Something Like Winter Read online

  That wasn’t quite true. Sometimes Tim was sober, like the first time Travis had stumbled into their room and climbed into Tim’s bed by complete accident.

  Right.

  “I’m hitting the shower,” Travis said, one hand on the doorknob, the other full of clean clothes. He stared at Tim like he was missing the obvious.

  “So?” Tim prompted.

  “So you’re in my bed!”

  No one would come in their room at this hour, and even if they did, Tim doubted they would remember which bed belonged to whom. But he knew Travis would stand there like an idiot until he did something, so Tim got out of bed and leisurely scratched himself, giving Travis a good look at his morning wood. Face flushed and jaw clenching, Travis turned his head, refusing to look at him.

  Tim had meant to be funny, but now he was pissed. “Stupid hick,” he huffed, stomping over to his bed and ripping back the sheets so he could get in. He even smashed a pillow over his head until he heard the bedroom door shut. Then he tossed the pillow aside and groaned.

  The thing was, he liked Travis. They had first met as University of Texas freshmen and pledges to the fraternity, the noble Alpha Theta Sigma, the very same fraternity his father had belonged to. What he couldn’t picture was his father going through initiation. Most of the hazing was harmless and dumb, like having to answer trivia questions correctly or do pushups. Or race to eat an entire large pizza alone, chugging a beer between each slice. Sometimes they faced sleep deprivation or had to exercise until they dropped. But the worst had been when they were teamed up, handed shaving cream and razors, and told to shave each other completely from the neck down.

  Tim had been teamed with Travis, the experience anything but erotic. For him, at least. Travis nicked him so many times, Tim worried he would lose his junk completely, so self-control hadn’t been an issue. Travis wasn’t so lucky. Maybe Tim was a little too careful with the razor, because when he got to his pubes, Travis started getting hard. Fraternity brothers were walking around like drill sergeants, screaming at each team to be the first, but Tim also couldn’t help wondering if they were weeding out the gay guys.

  So Tim had started talking about his grandma and her foot fungus that spread up her whole leg, smelling terrible as it ate her flesh. All fiction, of course, but Tim’s descriptions were repulsive enough that Travis got himself under control. They weren’t the first team done, but they weren’t the last. They made the fraternity. Tim didn’t interact with Travis much after that until his second year when they were assigned as roommates.

  Tim never thought they would end up sleeping together, or that he would like Travis as anything more than a frat brother. Not that Tim’s interest hadn’t been piqued. Travis spoke with a country drawl, the sort of accent everyone assumed Texans had. In the Houston area, everyone sounded normal, aside from saying “y’all” instead of “you guys.” Austin wasn’t so different, but in some places, like Dallas, the accents could get just as exaggerated as those on TV. That’s how Travis sounded, and that, combined with his freckles, gave him country-boy charm.

  Travis often spoke of his family back home in Kentucky, especially his little sisters. He seemed like the kind of guy who would be a good dad, a family man. Or a good boyfriend, if he could accept himself. Only when drunk did the real Travis emerge. He even told Tim once, slurring heavily, that he loved him.

  But he didn’t. Tim knew what it was like to be loved, and this wasn’t it.

  Travis didn’t return to the room after showering. He would avoid Tim for the day, maybe longer. Then he would get over it, acting like nothing happened until the next time he decided to get drunk. Being in the closet was one thing; being in denial was a completely different game. Fate had found someone even more messed up than Tim to give him a taste of his own medicine. If only Benjamin could see him now.

  Tim rolled over and sighed. Thinking about Ben would only make a bad morning miserable, so he closed his eyes and tried to get some shut-eye. He had just managed to doze off when the longhorn jolted him awake.

  The longhorn was a compressed air horn, like the kind used at sporting events, that was taped to a megaphone. The result was excruciatingly loud. And annoying. When a fraternity meeting was called, some poor sap would be sent walking down the hallways, blaring the longhorn to get everyone’s attention. They had five minutes to reach the main common room unless they wanted to get demerits, and those meant cleaning up puke after a party or other horrible jobs they couldn’t even get maids in to do. Being part of a fraternity was about as much fun as being in the military, especially the way Quentin ran the house.

  And of course it was Quentin who had called this meeting. He stood at the speaker’s podium they normally dragged out for rituals, waiting for all the brothers to file in the room. Quentin was the consummate frat boy: white as the suburbs—despite the fake tan—and decked out in a polo shirt tight against his muscles. When he smiled, his teeth were just as bright as the gold chain around his neck. The All-American Boy look was shared by most of Tim’s other fraternity brothers, enough that they could have been clones. Lately, when Tim looked in the mirror, he felt disturbed rather than proud.

  That’s one reason he liked Travis. That Huck Finn vibe really stood out. Travis was already in the common room, the only person other than Quentin who was showered and alert. Everyone else was still recovering from the excess of drinking and drugs the night before.

  “Fund raising,” Quentin said, his booming voice answered by a number of groans, Tim’s among them. “Stop your bitching! The roof isn’t up to code, one of the air conditioners stopped working, and the floor is completely fucked. If you pussies want to keep living here, you’ll get out there and bring in some money. No fraternity house, no fraternity.”

  Tim kept looking over at Travis, hoping to catch his eye. He was sure, from the way he moved his head slightly, that Travis saw him. Naturally, Travis then turned away, which Tim supposed was all the answer he needed.

  “We’ve got a number of schemes this year,” Quentin continued. “Some of you will be hitting the streets, selling scratch tickets. People can’t win money, but some of them have invitations to our best parties and events, so don’t forget to remind them how much booze and pussy we get here. Charm the hell out of girls to make sales, but for fuck’s sake, don’t give away any tickets. I know how many there are, and it’ll come out of your wallet if any go missing.”

  Tim let Quentin drone on. He knew the drill. Quentin always made up excuses as to why they needed money. It was always the roof, curiously enough, but no one here seemed to remember him saying that the year before or didn’t call him on it. The truth was, most of the money went to the parties, but whatever. One week of work for all the benefits they received wasn’t bad.

  And Tim knew he wouldn’t get one of the crappy jobs like selling tickets or working the car wash. Quentin came from a long line of Alpha Theta Sigma brothers and took it seriously. Most guys here just wanted status, but Quentin upheld a tradition started by his great-grandfather. That Tim’s father was also a brother earned him major points.

  “Each of you will be paired with your roommate. Only one of you report for your assignment. Figure out who’s talking to me. Don’t both come up here or it’ll piss me off.”

  Tim looked over at Travis, who grudgingly made eye contact. Tim pointed at himself, and Travis nodded. Now Travis would have to interact with him today if they were going to be hitting the alumni for money. That was by far the easiest fund-raising job. All they had to do was talk to some old geezers and listen to their fondest memories or whatever before a fat check was cut.

  Tim waited behind a few other guys, and sure enough, when he talked to Quentin, this was the assignment he was given.

  “Get out there today,” Quentin said. “A lot of these guys still work, so the weekend is your best chance. You should be able to get them all by the end of tomorrow.” He handed Tim a list, glancing at it first and smirking. “Eric Conroy is on there. Start wit
h him. He’s loaded and always happy to dish out cash.”

  “No problem.”

  Tim scanned the list of names and addresses, glad that all were in Austin. Last year he had to drive an hour out of town for a lousy hundred dollar check. He looked up when he reached Travis and grinned.

  “Good news. We’re spending the weekend together!”

  * * * * *

  The interior of the 3000GT felt like it was stuffed full of cotton balls, only the muffled sounds of traffic outside invading the silence. Every movement felt deliberate and awkward. Tim had tried everything to make Travis unwind. Music didn’t help, since Travis wouldn’t speak over it. Any conversation he attempted was met with grunts or silence.

  Travis wasn’t in a slump. At the last house they visited, he’d been as animated and charming as ever. The alumnus there was from Kentucky as well, giving them plenty to talk about, along with a five hundred dollar check. But as soon as they were back in the car, Travis clammed up again.

  “What do you think the trade-in value on this car would be?” Tim asked. “I mean, I wonder if selling it would get more cash.”

  He wasn’t really planning on getting rid of his car. He had taken the best possible care of it. Not that he wouldn’t mind trading up, but he doubted his parents would fork over the cash to get something new. Travis was a car enthusiast, jabbering nonstop the first time he rode in Tim’s car, talking about tweaks he could do on the engine or cars he had driven back home.

  “What do you think?”

  “You always get more selling,” Travis said, looking out the passenger window. “If you do it right.”

  Okay. That was a start. “It just sounds more convenient going to a dealership and driving away with something. What sort of car do you think I should get?”

  No answer. Tim waited, hoping Travis was mulling it over, but nothing. They were only minutes from the house Quentin suggested they visit first. They’d hit a few others on the way, since Tim didn’t want to waste time driving back and forth through the city. Plus, Tim didn’t want to ruin a good prospect with Travis acting moody. Now the idea of him returning to his usual chipper self at the next house was irritating.

  “Look, I don’t get why you can’t be yourself around me, of all people.” When there wasn’t a response, Tim pulled over to the side of the road. They were in the West Lake Hills area, where homes had multi-million dollar price tags. The house ahead was a sprawling one-story ranch with so much land there were no neighbors in sight. “Travis! Would you fucking look at me?”

  Travis did, his eyes angry and accusatory. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”

  “Because if I do, the same shit will keep happening. You’ll ignore me for a while before you loosen up again. Then we’ll be friends until the next time you decide to get trashed, and you know damn well what happens next.”

  “It won’t. Not again.”

  “Why not?” Tim said. “We both have the same secret! I won’t betray you to anyone. Ever. You don’t have to be drunk to hook up with me. You don’t need an excuse.”

  “I don’t want to be with you!” Travis snarled, ripping at the door handle. “I want a family!”

  And then he was out of the car, tromping down the road. Tim let him go, figuring he needed to blow off steam. Travis was almost over the next hill when he stopped and leaned against a brick pillar of the cast iron fence. Still Tim waited, giving him time. Then he put the car in park, got out, and went to Travis, hearing the sniffs and seeing the tears before grabbing and hugging him. To Tim’s relief, Travis hugged him back.

  “Until you find the right girl,” Tim whispered. “The one who can give you that family. Just be with me until then.”

  Travis tried to say something, his voice coming out a squeak, but he nodded against his shoulder. Tim hurt inside as much as he felt happy. This was progress, right? Once Travis had pulled himself together, they got back in the car and kept driving. This time Tim stayed quiet, not wanting to push his luck.

  “A Plymouth Road Runner,” Travis said eventually. “That’s what you should get.”

  Tim fought down a smile. “Do they even make those anymore?”

  “Nope. They’re classic. Especially if you can get one from ’68 or ’69 before they updated the body. If we shop around, get a fixer-upper, you might end up with left-over cash.”

  Tim doubted that. He was a latest-and-greatest kind of guy when it came to cars. But hell, if it brought Travis around, maybe he would sell his car for an old junker. Travis sang the praises of a Road Runner for a while, Tim’s focus split between where they were going and Travis’s need for a normal life. Once Tim had yearned for the same thing, but he knew now that it was impossible. He could pretend, and would probably have to his entire life, but nothing would ever be normal for him again.

  Tim turned his attention to their surroundings before he became even more disoriented. Most of the houses were set back in the trees, with only the driveways and spindly mailboxes indicating where the residences were. Tim slowed next to each, reading the number before driving farther along as the curving roads rose with the hills.

  “Are we lost?” Travis asked.

  “Quentin smirked when he mentioned this guy,” Tim said. “Probably because he knew his house would be so damn hard to find. Left or right?” he asked at a fork in the road.

  “Right.”

  Travis’s guess was lucky because they found the correct address just two properties down. Tim pulled into the driveway and parked in front of a separate garage that looked outdated rather than ritzy. The rest of the house was pure money, if not from sheer size then from the complexity of the design. The owner must have gotten the architect high before showing him a bunch of Picasso’s cubist paintings. Wood, iron, stone, wire—it seemed any material possible was integrated to create the right lines and definitions. Viewed from afar, Tim had no doubt the house was a work of art. Up close, it appeared confused at best, the white cube buildings arranged together awkwardly. Then again, the design was gutsy and wholly original.

  “Whoever lives here must be crazy,” Travis said.

  “Eccentric,” Tim corrected. “The rich are eccentric.”

  “What’s this guy called?”

  Tim checked the list again. “Eric Conroy. Let’s go say hello.”

  They took their time walking to the front door, scoping out the whole thing. When Tim rang the doorbell, he expected to hear a bizarre noise, maybe a baaing sheep, but the chime sounded as normal as could be. Nor was there anything unusual about the man who opened the door. He was older, his hair charcoal gray and his build small. His clothing didn’t seem expensive, the navy blue shirt and gray slacks appearing comfortable and worn. He arched a brow and waited for them to address him.

  “Eric Conroy?”

  “Yes. Let me guess. Alpha Theta Sigma.”

  Tim grinned. “How did you know?”

  “Oh, something about your appearance.” Eric winked and motioned them in.

  Most large houses have a huge entryway built to impress or a staircase curving up to the second floor. This house had neither. Beyond the front door was a comfortable sitting room, almost like a hotel lobby. Practical, since Eric was able to offer them a seat without leading them through his home. Four couches embroidered with gold thread faced each other. A mini-bar in one corner stood near an unlit fireplace. Tim could see a guest bathroom through one door and a glimpse of the rest of the house beyond another. He and Travis took a seat next to each other, Eric sitting across from them.

  “Something to drink?” he offered.

  “I’m fine. Travis?”

  “No. Thank you, sir.”

  “How polite,” Eric said. “Travis, is it? And you are?”

  “Tim.” He half-stood to offer his hand, which Eric rose to take without a firm grip or a hearty shake—like holding hands for the briefest of moments. Then the process was repeated with Travis, who pumped Eric’s arm up and down like a proper country boy.

  “I
t’s always good to meet a brother,” Travis said with an appealing grin.

  Tim wished fleetingly that he could get Travis to smile at him like that before turning his full attention to Eric. “This is a beautiful home,” he said. “Are you the original owner?”

  “Yes,” Eric said. “I had it built some years ago, before you were even born, I’d wager.”

  “Did you design it yourself?”

  “I had input into it. Why?”

  “I’m just wondering if you’re a fan of cubism.” If this worked, Tim just knew a fat check was waiting for them. “Picasso, maybe?”

  Eric nodded in appreciation. “I’m more a fan of his friend Georges Braque.”

  Close enough. “Man with a Guitar?”

  “Violin and Candlestick.” Eric laughed. “I’m going to have to see some identification. You can’t be from the fraternity.”

  “If it makes you feel better,” Travis chipped in, “I have no idea what you two are on about.”

  “Your friend is wowing me with his knowledge of art,” Eric explained.

  “Just don’t quiz me,” Tim said, “or you’ll find out how limited that knowledge is.”

  “Well, you have countless years to brush up on the old masters.” Eric leaned back, seeming more relaxed. “To what do I owe this pleasure? Air conditioner broken again? Or is it the roof?”

  “Both,” Tim laughed. “I take it we hit you up every year.”

  “Always in pairs,” Eric nodded. “Last year it was Corey and Stephen, the year before Quentin and Jerry, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Quentin is still around,” Tim said. “The others must have graduated.”

  “Or been kicked out,” Eric said, his smile fading.

  Tim wasn’t sure what to make of that. “Let’s hope not. When were you a brother?”

  “Oh, don’t make me reveal my age. And to be honest, I’m no longer a member of Alpha Theta Sigma—not even an alumnus. I’m afraid you’ve been sent here as a joke.”

  Tim shook his head. “But you were a member once.”