The Good Boss Read online

  “What about Dad?”

  “Well, we’ve been together 24-7 since Dad went to jail. I said if he ever got out, which I was sure he wouldn’t, that I’d come out.” He looked at me. “You know, tell everyone. But then he got out, and I couldn’t do it.”

  “You still can,” I said. “I mean, you can now.”

  He shook his head. “It’s too late. He’s right. I either need to tell Mom and Dad, or go see a psychiatrist and figure out why I can’t talk to them.”

  “You don’t need a psychiatrist to tell you why. I’m sure every gay man on the planet feels the same way you do.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Which is?”

  “Scared. Lonely. Uncertain. Unloved. Ashamed. I don’t know, maybe even unholy,” I said. “Am I close?”

  He set his wine on the end table and stood. “I love you.”

  I stood and gave him a hug. “I love you, too.”

  After holding each other for a long period, he broke the embrace.

  “What do you think they’ll say?” he asked.

  It wasn’t a question I could come close to answering. My knee-jerk reaction was that my father would throw a fit. I had nothing to support my belief, but my guess was that if anyone was a homophobe, he was.

  My mother, on the other hand, was an understanding and rather openminded woman.

  But.

  She was my father’s subservient wife.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “They’ll die.”

  “They won’t die.”

  “Remember how you felt when you hadn’t told them, either of them, about Michael?”

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Imagine living your entire life like that. Times ten. Not admitting that you loved someone, and not admitting who you even were. Lying to everyone. Knowing if you told the truth, that you’d be rejected. The lie you told Michael, and the truth that you weren’t sharing with Mom and Dad, all rolled into one big ball.”

  I couldn’t imagine it. I mean, I could, but I didn’t want to.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I really am.”

  “What am I going to do?”

  I thought about it for a moment, and then shot him an innocent look. “Can I tell Michael?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Can I tell Michael? So, I can ask his opinion?”

  “He’s another one,” he said. “He’s going to go crazy with it. No.”

  I took exception to his remark, and shot him a shitty glare. “What do you mean?”

  “Are you telling me he’ll accept me? If I’m gay?”

  “There’s not an if,” I said with a laugh. “You are gay. And, yes. I can guarantee it.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Seriously?”

  “If anyone looks at people with an open mind, and doesn’t judge, it’s Michael.”

  “You’re sure?”

  I nodded eagerly. “Positive.”

  “It’d be nice to have him on my team. You know, in my corner or whatever.”

  “So, can I tell him?”

  “I guess so. But, make him promise to keep it between you two. I’d like to see what his thoughts are. You know, what he thinks about how Dad will react.”

  I recalled how I felt throughout the ordeal with Michael, and the lies. My stomach knotted, and I felt sick almost immediately. I wanted to do whatever I could to help Peter live a life without hiding his sexual orientation.

  “I’ll talk to him, and then maybe we can all talk. How’s that?”

  “I’d like that.” He smiled a faint smile. “I just hope you’re right about him.”

  I smiled in return and gave him a hug. “I am.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Michael

  “As far as I’m concerned, you can make this stuff every night.” I twisted my fork into the pasta, lifted the overstuffed utensil to my mouth, and smiled. “I love it.”

  Terra’s ability to prepare a fabulous meal was second to none. She dismissed it as no big deal, but to me it was a huge deal. It was one more thing that reminded me of being a part of a family.

  She grinned a prideful grin. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “I told you the last time you made this that it was my favorite.”

  “But, you say that with almost everything I cook,” she said with a laugh.

  “Everything you cook is remarkable.”

  “Thank you.”

  I eagerly ate what was on my plate as if I were starving, and then looked up to find that Terra had only eaten a small portion of her meal.

  “Do you want more?”

  Her carbonara was exceptional, but if I wasn’t careful, I’d be overweight in no time. I patted my stomach. “I better not.”

  She poked her fork at her food, appearing uninterested in eating. “You’re far from fat.”

  “And I want to stay this way.”

  I took a drink of wine and watched as she continued to pick at her food. It seemed she was more interested in making designs with her noodles than eating them.

  I cleared my throat. “Is everything okay?”

  She looked up. She didn’t need to respond. There was something bothering her, and her expression did nothing to hide it.

  She lowered her fork. “I want to tell you something.”

  “There’s nothing off limits in this relationship.” I chuckled. “Well, almost nothing.”

  She let out a sigh. “I’m just going to say it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Peter’s gay.”

  It was something I already knew, but felt the need to act as if I didn’t. After a short pause for effect, I shrugged. “Okay.”

  “That’s it? Okay?”

  “Cap’s heterosexual,” I said.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Huh?”

  “Cap’s heterosexual.”

  “Um. Duh. I know that. I said Peter’s gay.”

  I took a drink of my wine, and then leaned forward and met her confused gaze. “People get too hung up on what someone’s sexual orientation is. The point I was making is this. Peter is gay. Cap isn’t. As far as I’m concerned, they’re the same. Gay, lesbian, bisexual, transsexual, pansexual. Who cares? I’ll tell you who cares. Assholes care. Assholes make a big deal of it. I’m not an asshole.”

  Her eyes widened. “So it doesn’t bother you?”

  “Bother me?” I laughed. “Does it bother him that I’m straight?”

  She let out a laugh. “I’m sure it doesn’t.”

  “Then why should it bother me that he’s gay?”

  “I just—” She took a drink of wine, and then smiled. “He told me today. I didn’t know. I mean, I always thought he might be, but I didn’t know. I asked him if I could tell you, and he was afraid you’d freak out.”

  I nodded. “I can see that. Most see me as an asshole. It’s a facade, though.”

  “You’re not an asshole,” she said with a laugh. “You’re intimidating. Most people in their right mind are intimidated by you.”

  “I’m a nice guy,” I said.

  “You are, but no one gets to see that side of you.”

  I thought about her response, and couldn’t help but agree. I probably was intimidating to most people. “Agreed.”

  “So. What do you think Dad will do when he finds out?”

  The manner in which Anthony mentioned it left me to believe that Peter’s sexuality precluded him from being in charge of the family business for one reason or another. In my mind, his simple knowledge of Peter’s being gay supported his acceptance of it.

  “I think your father loves his son, and nothing will ever change that.”

  “Really?”

  I gave a nod
of reassurance. “Absolutely.”

  “Okay,” she said, dragging the word along as if she were leading into something else. “Let’s assume you’re right. Would you be interested in being present when Peter tells my parents?”

  “Sure.”

  Her eyes shot wide, and she sat up straight. “He wants to tell them at Sunday dinner. If we’ll be supportive, that is. That way it’s a fifty-fifty split.”

  I let out a laugh. “I think you’ll be surprised.”

  “I’m so excited,” she blurted.

  “I’m excited for Peter to reach a point that he’s no longer hiding who he is. It’s going to be liberating.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  I arched an eyebrow. “For?”

  “For being you.”

  It was the first time I’d been thanked for being myself, at least that I could recall. Hearing it caused my heart to swell just a little.

  And, for that instant, I came to realize just a little bit more what it was like to have a family.

  And, to be included in any and everything a family offered me.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Terra

  I exchanged nervous glances with Peter and Michael as we ate. My father spoke between mouthfuls, which was a nice change. It appeared the silent Sunday dinners were a thing of the past.

  “Slow down,” my mother said. “You’re going to choke on your food.”

  “In jail, we ate as fast as we could. The chow hall wasn’t a good place to be. That’s what they called it.” He looked up and smiled. “A chow hall.”

  “Well, you’re not in jail. You’re at home.”

  He let out a sigh, took a drink of wine, and then slowed his pace. Or, at least he tried to. Within a few seconds, he was shoveling it in as fast as he could.

  “The Milanese is one of my favorites.” He looked at my mother. “You never make it.”

  “You said you wanted veal.”

  He nodded and raised his fork. “Thank you.”

  To most, his response would have seemed common. To me, it was out of the ordinary. To have my father thank my mother for doing something he asked her to do was something I’d never heard.

  I looked at Peter to see if he’d acknowledge my father’s act of kindness.

  “What? What’s going on with you three? You act like there’s a surprise,” my father said with a laugh. “None of you would make a good poker player.”

  My eyes shot to him. “What are you talking about?”

  “The three of you. You keep looking at each other and doing this.” He shrugged, scrunched his nose, and then smiled a hideous grin. “Since we sat down.”

  “We are not.”

  He looked at Michael. “What’s going on?”

  Michael shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  He looked at Peter and cocked an eyebrow.

  Peter lowered his fork to his plate, inhaled a shallow breath, and then alternated glances between my mother and father. When his eyes met my father’s, he released the news.

  “I’m gay.”

  I struggled not to gasp. Michael’s eyes drifted around the table, surveying my parents for a reaction.

  “And the Pope is Catholic,” my father said as he pierced another slice of veal with the tines of his fork. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

  I looked at my mother. Calmly, and without looking up, she continued picking at her salad.

  I looked at my father. He poked the veal into his mouth and grinned. “Michael was a Marine. Oh, and your mother has brown hair.”

  With an open mouth and wide eyes, Peter looked back at him. “You knew?”

  My father swallowed, took a drink of wine, and then nodded. “You’re my son. You can’t hide things from your father.”

  Peter looked at me, and then at my father. “You’ve accepted it?”

  “I have no choice but to accept it. You’re my son.”

  Peter looked at me, and then at Michael. I returned a look of uncertainty. Not in my wildest dreams would I have expected my father to have known. As I began to wonder the possibility of Michael telling my father prior to our arrival, he spoke up.

  “I’ve known since you were a little boy. It wasn’t always easy for me. When I was in jail, I had a lot of time to think. I decided I can’t change the world, so I must accept everything and everyone in it.”

  With his mouth half open, Peter stared back at him.

  “Not that I’d change you if I could,” my father said. “You’re my flesh and blood. I accept you as you are.”

  Peter looked at my mother.

  “What?” she said. “I thought one day you’d come forth.”

  “Come out,” I said. “It’s come out, not forth.”

  “Out, forth.” She shrugged. “When you used to get dressed, I wondered. You were too much like your sister.”

  Peter smiled. “When?”

  “When you were six or seven. I told your father, ‘He spends too much time in front of the mirror. Boys don’t do that.’”

  Peter chuckled. “You said that?”

  She nodded. “Eat your dinner, Peter. It’s going to get cold.”

  “We should finish and go get gelato.” My father scanned the table for any opposition. “To celebrate.”

  “What are we celebrating?” I asked, although I thought I knew what he meant.

  “Coming forth,” he said.

  “Coming out, Anthony,” my mother said. “It’s coming out, not forth. Didn’t you hear?”

  As we all shared a laugh, I decided two things. First, that the time my father spent in jail changed him.

  And, that everything on this earth happens for a reason.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Michael

  I sat in front of the desk and looked at Cap in disbelief. “To who?”

  Seeing him sit in my chair seemed odd. He kicked his heels onto the edge of the desk, folded his arms in front of his chest, and grinned. “Does it matter?”

  It did matter. I shot a quick glare at his feet and then shifted my eyes to meet his. “It sure as fuck does.”

  He looked away. “I knew you’d say that.”

  “Well, if you want to sell AR-15s to the New People’s Army in the Philippines, I wouldn’t support it. They’re a communist support party. On the other hand, if you wanted to—”

  He turned to face me. “They’re going to Panama.”

  “Panama?”

  “Some new rebel group.”

  “What’s their ideology?”

  “Anti-communism, anti-drug trafficking, and anti-violence. They’re going to rise up against Colombia’s National Liberation Army.”

  “How strong are they?”

  “Two thousand right now, might be three before lunch. It’s a pretty big deal.”

  “Three thousand?”

  He nodded.

  “What are they looking for?”

  “Right now? Twenty-five hundred.”

  My jaw dropped. “Twenty-five hundred ARs?”

  “Yep.”

  It would potentially be the largest gun deal my organization had ever brokered. After regaining my composure, I struggled to hide my grin. “Price?”

  “Well, that’s where it gets sticky. They get marked up going through Mexico, and after we slip through Guatemala and El Salvador without paying taxes, we get hit again in Nicaragua. The rebels are paying fifteen hundred US. We’re getting thirteen hundred.”

  I swallowed hard. Depending on where we bought the receivers, it could potentially be over a million in profit. Hopefully, Cap had a plan to get the weapons built for less than seven hundred each.

  “How sure is this deal?”
/>   “He just left. We’re his only contact.”

  “Mark? From Texas? The guy who bought the MP-5s in 2014?”

  “Yep.”

  “What are you thinking for receivers?”

  He raised both eyebrows. “You might not like it.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “We buy fifty Ghost Gunners, twenty-five hundred 80% lowers, and twenty-five hundred uppers. If we run fourteen hours a day in production, we can get ’em done in about three weeks without any hiccups. Figure a four-man crew ’round one long-as-fuck shift. One of ’em will just be taking receivers in and out of the machines. One sorting parts, and two assembling. The man on the machine will test-fire the weapons afterward.”

  A Ghost Gunner was a CNC machine that manufactured the receivers for a Ghost Gun, which was a gun without any traceable elements. There were no serial numbers, no registration paperwork, and no way to trace it to a manufacturer. The process of making a firearm with the machine was legal, as long as the weapon was retained by the person who manufactured it.

  Selling Ghost Guns, however, was illegal.

  “That’s a line we have yet to cross, Cap. You know I don’t like the laws, but—”

  “We can get them out the door for three hundred each, including our labor cost. The upper receivers will be used military, but excellent condition, and refinished.”

  His statement had garnered every ounce of my attention. “Excuse me? Three hundred?”

  “Getting the 80% lowers for thirty, and Snowman found a guy in the armory at Pendleton that’ll slip us the uppers for one-fifty. Ghost Gunners are fifteen hundred each normally, and I got ’em down to twelve ’cause we’re lookin’ at buying fifty of ‘em.”

  All of a sudden, I didn’t care about the laws. “A thousand each, profit? Out the door?”

  He kicked his feet off the desk, leaned forward, and locked eyes with me. “What do you think now?”

  “I think I need to talk to Anthony.”

  He relaxed against the back of the chair and grinned. “Be sure you mention who put this deal together. I’m plannin’ on getting in the good graces of the man with this deal.”

  I let out a sigh. “A deal like this—”