Chapter Thirty-Four - The Need for Speed
“We'd be happy to open an account for you, Racer,” Tommy Lynn said in a professional way. “You'll be the only professional race car driver on our client list.”
“One race, Tommy Lynn. I'm hardly a ...” He didn't let me finish.
“One race is just a start, I'm sure.”
“Right now I don't even have a job!” I emphasized.
“And right now the T-bird is looking pretty shabby. You have a job here if you want it.” He shifted some gears of his own. “Fairfax,” he called into the hallway, “Come and meet Racer Tyree, a new client.”
Fairfax Perry was Tommy Lynn's partner and more, I sensed. He was welcoming and asked if I knew his son Willis Perry. I didn't. Willis Perry and I had gone to the same middle school, but not at the same time.
“I guess you are a little younger. We've recently taken on an intern who is a fraternity brother of Willis's, Geordie Brightwater. He's a budding broker and he can take care of your paperwork,” Tommy Lynn added while pressing a button on his desk. Geordie Brightwater promptly appeared before the partners and myself and introductions were made.
“George, please,” Geordie said as we walked to the small room that was his office. “I'm trying to be more professional.”
“You're an intern?” I asked, not very sure what that meant at an investment company.
“Until I finish school and get my CPA and broker's license,” he added. “Sit here.” He indicated a table with two side-by-side chairs. He gathered some papers off his desk and joined me at the table. “This is basic stuff … name, address, SSN …” He explained the other forms and offered me a pen. I began filling in the blanks. Now and then he would offer help for an answer.
The office was really a cubbyhole and now and then, sitting so close, his thigh would brush mine. It felt firm, muscular, almost unyielding, in stark contrast to his face, which was very boyish, almost soft looking because of his long, thick eyelashes. His brown eyes had yellow flecks in them and his skin looked soft as well. I don't think he needed to shave very often. His features were a mismatch for his jet black hair; it was a distinctive and arresting look.
“Are the taxes paid on this amount?” he asked. The check gave no indication. “Have they already been deducted? Prize winnings are normally treated as ordinary income.” My blank expression told him all he needed to know. “You have to pay federal and state tax on what you win. Do you know if your … what? Partner? Employer? If he deducted withholding tax?”
“No clue. All I got was the check. My salary was paid separately and I know they took deductions out of that part.”
“We have to find out. It will make a big difference.” He turned toward me and our legs brushed again. This time he noticed it and backed away. “Sorry.”
“Let me call the guy who sent me the money.” I fished my phone out of my pocket, not that easy while sitting down. I could tell George was checking me out as I rummaged around in my pocket. I looked up Ches on my phone and hit dial. George's eyes came back up to meet mine as we waited for an answer.
“Ches ...” I explained my problem; his reply made no sense to me. “I don't know what your talking about. Can you explain this to my ...” I looked at George who said nothing. “My banker?” He smiled and shrugged at the title I had given him before taking the phone.
“I see … I see ...” George gave me a thumbs-up sign. “Is there any paperwork to back this up? I see … I'll ask him ...” He asked me, “Do you have your employment agreement?”
“I think so … at home ...”
After a few closing words, he gave me back the phone. “Thanks, Ches. I'll be talking to you one day.”
“So that's all good news,” George said to me. “You're a contract employee and sweat-equity investor in a limited liability corporation. What you call your salary is ordinary income, but the check represents the proceeds from the dissolution of Slick Parsons Venture 3, LLC, in which you held an ownership stake.”
I held out my hands asking for more.
“The upshot is you only owe capital gains on the check. Not ordinary income tax.” George looked at me with triumph. “It saves you about eighty thousand in taxes.”
He jumped out of his chair and gave a fist pump, as if doing the government out of money was the best thing that ever happened in his life. He saw my look and calmed down. “There's no sense in paying taxes you don't owe. It's all legal. You didn't write the law … provided you can produce that employment agreement.” I guess I still looked skeptical. “You get to keep about two hundred eighty thousand instead of only two hundred!”
Ok, I guess. That was what I thought. “Awesome,” was what I said trying to reflect his enthusiasm.
“Two eighty is so much more useful than just two.” George was beaming, as if it was his money. “I mean you can do more with it. Lots more opportunities have a two fifty minimum investment.”
“Awesome,” I repeated. “Is this giving you a hard on?” There was a slight bulge in his trousers that wasn't there before. He totally lost it. He blushed. He stuttered. He sat down to hide the projection. “Don't sweat it. I get that way driving race cars.”
“Yes … well … if you can get me a copy of your employment agreement ...”
“I'll bring it back tomorrow. I'm washing the Thunderbird I believe.”
I decided not to tell B. J. about the money, mostly because I didn't know what to say about it. “B. J., I have three hundred thousand dollars.” What do you say when somebody tells you that? I don't know what I would say and the money doesn't seem real yet. What's three hundred thousand good for? My parents house? I don't want a house. I already have a decent truck. Maybe I could get B. J. another bottle of that new vodka he likes. Balcomb's Bonanza. It didn't sound very Russian. Tasted good, though. I put the money out of my mind. I'd wait to hear what Tommy Lynn would recommend doing with it.
Instead of thinking about money, I thought about B. J. Last night I had promised to fuck him. Now that alone was more awesome than three hundred thousand dollars. I still couldn't quite believe how much he liked sex. With me, apparently. I sure liked it with him. Does love distort vision? Because I swear B. J. gets better looking every time I see him. He smiles and the earth moves. And he smiles a lot. And he's heartbreaking when he's serious. You'd want to hug him. And his body and mine just seem to fit together perfectly. Sex with Jared, for example – you needed to be an acrobat to please him and yourself. But with Beej, it all was so easy, so automatic, nothing was hard, except our dicks, of course.
So funny about George getting an erection over tax savings. How can I tell B. J. about that? I can hear him laughing. “He gets hard over taxes??? When you're sitting right there??? He's fuckin' nuts!” That's what B. J. would say. I can hear him saying it. And it puts a smile on my face.
So there he was, reading the mail when I walked in. I wanted to attack him and he wanted to talk about math. Which was ok. He got me even hornier making me wait. It was the best night we'd ever spent together.
The next day, with my dick still glowing from a night of love, I took the employment agreement to George and then went to see Tommy Lynn about the T-bird.
“What did you think of George?” he asked.
“Very competent. Knows heaps more about money than I do.”
“That's why we pay him. I don't know if this little operation is exciting enough that he'll want to keep working here, though. I'm afraid he'll want to try New York or something.” Tommy Lynn shook his head sadly, as if New York would be the ruin of George. “Truth is I like having him around. Ahem … Enough of that. So you'll be REAL careful with the paint on the T-bird, won't you?”
“No belt buckles or rivets, huh?” His smile was my answer to that question making me a one-quarter of a millionaire stripper. Ok, I can do that.
The T-bird was one of the two-seat models, a small car, easy to detail. I could reach every part of it without stretching much. I did the interior first, since that involved working in confined spaces, The exterior was easier; I could move freely and stretch out.
I was waxing the hood when I heard the door open.
“Racer, Tommy Lynn, thought you might like some lunch … WHOA!!!” I looked up in time to see George spill a glass of something on the tray he was carrying. “I should have brought you some CLOTHES instead of lunch.” He turned away from me and stood holding the lunch tray not sure what to do next.
“I have clothes. Tommy Lynn worries I'll scratch the paint with them.” He turned back to me. I held the polishing rag strategically positioned in front of me. “Thanks for the lunch. You can put it on that workbench over there.”
“I … I spilled the beer. I'll get you another.”
“Water? Could I have water instead?” George looked at me and then looked away again.
“Perrier? Evian? Poland Spring?”
“Well,” I proposed.
“Well what? Which kind?” George looked again.
“Well water. The kind that comes from a well? Don't all these farms have wells? The minerals are supposed to be good for you.”
“I … I don't know.” George took another look at me and then hurried back into the house.
When the car was done, I went to see Tommy Lynn. He walked me back to the garage and admired the fresh gleam on the T-bird. He chuckled as he looked inside and said, “You have turned my intern into a quivering puddle of pent-up jizz. He can hardly talk.”
“I explained about scratching the paint.”
“Yes. He's gay, of course. He just doesn't know it yet.”
“Oh?”
“I'd like you to show him the ropes. Accustom him to things. Break him in, as it were.”
“I don't know,” I temporized. WHAT??? What is he asking???
“Think about it. He's dying to burst out of his shell. He just needs a little push. Think of it as a spiritual exercise. I used to be good at that kind of thing, but these days … I like him, Racer. I just don't think I'm the one to teach him anything.”
“Then what?” I couldn't see where Tommy Lynn was going.
“Then it will be just a commercial transaction. He likes those. You bend him a little and I'll straighten him out.” Tommy Lynn chuckled again. “Boy, have I mashed up those metaphors.” Tommy Lynn, for a man in his fifties, came close to blushing; he chuckled as he walked inside.
Almost immediately George emerged again with a glass of water on the sandwich tray. He smiled at my appearance and relaxed. “Wow! You do have clothes.” He tried to make light of his last appearance.
Here goes my first shot, I thought. “My boyfriend says clothes make the man. I don't know about that. I'd say hot boy friends make most men.”
Jumpy George spilled the water and had to go back for more.
](/images/smilies/bang.gif "Brick wall ](*,)")
or 
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George couldn't find a better teacher than Racer, however, what would B.J. say? Perhaps Tommy Lynn is right, "Think of it as a spiritual exercise." Nothing more spiritual than a good lay in the hay. Thanks Rory.