Run and Hide Pt. 01

It was a haunted house waiting to happen, a place that craved paint of every color, two bricks away from condemnation. No one in his right mind would step inside, let alone buy it.

Ace fell in love.

He wanted to give it new life - his new life. And as a bonus, the insane amount of work it would take would also help take his mind off Cameron.

He wanted to paint himself into a fairy tale, all warmth and coziness -- with a touch of darkness. So he went to town on the walls, filling them with royal colors, deep and rich. And he then filled those walls with any random piece of art or rusty metal or salvaged road sign that caught his eye.

He wanted to feel tucked into this house. And it worked. He could look around his little nest with a lot of satisfaction and know that he created a perfect home for himself.

Unfortunately, he was still tucked in all alone.

With nothing left to keep his hands or his mind busy on Sunday, Ace decided to wait for his guests on his creaky front porch.

While he was outside, he kept an eye out for his vagabond porch kitty, in case Lola decided to pay a visit. He filled the small dish he kept out there with some kibble just in case. Ultimately, though, Lola tended to show up exactly when not expected. Ace had a feeling this cat preferred it that way.

Before long, a pixie-ish woman with short silver and black hair came walking up his path, followed by a tall, lanky man with a looping stride. Olive looked every bit a former hippie, just mellowed and strengthened with age. And if Vince were any more laid back, he'd fall over on his butt.

Right on their heels was Erik, Ace's best friend and remodeling sidekick. Olive had introduced Ace to Erik, probably hoping that the two gay men she knew would start dating.

"Curly Sue!" Olive beamed, wrapping her tiny frame around Ace. "What have you been doing with yourself?"

"That's what I plan to show you." Ace reached around to shake Vince's hand. "Dr. Boyer, how are things?"

"No complaints," Vince grinned. "Curious to see what you've done to this old place."

"Erik has been frustratingly cryptic," Olive grumbled.

"And spoil the surprise?" Erik winked at Ace. "This house defies description, anyway. I'll leave that job to you, our resident English professor."

Ace led them through the front door and waited for their judgment. People who knew what he did for a living always assumed that his home would be showroom caliber, ready for its Martha Stewart Living close-up.

The whiplash from reality meeting those expectations was always fun to watch.

At work, he lectured his clients on the benefits of a neutral palate, the dangers of crowded bookshelves, the proper way to coordinate artwork with furnishings.

For his own 100-year old piece of Earth, he broke every one of those rules.

Ace's house was nothing less than a full symphony of the senses. Not just one or two color notes, not just one standout piece of art -- every room, every wall sang with color and personality. An explosively purple dining room dripping with gaudy bronze accents. A full wall of bookshelves in the living room overflowing with books, music, knick-knacks, statues, boxes and photos. Every conceivable style of furniture, as if he was a collector looking for one of everything.

Nothing matched, nothing was subtle. He'd never be able to get away with staging a house like this.

"Well, it's," Vince started. "It's quite --"

"I'll translate," Olive interrupted. "It's magnificent. You've outdone yourself. That's what Vince is trying to say."

"Actually, I was trying to figure out which historical period you'd feel most at home in," Vince defended.

"Leave it to the history prof to legitimize Ace's inability to settle on a style," Erik grinned.

Ace smacked him lightly on the shoulder. "You could have stopped me at any point during any of these projects."

"Right. You were stoppable. This is what I tell everyone about you."

"It's nothing like your place in Atlanta," Olive said. "And can you imagine if you'd painted the Baltimore brownstone that shade of purple? That foul-smelling landlord would have chased you out of town."

"I've clearly been saving all my colors for this house."

They all settled in the living room after the tour with their drinks.

"Don't you have a cat around here?" Olive asked.

"Lola makes no promises about future appearances," Erik intoned, as if he was reciting an old line.

"It is the porch kitty credo," Ace confirmed.

"Oh piff," Olive dismissed. "You put out the right bait and have some patience, and she'll never go anywhere else."

"I think there might be different rules for cats of indeterminate gender," Ace said.

"Okay, enough warm-up," Olive abruptly changed the subject. "What's the update on your love life?"

Ace grinned. She was determined to see Ace paired off with a nice young man so help her God.

"What love life?" he sighed dramatically.

Erik fixed him with a shrewd look. "But your house is clean. Too clean. Something must have happened."

"Are you suggesting that I only clean after I've gotten laid?" Ace hedged.

"I'm saying you only pay attention to the state of your crown molding when you're trying to ignore something."

"So there's something to ignore?" Olive asked eagerly. She might be a strident feminist English professor with hippie tendencies, but she liked to hear about hot gay sex just like the next girl.

"Fine," Ace caved. "Went to Sparks."

"The itch again?" Erik asked.

It's good to have a friend who understands. "Yup."

"Scratched successfully?"

"Yup."

"Just yup?" Olive frowned. "No, 'oh hell yeah'?"

"It was hell yeah for a little while," Ace admitted. For as long as he was touching me and moving inside me.

"And the guy. Hot?"

"Scorching."

"Skilled?"

"Exceptionally," Ace said.

Erik squinted at him. "You're being unusually elusive. Spill."

Ace sighed. "He lost points on the dismount."

Vince cringed quietly. Ace caught it.

"Too much? I'm trying to keep things coded in deference to your delicate heterosexual sensibilities," Ace said.

Olive looked at Vince with a face full of question.

"It was the word mount," Vince finally said. "Brought up ... images."

Olive patted his knee. "Poor boy. Suck it up."

"Ix-nay on the uck-say," Ace whispered loudly.

"So," Olive persisted. "Bad dismount?"

Ace nodded. "Escaped before I could catch my breath. Didn't even get a last name."

"Did you want a last name from this one?" Erik asked.

Fuck yes. "I wanted to bring him all the way home," he admitted. "The back room was his idea."

Olive made a face. "That sucks."

There was a pause, then both Erik and Ace said, "Literally."

Vince winced again.

"Well, it was Sparks," Ace shrugged. "It was all about the itch, not wedding bells or anything." Even if the itch still persisted.

"Want us to set you up with someone?" Olive rubbed her hands together excitedly.

"I am aware of one or two young men in my upper-level classes who lean your way," Vince said carefully.

"Oh come on," Ace protested. "Any college student is at least a decade younger than me. What in the world would we have in common?"

"You're both gay?" Vince offered.

Ace slapped his hand over his eyes dramatically. "Don't quit your day job, yenta."

"No, not that!" Vince tried to backtrack. "I just mean he's someone you don't have to wonder about. Isn't that usually an issue? The wondering?"

"No, we usually can tell. It's the secret gay code," Ace said solemnly.

Vince furrowed his brow. "There's a code? Really?"

"We keep it under wraps," Erik said. "We all have those special sunglasses like in that movie Them. You know, the ones that let you see aliens?"

"I see gay people," Ace said in an exaggerated whisper.

Vince tried to hide an embarrassed smile with a scowl.

"Oh honey," Olive laughed, "I just love how you try."

"It cracks me up that this man who squirms at the word 'dismount' is trying to fix me up on a gay date," Ace said.

"I'm just trying to help," Vince said. Olive patted Vince's knee reassuringly, and Ace knew Olive had probably pushed Vince into this matchmaking business.

Having not been around this couple for many weeks, Ace had forgotten how sickeningly happy they were with each other. People who are happily married could be incredibly annoying.

Damn, I want that.

"I do appreciate the help, guys, but I'm going to give it a go on my own for now," Ace said. "You could always work your magic on Erik."

Erik immediately flushed bright red. "Oh, thanks for that," he muttered.

Olive sighed. "Yeah, tried that already." She looked at Erik, then Ace, then shook her head. She glanced at her watch and gathered her purse. "We'd better get going."

"Off to another exciting evening of questioning the historical validity of Shakespeare's folios," Vince drawled.

"You do like to provoke her colleagues," Erik said.

"As the man himself said," Olive sighed, "the course of true love-"

"Wait, I know this one," Ace interrupted. "Something about kissing a lot of frogs?"

"Something like that." Olive smiled and kissed Ace's cheek. "Bye, sweetie."

When the older couple had left, Erik turned to Ace with a serious look. "Ace, don't hate me for this."

"For what? Are you gonna try to set me up, too? Because one time with that little frat rat from your office was quite enough."

"No, no," Erik said quickly. "Definitely never going to set you up with anyone else." He took a deep, fortifying breath. "You've got to stop fucking Cameron in bars. He is hamstringing your love life."

Ace pulled back sharply. "He wasn't-" he started, "he didn't even look like-"

"My friend, every guy in that place is Cameron. Even Tanner was Cameron."

"How the hell would you know?" Ace bristled. "You haven't set foot in Kansas City since the end of you and Richard."

"Ace, for almost a year, I've come over here every Sunday. I do three things: I help fix your house, I help you bitch about Cameron, and I have to hear about your monthly itches."

"So this makes you an expert on me now?"

"I remember everything you've told me about Cameron. About how he tore you up inside. You really want more of that?"

Ace grimaced. "Well of course I'm not going to tell you about any of the good stuff. The parts that only I got to see were just about perfect."

But after every perfect Sunday there was always a Monday morning to face, when Cameron would transform into the Good Straight Southern Boy. And the holidays Ace spent alone because there was no way in hell Cameron was going to bring him over to his parents' house. And the times -- more than once, more than a handful -- when they would spot each other downtown around lunchtime and Cameron completely ignored him to save face.

"I have a theory." Erik's voice startled him out of his brief reverie. "I think you've got a magnet in your dick that pulls you to the wrong guys."

Ace rolled his eyes. "I didn't know a marketing degree made you an expert in the psychology of bar pickups."

Erik slowly closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I do know something about successful strategies, and yours clearly isn't working. Every week you moan about how you just want a nice guy you can be yourself with, and then what do you do? Another quick fuck from Sparks or Grindr."

Well, hell, when he put it like that.

"You deserve someone you can hold hands with in public," Erik said. "Someone who loves you and is proud to say it out loud in front of other people."

Ace heard what Erik wasn't saying: There is a nice guy sitting in front of you, are you blind?

He wasn't blind. He could see that Erik would be open to more than friendship, even though Erik had never officially broached the subject. But Ace had deliberately not encouraged anything more.

It wasn't that Erik wasn't attractive. He was really pretty cute -- naturally wavy red hair and the accompanying freckles, a big sweet smile, sparkling eyes. He was a little shorter than Ace, and he had a very nice body, compact and trim. Having worked alongside Erik for months, Ace knew his friend was strong and smart and funny and kind -- a truly great catch.

But he didn't make Ace's heart race. Not like Paul. Not like Friday night. Ace looked at Erik and saw a good friend, someone who was incredibly important to him.

When Ace looked at Paul, all he could think was: gimme.

It would be so much easier if only Erik did that same thing for Ace. As it was, dating Erik wouldn't be fair to either of them. And Ace would risk losing his one true best friend when things inevitably went sour. Not worth that risk.

Ace knew exactly how lucky he was to find a single guy friend his age in a new town, especially considering he worked from home. Making friends in your single thirties is so much harder than in college. With all of Ace's college friends married off and scattered to the four winds, life could be pretty damn lonely. Hence Sparks. And hence Erik.

Erik's friendship, more than any house project, helped keep Ace sane this last year. This friendship was sacrosanct.

"So," Ace said with a grin, hoping to change the course of the rest of this conversation, "what you're saying is that you don't want to hear about how hot the guy was at Sparks?"

Erik rolled his eyes and huffed. "Well, of course I want to hear about super hot men. Just ignore the shade of green I'll be turning."

"Oh, there's a hot guy out there for you," Ace said brightly. "You just need to put yourself in places to find him. Places other than your office and my house."

"Yeah," Erik said softly. "The only viable option in my office is Tanner."

"Christ, what a mistake that was," Ace groaned. "I shouldn't have hired him to do my Web site. It keeps giving him reasons to see me."

"More accurately, you probably shouldn't have let him blow you after you hired him to do the site," Erik reasoned. "He's a good choice for your Web site. Bad choice for your dick."

Ace huffed. "Just for that, I'm going to tell you about Mr. Hot in great detail. I think green suits your ginger Irish coloring."

"I'm going to need a lot of beer for this," Erik grumbled. He pushed himself off the couch and headed for the kitchen.

Ace leaned back in his chair and stretched deeply. He knew that Erik was right about Cameron -- and probably about that magnet in his dick. He'd been avoiding thinking about stuff like this for the better part of a year now.

Everything was finally starting to feel settled in his life -- his home, his new town, his work. Nothing pressing, nothing to press against.

Just one nasty little itch. And a lingering memory of a delicious moment.

That would have to do for now.

Chapter 4

On Wednesday, Ace pulled up to his latest referral from the ever-helpful realtor David and opened the thin file the realtor had provided.

Steven McDonnell, his first home. Engaged to be married, hence the move.

Single straight guy. This ought to be interesting, design-wise, anyway.

Obviously David thought there was a need for Ace to step in. Which could mean either a design nightmare awaited him, or else this Steven was a very motivated seller.

He prayed for the latter.

In his experience, men - particularly straight men - didn't always respond well to another man telling them how to decorate, especially if it involved admitting they were wrong about, say, a paint color or a monstrous entertainment center. Even though a well-staged house tended to sell four to six months faster, any criticism was often met with affront.

Ace didn't really care what a homeowner's taste was. Didn't care how cute their children's school photos were. Wasn't impressed by the complete collection of Boyds Bears in glass curios. He cared about making a house sellable.

The house in question today was a wide ranch-style home in a typical south Kansas City suburb. White aluminum siding, two-car garage, new driveway, big yard and overly ambitious vines climbing the wrought iron railings.

Nothing terribly wrong with it. But nothing terribly right, either. Houses today needed to seduce buyers, and acting indifferent wasn't going to cut it.

The first thing Ace wanted to fix was the jungle of foliage in the front yard. Somebody must have thought the clematis vines and tall prairie grass and explosion of black eyed susans gave the house character. With a dedicated gardener in residence, it might have, but these plants had clearly gone to seed without much interference.

This is going to take more than a new slipcover, he thought.

Ace grabbed a notebook and his digital camera before he left the truck, knowing he needed some before and after photos for the Web site. He almost always forgot to snap the before pictures, as Tanner kept chiding him. He was determined to remember this time. He couldn't always rely on David's referrals for his entire livelihood, after all.

The door opened and a tall, trim man with light brown hair and startling blue eyes appeared. Ace blinked, thinking he looked vaguely familiar, though he knew they had never met. Something about those eyes...

"Steven McDonnell?"

Steven frowned. "Yes?"

"I'm Ace Hoffman. David sent me over to stage your house?" He offered his hand to shake, puzzled by the other man's demeanor.

Steven shook his hand briefly. "Ace. I thought David said you'd be an Allison. Or something like that."

"He probably gave you my full name. It's Acelin. Easy mistake to make."

"So, Acelin is a man's name?" Steven sounded skeptical.

"Really old German," Ace said. "I'm the only Acelin anybody knows."

"I thought it was a girl's name," Steven persisted.

"Nope." Ace shrugged. "Sorry to disappoint."

"Isn't this more of a woman's thing?" Steven said. "Decorating and swatches and stuff?"

Ah, a traditionalist. Lovely. "Statistically, I'm sure most home stagers are women, but it's not a job requirement," he said cheerfully. "Men are allowed to do this, too."

"Well, at the very least, you should be gay," Steven said with an embarrassed huff.

A pause followed. Ace briefly debated laughing it off, being one of the guys.

But he was never one of those guys.

"Um, actually, I am," he said.

An even longer pause followed.

I wonder if I should tell him his realtor is gay, too?

"Well, OK," Steven finally said. "Good. This is probably better."

Ace quirked an eyebrow. "Better how?"

"I'd been worried about some chick making me put flowers everywhere or painting things mauve or something." He eyed Ace critically. "You don't look like the swishy kind, so I think I'm safe."

Ace bristled internally. Gay doesn't always mean swishy, you asshole. Gay means a lot of things.

He swallowed a sudden annoyance for this man and put on his professional voice.

"Safe as houses, as they say," he said brightly. "And just so you know, I don't usually add anything to someone's house. I try to work with what you have and sort of judiciously edit."

Steven nodded at him with a confused frown.

"How much did David tell you about what I do?" Ace said.

Steven blew out a breath. "Just that you'll make the house look better. Rearrange stuff."

Ace nodded. "That is definitely a part of it. My job is to make sure that people can see themselves living in your house."

"So, it doesn't involve flowers?" Steven asked, eyes narrowed.

"I get the sense that flowers are quite the issue with you," Ace said slowly. "So, I'll definitely avoid all things floral. Or mauve."

Poor little heterosexuals. So scared of girl things. Hell, probably scared of the girls themselves, too.

They were still standing on Steven's front step, and Ace was eager to get to work.