Chapter 18

Eighteen

Pedro had a hard time leaving the warmth of Titus's bed on Monday morning.

Pedro had a hard time leaving the warmth of Titus's bed on any morning.

Today was different, though. They had gone through their usual ritual of mornings when Pedro was scheduled to work elsewhere—waking before dawn, sleepy sex, snippets of conversation, sex again, a shower, and then breakfast with Tucker.

Only the previous day was unusual. Titus had sat poolside more, while Pedro had played with Tucker in the water. He was contemplative, only answering when prompted. Pedro knew he had a lot on his mind–his father, the sale of his business, the groundwork of new businesses, and a potential political campaign. Somewhere, in the mix of all that, was their personal life and the inevitability of his coming out publicly.

It was a lot for someone to consider.

Mostly, Pedro recognized the signs of anticipatory grief stemming from Truman's diagnosis. He knew from his own experience there was nothing he could do to ease this mental fatigue other than to be there for Titus. Offer support–or distraction–with his presence whenever Titus needed him.

Yet, he couldn't miss work. Today, especially. Today he would see Silas for the first time since the awkward encounter at the Rialto. To call out sick could mean many things in Silas's view.

Cowardice. Confirmation. Resignation.

No. Of all days, as much as he wanted to be there for Titus, this was one Pedro certainly could not miss.

"I'm going to call him," Titus repeated.

"No. This one's on me, T. It's my job and I'm the one that should face him. If he fires me, well, then I guess you'll be seeing me sooner than you think."

"I told you about his history. He beat that kid to a bloody pulp."

"He's never given a reason for me to fear him. I can handle it. You've got a lot on your mind."

"You're much smaller than him, P. If he hurts you… I don't know what I'd do."

"Political candidates don't fight, not physically anyway."

"Self-control is not my forte." Titus offered a small grin. "That's something you learned early on."

Pedro blushed, recalling their first night together. He took Titus's face in his hands, caressing the firmness of his square jaws, his day-old stubble scraping Pedro's palms like sandpaper. Pedro combed his fingers through Titus's hair and said, "Calm down, big guy. I'll be fine. I promise. Why not take it easy today? Maybe chat numbers with Roz."

Business talk was always an effective distraction.

Titus stared for a moment, perhaps sensing the intent behind the suggestion. He gave a soft, yielding smile. "OK. But I'm still going to talk to him. I won't call until lunch, when you're in the field. Deal?"

"Deal."

Pedro gave him a kiss and headed out. Before the door closed behind him, Titus hollered loud enough for him to hear: "I may have a lot on my mind, but you're always numero uno."

On the drive to work, it was oddly overcast and foggy. As Pedro drove through the quiet streets of Spoon, he considered what all had transpired in the few days since their dinner with Truman and Patricia. The power of mortality to bring change and reveal secrets was alarming, yet humbling. He'd experienced it before, of course, with his own family in Mexico, and Titus had known it with the death of Violet. Yet, here it was happening again. Only this time they both were caught in the currents, being swept directions neither had anticipated.

Love works similarly, he thought.

True. Pedro had once suppressed his feelings, confining them to the lower depths of priority. Now, he no longer saw things in such shades of black and white. His world was awash with color. Not only had love blossomed, altering his course, but with it the promises of a family and a future. Titus had intercepted Pedro's life and–

Hit me like a truck.

He smiled at the idiom and its relevance. Of course, he'd not been hit, nor hurt, but the "impact" had forever changed his journey. Meeting Titus had shown Pedro a life he'd never foreseen. Knowing their feelings were mutual was a glimpse of much more.

You're in love .

He was. No doubt… and now the currents were shifting again. Titus was reaching to him from a departing train. He would soon have to make the leap or watch it leave him behind.

Was it possible for a small southern town to elect a gay mayor?

He recalled Truman's admission to them and what had happened through secrets kept just a generation before.

The more things change, the more they stay the same .

Truman's one dalliance may have been curiosity, but it further proved Pedro's speculations that Kinsey was right. The division between gay and straight was far murkier than most will admit.

His introspection fled as soon as he turned into the gravel parking lot of Compton's Greenscapes. He could just make out Silas's truck in the fog. Miguel's too. Pedro pulled into his usual spot and turned the engine off.

He secured his truck, grabbed his cooler from the bed, and made his way across the small parking lot, footsteps crunching in gravel.

Business as usual . Nothing to worry about .

It was growing lighter out, but the fog was persistent. Both buildings were barely distinguishable in the haze. He veered right, passing through its wispy tendrils, toward the barn. A few steps farther and the building materialized in the gloom, its large door open like a mouth.

Miguel , Pedro thought.

It spooked him. He couldn't shake the sense that something was off.

Chill. It's just another day at work .

He entered the building and went toward his vehicle. There was no sign of Miguel, none of the typical noise of equipment prep and fueling. Just silence. It was one of the two days Pedro wasn't assigned to Titus's property, so he had more gear than usual. He was placing it on the passenger seat side of the large CG stenciled truck when he heard more crunching footsteps approaching.

"Buenos días."

Miguel .

Pedro hopped down from the running board and shut the door. "I was wondering where you were. It's gonna be another scorcher if this fog ever clears."

"Sí. Más caliente que el infierno," Miguel said, heading toward his own vehicle. "Boss man wants to see you."

Pedro stepped into the air-conditioned office. It was dark, the only light spilling from a doorway down the hall. Susie, the receptionist, wouldn't be in for another hour.

"Mr. Compton?" Pedro said, a little louder than normal, and projecting toward the hallway. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yeah," said a disembodied voice, without inflection. "In my office."

The situation was abnormal, and with the addition of the strange weather, surreal. Subtract their encounter with Silas at the movie theater a few days prior, and Pedro would have thought he was dreaming. He walked to the end of the hall and entered the open door. Silas was sitting there, mounds of papers on his desk.

"Hey, boss." Pedro said. "Miguel said you wanted to see me."

"Yes."

"Should I sit?"

Silas looked at him long and hard, his expression neutral, neither amiable nor angry.

"No," he said. "No sense in that. I'm letting you go, Pedro. I need your truck keys. Hand them over."

Pedro, ever the dutiful employee, automatically reached into his pants pocket to find them.

"I don't understand," he said, extending the keys to Silas. "Have I done something wrong?"

"Just put them on the desk," Silas said. "I think you know what's going on here. I can't control what you do in private, Pedro, but I will not have one of my employees out in public as one half of a queer couple… with a child, no less."

"Mr. Compton, I do good work here, no? I never call out and I finish all my shifts on time. I don't?—"

"It's all about reputation, son," Silas said, smugly, even though he and Pedro were roughly the same age. "We're a reputable, Christian landscaping service."

Pedro considered this. At no time while he was working for the company had religion ever been brought up. This was all news to him.

Seeing his confusion, Silas elaborated. "It's Christian run. My family is Christian ."

"I'm a Christian."

"That so? Well, then I guess you're gonna burn in hell."

Pedro's apprehension shifted up a notch. Not just because of the ludicrous propaganda Silas was spewing, but because he was seeing the Silas Titus had described. There was a calculated coldness in his glare, indifferent, yet menacing. And behind its iciness, an agenda. An illogical one, maybe, but an agenda all the same.

The simplest way to terminate employment in Pedro's case would be inappropriate relations with a client. Plain and simple. It was a common rule, and he'd broken it. If Silas asked him, he would come clean, and they could part ways civilly. Consensual relationships between workers and customers had been happening since the dawn of time. What Pedro did behind closed doors was in no way affecting Compton's Greenscapes or his performance as an employee there. Using bias to fire him, a seasoned employee, made little sense. It was like removing your hand just because one finger was crooked.

"If it's something I've done, I–"

"Let me be clear," Silas interrupted. "You don't work for me anymore. I don't like you, Pedro. Never did."

How do you argue with that?

Silas stood. "I hired you because you're cheap labor. That's the only thing you Mexicans are good for. It's an American pastime, you know, building businesses on the back of those less fortunate. No offense, of course. It's more cost effective."

"But–"

"Not finished. I especially don't like it when you people stay permanently, polluting our gene pool. Oh, wait. That's right. I wouldn't have to worry about that with you, would I? You're not one for the ladies like that idiot, Miguel. Damn, Pedro–queer and Mexican? I'm not sure which is worse. Yes, sir. You gotta go… all the way back to Mexico."

Pedro felt a tremendous surge of lightheadedness. Overwhelming emotions were brimming inside him—disappointment, fear, helplessness, and rage. He thought of Titus. What would Titus do in this situation?

Crush him .

Pedro wanted to crush him badly. Silas stood there, unblinking, almost as if expecting it.

Wait.

Being the owner and HR department of Spoon's only landscaping company didn't give Silas the power to force Pedro out of the country. There were protections elsewhere—federal rules and regulations regarding immigrants and their employment. Silas knew this. He had to maintain documentation in order to employ and retain migrant workers. He could fire Pedro, but not jeopardize his residency unless–

He's trying to provoke me into attacking him.

A violent employee would be much easier to deport.

Pedro backed toward the door. "I'm very sorry you feel that way," he said. "I enjoyed working here."

"Which one of you is the man?" Silas asked, coming around the desk. "Does Titus like to bend you over, or does he prefer lifting his legs and letting you slip your hot little tamale in?"

Pedro did not know how to respond to this. His first instinct was to say you sure have given this a fair amount of thought for a straight man . But he knew better than that. Instead, he said, "That's none of your business. And since I don't work here anymore, I should go."

"Did you ever want to suck my cock, Pedro? How about it? You wanna taste? I'm sure Titus won't mind. You queers are pretty free about that stuff, right? Maybe I'll keep you on if you do a good job."

So many lines were being crossed, and Pedro was bewildered by it all. Silas was obviously trying to provoke him, but was he serious about sex? Would he go that far to accuse Pedro of sexual harassment as potential grounds for deportation? Or was this the real Silas, the Silas that Titus knew, the one that bullied the meek as recompense for some deep-seated self-loathing?

Knowing that he shouldn't say anything, that he should just leave, Pedro was compelled to say, "Where does that kind of request fall with this being a Christian operation?"

Silas stopped where he stood, leering lecherously. "Oh, you're a smart one. Don't see many of those from south of the border. Carlos certainly wasn't."

"What happened to Carlos, Silas? What really happened?"

Silas gestured to the disheveled pile of papers on his desk. "I'm a little behind on my documentation. It's a lot of work keeping you guys over here. Sometimes, I just don't feel like filling out all these papers."

"Did Carlos have to leave because of you?"

"Stop changing the subject, Pedro. Fight or fuck, what's it going to be? I'm happy with either."

Pedro realized at that moment that working for Compton Greenscapes had never been safe, no matter how well he had done his job. He wasn't sure exactly what had transpired with Carlos, but he would not stick around any longer to find out.

He ran out the door and down the hallway.

"You can't run from me, Pedro. I'm everywhere. Big Britches may think he owns this town, but I've got some pull, too. Your queer ass is going down. No matter what he's promised you. This is America—my country, not yours."

Pedro walked briskly away from both buildings, heading across the parking lot and straight for his truck. He was leaving his belongings in the company vehicle, but he didn't care. He just needed to get away from there fast.

The fog was dissipating, the sun now burning through the haze. The air was thick, moist, and heavy.

Once inside his vehicle, he checked the rear-view mirror, fully expecting to see Silas stalking toward him like some masked killer in a slasher movie. Instead, he saw Silas standing behind the glass entry door of Compton's Greenscapes, just watching him. His glare was sinister, both cold and manipulative.

Evil .

Pedro felt beyond uneasy, like he was playing into a game he had no control over, cast in a play without a script. He wanted Titus—no, needed Titus—to help regain any sense of safety.

He put the truck in reverse and glanced once more at the office door.

Silas was still standing there, and now he was smiling.