The Nicholas-Bradley house was in the Mesta Park neighborhood of Oklahoma City, which was like Pacific Avenue in theMonopolygame, expensive but not Boardwalk expensive. Boardwalk was the Heritage Hills mansions two streets to the south, which made Mesta Park look like servants’ quarters.
Mesta Park dated to the early 1900’s and boasted 2- and 3-story houses in a mishmash of Craftsman, Victorian, and Neo-classical architecture. How did Matt know all this? From Bradley, who was proud to have tossed a large portion of Nicholas’s earnings into the money pit that was their home.
The Nicholas-Bradley house was Craftsman. It had a large front porch supported by thick, brick columns. The exterior had shiplap siding and sported more gables than that hovel Hawthorne had written about. The interior was all hardwood floors, oak beams and molding. Windows everywhere—some leaded—even in the closets. Yes, Matt had toured the closets. Come out of them as well.
Bradley was a consummate tour guide. They had chatted during a quiet lull before the guests arrived. Matt asked him how long he and Nicholas had been together.
Bradley had sighed. “Fifteen years. Two years in college. Then, right after we graduated, Nicholas lost his ever-loving mind and married a woman! It took him almost a year to come to his senses. We’ve been together the thirteen years since, but it still rankles me that I’ll always be the second wife and a year behind in the anniversary count.”
Matt’s mind had glossed over the messy details and seen the silver lining: Nicholas and Bradley had been together almost as long as had his own parents—and without the legal sanction of marriage. It gave Matt hope that he could similarly find someone and have a semblance of a normal life. He said as much to Bradley.
Bradley had paused a beat, studied Matt’s eyes, then fidgeted nervously. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Your parents went to MCU, didn’t they? You’re named after your dad? Your mom is Nora?”
Matt had nodded, mildly surprised, expecting the usual fawning about his being third-generation legacy.
“Thought so.” Bradley had frowned. “I knew them both back in the day...”
“And?” Matt had asked.
“Honestly?” Bradley had sighed. “I avoided your dad. There was an angry edge to the guy, like his sprockets were wound too tight. I think we all hoped that your mom would have a calming effect on him. I hope for your sake that she did.”
Matt had broken eye contact, studied the grain of the hardwood floor. He did not want to explain that his dad’s waterwheel was still powered by a steady stream of anger. Matt was glad when he heard the doorbell ring, heard voices from downstairs.
Bradley had patted Matt’s shoulder. “We should probably go greet the guests. Thanks for letting me show you the house! If you ever want to talk about anything, I’m a good listener.”
The man who had pawed Matt’s ass was Garland Stone-Dancer, 33, the youngest guest at the party (one of 4 GM alumni in attendance) and by far the best looking. Not that the bar was that high with these guys. Having a full head of hair and a flat stomach moved Garland into the top five. His deep-set, coal-black eyes and square jaw did the rest.
Garland led Matt to the front parlor, took a seat in a leather club chair. He sipped the Manhattan Matt had just served him.
“Have a seat.” Garland motioned to the other club chair. “I enjoy talking with pretty boys. Your name’s Matt, right?”
Matt nodded, sat down.
An antique grandfather clock propped up one wall, ticking slowly.
Garland made no effort at speech, inhabited the silence instead. He studied Matt’s body as though it were on display at a gallery, and he was weighing whether to add it to his collection.
Garland was dressed as one of the party guests fromRocky Horror: tight fitting, slim-cut tuxedo pants that ended above his ankles. White dress socks. Black dance shoes. Tuxedo coat with tails. Purple, sequined cummerbund, and asevere pompadour.
He also wore a pair of handcuffs as a sort of bracelet, both cuffs clasped loosely around his right wrist. The small connecting bit of chain jangled each time he sipped his drink. Was that accessory vintage to the movie? Or something unique to Garland? Matt’s inquiring mind wanted to know.
Garland broke the silence. “You don’t crack under pressure. I like that too.”
Matt smiled, asked Garland about his surname: Stone-Dancer.
Garland explained that it was of Cherokee origin. His ancestors had been force-marched to Oklahoma Territory in the “Trail of Tears.”
Matt’s kin had come to Oklahoma about forty years later, for the Land Run of 1889, where settlers got to claim land originally given to the Cherokee. That wasn’t exactly something to brag about to a Cherokee. Matt let it drop.
Garland took a slow sip of his drink. His handcuffs rattled. He eyed Matt over the rim of his glass.
Matt sensed a proposition brewing, tried stalling by asking when Garland had graduated from MCU.
Turned out he hadn’t graduated—from MCU, that is. Had only lasted two years there before transferring to OU. Then law school. Fast forward to his new Porsche. Did Matt want to see it? Same piercing stare.
