Page 33 of His Dad Will Do
Silas casts a glance down at his crotch. “Oh. Um, no, it’s okay.” He looks back at me with a sly expression. “A reminder not to get too distracted from you, Daddy.”
I get up from the table and cross the kitchen to kiss him. “That’s my dirty boy.”
He kisses back with such enthusiasm that I consider rethinking the plan we just made for the morning and dragging him back to bed. He tastes like coffee and smells like my shampoo. I’m struck with how much I want this with him. Kisses after breakfast, making plans together to do our respective work, more kisses.
I want this every morning. With Silas.
He’s squirming in my arms now, rubbing his chest against mine. I worm a hand between us and press the heel of my palm against his nipple. He twists his torso, dragging his nipple ring across my hand. He pants into my mouth and I nip at his bottom lip.
“You have work to do, baby,” I remind him when I can finally pull back from his lips.
“I can do it later,” he says. He sways toward me, his lips shiny and wet, his eyes half-closed, just a sliver of green behind the dark honey of his long eyelashes. “I don’t even remember what I was going to do.”
“All the more reason to get it done now.” I let him go but not before squeezing his nipple between my fingers for a long moment. He arches his back and tips his chin up enough that I can see his throat work as he swallows. “You wanted to get it down before you lose the idea, right?”
“Yeah, but…”
“Are you arguing with me, Silas?”
He opens his eyes and looks at me. “Oh. Um, no, Daddy.”
I chuck him under the chin. “There’s a good boy.” I’d kiss him again, but it’s too easy to get lost in kissing him. “Go on, then.”
He turns and leaves the kitchen without further argument. I head upstairs to my study. I have plenty of work I can do while Silas is composing, but there are a few things I want to take care of first.
I’ve barely started when I realize that I need some information, so I go back downstairs to the hook where Silas’s coat hangs. I feel a twinge of guilt as I dig in the pockets for his wallet. It’s for his own good, though. I’ll tell him why later, but I’m not asking permission for this.
Even if he doesn’t stay my boy, he needs someone to take care of him.
I jot down the information from his driver’s license, and score—his social security card is tucked behind his Dramatists Guild card. Excellent. I write the number down and put his wallet back where I found it.
I leave my study door open so I can faintly hear Silas noodling around on the piano downstairs. There’s a short melodic phrase he keeps returning to—the motif of the song he’s writing, I presume—and I can hear how it sounds slightly different as he plays it different ways. Different keys, I suppose, like he said.
He seems to settle on one version and plays the melody over a series of chords, then starts from what sounds like might be the beginning of the song. He’s singing along but I can’t make out the words. It sounds like what he said, though—sad and filled with longing, but also hopeful at the end.
While Silas is working, I finish the tasks I’ve set for myself. Bank account opened, in Silas’s name, but linked to mine. First deposit made, ten grand to start, and recurring deposits set up.
I place a call to a real estate agent who’s married to a client and give her a heads up about what I think we’ll be looking for. I’ll leave it to Silas to choose what we go see, of course.
It doesn’t take long to make these arrangements and Silas is still playing piano, so I settle in to do some work. James Cohen hasn’t gotten back to me yet, but it’s still early. I’ve known him long enough to know that he sleeps late on Sundays and has a long, usually boozy, brunch with his husband. I don’t expect to hear from him until mid-afternoon at the earliest.
I pull up a standard production contract and start putting in some basic information, but that feels a little like tempting fate so I turn to some work for my actual clients instead.
I’m halfway through marking up the offering documents for a play a client is considering investing in—that I’m fairly certain is going to flop six weeks from opening night, despite the promising regional performances—when I realize Silas has stopped playing.
I wait another five minutes to see if he’ll start again and then close my laptop. When I reach the lower level, Silas is bent over the music rack at the piano.
He’s scribbling on some blank music manuscript paper. Well, not blank anymore, since there are notes in his precise handwriting covering half or more of the page.
I linger in the doorway. I don’t want to disrupt his concentration. And he’s beautiful when he’s working, so I don’t mind just watching him for a while. The tip of his tongue is sticking out a bit between his lips and the long fingers on his left hand tap out a rhythm on the piano’s lid before his other hand writes it out on the manuscript paper.
He runs his hand through his hair and sticks the pencil behind his ear, then hums a variation of the melody he’s been working on under his breath. He scribbles more notes on the paper, then props it up on the music rack and sets the pencil aside.
He opens and closes both hands, flexes his fingers, and plays the piece from start to finish. It’s lovely. The low chords underlying the song are dark and the lyrics express such sadness and longing, but the chorus is simple enough that I find myself humming along at its next round.
Which is when he looks up and catches sight of me in the doorway. He smiles, then sings the last lines as he finishes playing what he’s written.
“That’s wonderful, sweetheart.”
