Hot Like Me

"Hot Like Me"

The third installment of the "Brothers" series,
by Justin Tyler

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*Reviews and comments are encouraged, and most graciously appreciated!!!*
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Part I: "A Date?"

Harley was pissed. Royally pissed.

Things had been great between them since Trey had come home, going on six months now.

Until tonight.

Harley had been sitting in their bedroom, curled up in his cushy, ugly, harvest gold recliner reading a really stupid, horrible script his agent had sent to him for consideration. He was already in a foul mood because of it when Trey came home and dropped the bomb on him.

"Let me get this straight - pardon the pun." Harley could be so damned sarcastic when he was pissed off. "You have a meeting with a potential investor - a meeting you've had planned for over a month now and didn't bother to tell me, your business partner, about until now. And because you presumably can't control yourself around me, and you feel it's important to have something pretty on your arm to impress the hotshots, you have a date? With a girl?"

Trey slapped his hand over his face and shook his head. "Why do you always have to over-dramatize everything, Harley?"

Harley tossed the crappy script to the floor, the pages fluttering about before they landed on the cornflower blue carpeting. "Oh, let me see," he said, tapping his cheek with his index finger. "'A' - because I'm an actor, and 'B' - because I'm a fucking fairy? Yeah, that's it." He folded his arms prissily across his chest, grinning and waiting for the tirade he knew was coming.

Trey was just too goddamn cute, especially when he got bent out of shape whenever Harley behaved a little too faggy for his tastes.

Like now.

"Look Harley," Trey said, "first off, it's not a date. It's a business meeting. Second, she's working as an intern in our production office - and you'd know that, by the way, if you ever bothered to actually visit your office. So, it's not like I'm actually going out with a girl. It's just business."

"Does said intern have tits? A vagina?" Harley asked, way too sweetly.

Trey pulled off his V-neck sweater and flung it onto the bed. "Well, the tits I can attest to. As for the vagina, I can only assume."

"Then she is indeed a girl, at least by appearances. Therefore, you have a date. With a girl."

"Jesus, Harley... it's not a date!" Trey was quickly becoming exasperated with his brother.

"Where is the meeting being held?"

Oh shit, Trey thought, this is not going to go over well. "The investor and his partner kind of insisted on the venue. They're new in town."

"Where, Trey?" Harley stuck the tip his index finger into his mouth, biting at it seductively. He was enjoying every second of his brother's discomfort. All in good fun, of course.

Trey began pulling his polo shirt over his head, answering his brother's question while his face was covered up by the orange fabric. "The V....r Roo..." he mumbled through the material.

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that," Harley leered, cupping his hand to his ear.

Trey kicked off his shoes, removed his socks, and pulled down his tan cargos. Left wearing only a pair of white, Calvin Klein boxer-briefs, he put his hands on his hips. "The. Viper. Room. Clear enough?"

"Ah, so now the truth comes out," Harley grinned evilly. "Not only do you have a date - with a girl - you're taking her to 'Depp's Den of Iniquity'. You go, stud."

"It's not a date, Harley."

"Right."

"And she's not a girl. She's an intern."

"With tits."

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Trey spat, marching across the bedroom and into the master bath, slamming the door behind him.

Harley tossed his pretty, curly hair back and laughed out loud. Trey was just too goddamn cute when he got bent out of shape.

---

While Trey was in the bathroom, showering, shaving, and getting himself all primped up for his 'date', Harley wandered downstairs to the kitchen. He opened the cupboard over the sink and grabbed an unopened bottle of Patrón tequila.

He'd been good lately; he hadn't touched a single drop of alcohol since Trey had moved back in.

He needed it now, though. Harley was making light of the situation, teasing his brother and enjoying it immensely, but deep down he really was pissed off, and rather hurt in a strange sort of way. He tore the black foil wrapper off the neck of the bottle and unscrewed the cap. Fuck looking for a shot glass; he put the bottle to his lips and took a long pull, sputtering and gagging as the Mexican firewater burned his throat on the way down. He recovered quickly, old habits dying hard, and he took another healthy swallow of the potent liquor.

"Woo!" Harley giggled. He took one more drink, probably a bigger drink than he should have, and replaced the cap on the bottle. He left the bottle sitting on the counter, not remembering at that point which cabinet he'd retrieved it from. Harley picked up the wall phone, carefully dialing one of the few numbers he'd actually memorized before storing them in his cell phone.

"How you doing, Love?" Jake chirped on the other end of the line, the Sheffield brothers' number registering on his phone's caller ID.

Harley giggled again. "I'm fucking drunk."

"Well, that's overstating the obvious," the British actor chuckled. "Are you alright?"

"Oh, I'm good," Harley slurred through a grin. "I need a favor though, honey."

Jake knew then for a fact that the boy was plowed. That was the only time that Harley ever called him 'honey'.

"What do you need, Love?" Jake smiled. He knew there must be some reason for Harley getting plastered, after having laid off the sauce for nearly half a year.

"Trey has a date tonight. It's got tits." Harley reached for the bottle of Patrón on the counter and struggled the cap off, taking another sip.

Jake laughed. "And this has what to do with me?"

"I need a ride to the Viper. I can't drive. I don't think I can even find the freakin' garage right now," Harley hiccupped loudly into the phone.

"You could just ring up a taxi, you know," Jake replied.

"A cab driver won't rub my back and hold my hair out of the way when I'm barfing this shit up later." Harley still hadn't gotten his hair cut, the full year's growth now cascading his honey-gold curls just below his shoulders.

Jake chuckled. "Point well taken, Love. You do realize that you're going to embarrass yourself, right?"

"Oh yeah," Harley snorted. "I'm counting on it, honey."

"I'll be there in thirty minutes," Jake sighed. "Go get changed. I know what you wear around the house - dreadfully drab, probably grey, with holes everywhere. If you're going to do the bitchy, scorned, faggot lover thing in public you need to look faaabulous, sweetheart."

Harley held the phone away from his face, drunkenly looking down to examine his current attire. An old, drab, grey, Adidas sweat suit, with holes in the knees of the pants and in the elbows of the hoodie. He smiled and spoke into the phone.

"You're a good friend, Jake."

"So everyone keeps telling me. You are aware that Trey is going to be highly irate when he finds out that I was a party to this."

"Fuck Trey."

"No thank you, Princess, that's your job. He's not my type, anyway."

"And your type is...?" Harley inquired naughtily, taking another swig of tequila.

"Young, skinny, and painfully pretty."

"Sounds vaguely familiar."

"No one you know," Jake teased. "Go get dressed, Love. I'll be there in thirty."

~~~~

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© Copyright 2006 Justin Tyler. All rights reserved. Publication or distribution of any kind is prohibited without the written consent of Justin Tyler.
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