and the sun gave a warmth to his skin. He went down the stairs first and waited for me to get to the bottom. I guessed he was unsure of which direction to go. I pointed my thumb to the tattoo shop’s dead bolted door. “Can’t access the shop from the outside, so we’ll have to go around,” I nodded toward the end of the building, and we settled into a comfortable stride next to each other.
“I assume there’s a music store around here somewhere,” he said as we neared the street.
“There’s a few,” I told him. “Did you want CD or LP? I could have just downloaded it for you if that would have been easier.”
“I want LP.”
“Do you have a record player?”
“Well, no. But I think I’ll have to get one. I would imagine jazz and blues from vinyl would be incredible.”
I grinned at him. “I’ve created a monster!”
“You can’t just play classic vinyl albums to a music lover and not expect him to want it.”
I grinned. “True.”
We walked the two blocks, the banter between us never stopping. He talked with his hands when he explained things, which I found to be rather endearing, and I’m pretty sure I hadn’t stopped smiling since we left my place. I led him down a side alley off the boulevard and stood in front of the door to the music shop. “Before we go in, you must promise me something.”
He was suddenly serious. “What?”
“This place is special, and thus, must remain a secret.”
“Thus?”
“It’s a word.”
“That no one has used in two hundred years.”
“Not true. I just used it now.”
He laughed. “Okay, so I’m not supposed to tell anyone I came here?”
“Nope. It’s like Vegas.”
“As in ‘What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas’? Really?”
“Yes, really.” I nodded. “It’s too awesome to be popular.”
“Isn’t that redundant to their business profitability?”
“Possibly. But it’s completely old-school indie. I think the owner was a pot-smoking surfer from the sixties and has principles against corporations, though I’ve never asked him. Anyway, if too many people know about it, then it becomes mainstream. And that would ruin it.”
He frowned at me. “Then it’s not like Vegas. It’s more like Fight Club.”
I laughed and bowed my head. “Ah, Grasshopper. You have passed the test. You may enter.” He beamed, and I opened the door with a laugh.
He stepped inside. “Okay, wow.”
N.R. Walker is an Australian author, who loves her genre of gay romance.
She loves writing and spends far too much time doing it, but wouldn’t have it any other way.
She is many things: a mother, a wife, a sister, a writer. She has pretty, pretty boys who live in her head, who don’t let her sleep at night unless she gives them life with words.
She likes it when they do dirty, dirty things… but likes it even more when they fall in love.
She used to think having people in her head talking to her was weird, until one day she happened across other writers who told her it was normal.
She’s been writing ever since…
