The first thing that comes out of Spencer's mouth is, "Um, do you have any rates set up for not having sex with people?"
"I think you have the wrong number," the voice on the other end of the line says, and hangs up.
"I am really fucking sorry," Spencer mumbles, into the phone. He's covering his eyes with one hand, until he remember that he's on his cell phone and the escort service operator can't see him, and probably wouldn't appreciate his deep and heartfelt shame even if he could.
"It was a wrong number the first time," the operator says crisply. Spencer fumbles into action, throwing words and phrases in random order and hoping something will stick before the operator hangs up on him again. It's like the worst blind date he's ever been on--times a thousand--and he hasn't even been on the damn date yet. He has not, in fact, even managed to ask the operator about the date, or what the rates might be, or get any farther than saying hurriedly "No, please--I just, fuck, I'm sorry, I don't do this a lot, um, I'm friends with Dallon, he told me to call and mention his name and that he thought I'd be a good fit--"
"Oh," the operator says, and all of a sudden, in that one dropped syllable, Spencer realizes that he's speaking to a guy his own age, and not like, the high and mighty gatekeeper of all male escort services. "Dude, why didn't you say so? If Dallon says you can patronize our fine establishment, then yeah, you're in."
"Okay," Spencer says dumbly. "Great, awesome."
"No problem," the guy says. There's a strange thumping noise, like he's kicking his heels up on a desk. Spencer wonders where male escort dating operators work, anyway, like, where would this theoretical desk be? In an office building, next to the phone secretary for his doctor and the outsourced help desk guy you call when your dishwasher breaks? Or maybe this is just like, one of the escorts. Maybe they take turns. Maybe dropping Dallon's name was a secret code to the your-male-escort-can-kick-back-and-relax-club. Spencer doesn't know.
"Anyway," the guy says. "What do you need? You want the run-down by rates, by service, or by type? We've got all this stuff online, too. I can give you a code for the member's area."
"Uh," Spencer says.
"First-timer, huh," the guy says, sounding sympathetic. "Hey, man. It's okay. Gotta try everything once."
"Right," Spencer says weakly. "No, actually, I, uh--"
"Let's make this a little easier," the guy says, still sounding sympathetic. "I can rule out some stuff for you right away, and then we can narrow it down and get you a good first-time guy. How do you feel about rimming? Weird, hot, so-so?"
"Oh my god," Spencer mutters. He scrubs a hand over his eyes again. He's sitting alone in his living room and he's not even packed yet and now he's fucking blushing over this stupid conversation and this is just. Just. Oh god.
"It's fine," Spencer manages to choke out. "Look, um--I'm not. I'm not calling for that kind of date? I just need someone in the Vegas area, tomorrow night, um, about six hours? It's. It's a wedding," Spencer admits, his voice going low and ashamed at the end. The only thing that's keeping him talking is the small and fragile hope that he can buy this guy's silence at the end, and then no one will ever have to know that Spencer hired someone to be his boyfriend for Crystal's wedding.
"Gay wedding?" the guy says, audibly perking up.
Spencer blinks at his phone.
"No?" he says carefully. "I mean, like. I'll be there. And gay. But no."
"Aw, too bad," the guy says. "I love gay weddings." He sounds like he's typing on a laptop keyboard, the keys clicking with a soft, muted sort of noise. "Hmm," the guys says. "So escort-only, non-negotiable--" he trails off, clicking a few times. "Actually," the guy says. "Shit, you know what? I'm totally free tomorrow night. You want me?"
"I," Spencer says. "What?"
"You just need a date, right?" the guy says. "So I mean, you seem pretty cool, and Dallon gave you the password, it all works for me on this end. I'll give you a code so you know I'm not Quasimodo or something, but it doesn't matter if I'm your type or not if we're just going to hang out. I'm Brendon, by the way," the guy--Brendon--says. Spencer just nods and makes agreeable noises, struck dumb by the torrent of sudden rambling information.
"Great," Spencer says. "Yeah, sure. Uh. You mind if your entree is vegetarian?"
"Love it," Brendon says. "Don't eat meat anyway. What's the dress code? Black tie?"
"Dressy casual?" Spencer says. "I'm the brother of the bride, but I'm not in the wedding party and she's having it in a friend's backyard."
"Even better," Brendon says. "Also, I promise not to be super awkward about our fake sex life." He taps a few more buttons, and then he falls back into his phone-operator voice. "Escort service only is one fifty an hour, and we take cash or personal checks for payment, with a credit card on file for the deposit. I'll have a cell phone on me at all times, and I need to check in within half an hour of the beginning and end of our engagement, or my boss will call the police and report me as missing and you as my abductor. All clear?" Brendon asks. Spencer tries to process. "Yeah," Spencer says. "Um. Is it okay if I have a drink or two at the wedding?"
"As long as you're not behind the wheel," Brendon says smoothly. "Your total will be $900 even for the night. Can I take your credit card info?"
"Yeah," Spencer says again, and fumbles for his wallet.
Twenty-five minutes later, Spencer is staring at the screen of his laptop in mild horror. He swallows nervously as he dials Dallon's number.
"Hey Spence," Dallon says. "How'd it go? It's fucking snowing here. I hate New York."
"I just hired someone way out of my league by accident," Spencer says miserably. "No one is going to believe me when I say I'm dating this guy."
"Isn't that a good thing?" Dallon says. "They'll be like 'shit, Spencer's a baller. Look at his boyfriend, Spencer must be awesome in bed to land that guy.' "
"Thanks," Spencer says dryly.
"I'm just saying," Dallon says. There is the muted and unmistakable sound of someone shrugging in a parka. Spencer wonders what the temperature's like in New York City, and then he shrugs it off. He's got bigger fish to fry than making fun of Dallon's surprise business trip to the frozen north in February.
"That used to be my goal, before I got out of the escort business," Dallon says. "Make everyone think my date was Mr-Sex-on-Legs. You get better tips that way."
"I'm a thousand dollars in debt and all you can say is, 'I hope the guy you hired makes everyone think you're a great lay?' " Spencer says.
"Eh, you can afford it," Dallon says easily. "Who did you get, anyway? William? Psht, you guys will look great together. He's so leggy."
"No," Spencer says. He doesn't know who William is. All he knows is that he's going with Brendon, and Brendon is gorgeous, and Brendon apparently wears glasses sometimes, and seemed to think Spencer was nice, and if he shows up at Spencer's hotel tomorrow in a tailored suit and glasses like the one he's wearing in this photo Spencer is definitely going walk into several walls over the course of the evening. "Brendon," Spencer says miserably, and tries to stare really hard at Brendon's ass in the pictures so he can get it over with and out of the way.
"Oh dude," Dallon says, sounding pleased. "Brendon's back? He left for a while, right before I did. He must have needed some more cash for his album. Oh man, he's perfect for your sister's wedding. I fucking love Brendon. You guys are going to get along so well, don't even sweat it. He'll be nice to your folks, too."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Spencer says.
The knock on Spencer's hotel room door is loud, a quick cheerful tap-tap-tap! that Spencer can hear all the way in the bathroom.
"Crap," Spencer mutters, staring at his half-shaven face in the mirror. He fumbles on the bathroom counter for his watch and yeah, Brendon's a little early, but Spencer's also running late. He wraps a hotel towel around his waist, over his boxer briefs, and as he's fixing the tuck in the side so he won't flash Brendon like a creepy pervert he hears the knock again, even louder this time.
"Coming!" Spencer calls out, and hurries to pull the door open.
"Hi," Brendon says, and smiles at him.
"Hi," Spencer says, his stomach sinking. Brendon isn't wearing a suit. Brendon is wearing tight slacks and a charcoal sweater-vest over a white button down shirt, and nice shoes and a casually hip messenger bag and his chunky glasses and he's perfectly groomed and no one is ever, ever going to believe that Spencer is dating this guy.
"I'm so sorry," Spencer says, trying not to imagine what he must look like, half-dressed, half shaven, the weird bruise on his leg that he got at the gym still mottled in sharp relief. "I'm just--um, come in, I just need to finish shaving, I got a little sidetracked--"
"Hey, don't worry about it," Brendon says easily, slipping his phone out of his pocket. "Weddings are stressful on the best of days. You mind if I call and check in?" He holds his phone up, waving it helpfully at Spencer.
"No, um, be my guest," Spencer says, tugging his nice clothing off a chair so Brendon can sit down. "Uh, there's water, if you want some, or--"
"Brought my own," Brendon says, digging in the messenger bag and pulling out a bottle of Poland Spring. He smiles at Spencer, still calm and friendly. "Can't be too careful, sorry. You get a lot of weirdos in this job. Don't be offended if I don't drink anything you offer me, okay? Unless I can see it's sealed."
"Right," Spencer says faintly. "Um, there's a six-pack of coke in the mini-fridge? Those are sealed, if you want one. I'm just going to--" He motions towards the bathroom, feeling his face heat. This is awful. He thinks his shaving cream might be dripping off of his jaw and on to the carpet.
"Oh, even better," Brendon says, rummaging in the mini-fridge and sounding pleased. "Thanks, dude. I appreciate it. I'm kind of a caffeine addict."
"Me too," Spencer agrees, and then flees to the bathroom. He leans his forehead up against the bathroom mirror and tries to think calming thoughts about how he only has to make it through the next eight hours or so and then he can go back to his hotel room and curl up with some bad reality television and die a little inside. Through the open bathroom door, he can hear the hiss and the snap! of carbonated air escaping from a soda can, and the sound of Brendon talking quietly to someone on his cell. Spencer forces himself to stand up straight, and to finish cleaning up his jawline so he can get dressed and they can actually get this show on the road.
"I am so jealous of your beard," Brendon says suddenly, from very close behind him. Spencer startles with a tiny noise, dropping his razor in the sink and cutting himself in the process.
"Ow," Spencer says. He slaps his fingers over the cut, and then pulls them away and examines the damage. His fingertips are bloody.
"Oh shit," Brendon says, sounding genuinely concerned. "Oh shit, I'm so sorry, I figured you would see me in the mirror--" He leans up against the counter, brushing his fingers against Spencer's jaw and then pulling them away just as quickly. "Here," Brendon says, crossing the bathroom to grab a wad of toilet paper, "here, let me, it's my fault." He presses the toilet paper against Spencer's jaw, giving him an encouraging smile.
"This is so awkward," Spencer blurts out, before he can help himself. "Oh fuck, I am so sorry. This is awful."
Brendon shakes his head, giving Spencer a rueful grin. "Listen," Brendon says, drawing his hands away from the wad of toilet paper when it seems like Spencer's got it covered. "You don't know awkward until you've worked my job for a while, okay? You didn't shake your dick at me as I walked in the door, and no one's drunk and expecting a stripper, and you're not holding a paddle out and asking me to spank you and tell you you've been a very bad boy." Brendon pauses. "Not that I won't do that if the client wants it," Brendon says thoughtfully, tilting his head at Spencer. "But that's extra."
"No," Spencer says, trying not to gape. "No, I'm. I'm pretty good with just this for now, thanks."
"See?" Brendon says, all sunny smiles again. "Nothing to worry about. Just think of me as a friend. A friend that you lost a gambling debt to, and only takes cash or check," Brendon says, patting him on the shoulder. "Payment's due before we leave the hotel, by the way."
"It's on the table," Spencer mumbles, gesturing to the check he's left out next to his phone and his wallet. He takes a deep breath. "Okay," Spencer says, trying to regain his equilibrium. "Right. A friend."
"It's not that far off," Brendon says, crossing his arms as he leans up against the side of the bathroom wall. Spencer nods, pulling the toilet paper away and inspecting it to see if the bleeding has stopped. "Dallon said you're awesome, and that we should talk music and bands and stuff. He said you're a kick-ass drummer."
"Thanks," Spencer says, strangely touched for a moment that Dallon would say that. He's pretty good, but he doesn't think of himself as someone with talent worth boasting about.
"Anyway," Brendon says, waving a hand. "Do your thing. I just figured, you know, while you're finishing up I can ask you some questions so I don't blow your cover. We've been dating for what, a few weeks?"
"Sure," Spencer says, ignoring the twist in his gut. It's pretend, Spencer reminds himself firmly. It's just pretend.
"We met at a local club checking out some bands?" Brendon says, raising an eyebrow at Spencer until Spencer nods his assent, yes, that's a perfectly reasonable cover story. "I'm a hairdresser," Brendon says thoughtfully, and then he shakes his head. "Nah, actually, I'm kind of sick of pretending to be a hairdresser. Do you mind if I'm a sales rep, or something? Maybe I'll say I work in marketing."
"Dallon said you were a musician," Spencer says, before he can stop himself.
Brendon pauses, eying him thoughtfully. "I am," he says carefully. "I've made a couple of albums. Self-released."
"Do you want to just--be a musician?" Spencer cautiously. "Or is that like, giving too much away?"
Brendon gives him a long, considering look. His expression is unreadable "No," Brendon says eventually, sounding interested. "No, I can do that. It's easier for me, anyway."
"Okay," Spencer says. "Then you can just--be you. Or. Or the you that you are when you're working. Uh."
"Right," Brendon says.
"Okay," Spencer says helplessly.
"Did we have sex on the first date?" Brendon says, when Spencer's pulling on his shoes. Spencer very nearly knees himself in the forehead, and then he looks up at Brendon, trying to telegraph his consternation with the power of his mind.
"Drunk people always want to know if a cute couple fucked on the first date," Brendon tells him seriously, a hint of a smile playing around his mouth. "You just wait. One of your female relatives is totally going to hit the sangria too hard, and then she's going to want to know alllll about who's on top in this relationship."
"You are," Spencer says, without thinking. Then he looks back down at his shoes, wondering if it's actually possible to sink into the floor.
Brendon blinks at him. "Well," Brendon says, raising an eyebrow at Spencer. "Okay then."
"Do you mind if we take my car?" Spencer says, as he's patting himself down and making sure he's got everything he needs. "Or should we take a cab?"
"Your car is fine," Brendon says, shrugging. "How far away is the wedding?"
"Twenty minutes," Spencer says. "It's not bad, and there shouldn't be traffic. I probably should have just stayed with my parents, but they've already got like sixteen people staying there, and I just--" Spencer trails off, unsure how to say, then they'd know how much of a loser I really am.
"You just didn't want to leave me all alone at the hotel, duh," Brendon says, reaching over and squeezing Spencer's hand. Spencer stares dumbly down at their linked fingers. It takes him a moment to reply. "Right," Spencer says. "That too."
Brendon nods, not letting go of Spencer's hand. "Shall we go?" Brendon says, nodding his head towards the door. "Yeah," Spencer says. "Um, did you get your check?"
"Yup, you're all set," Brendon says, beaming at him."One perfect fake boyfriend, coming right up."
"Oh, shit," Brendon says, when he sees Spencer's car, which is filled with his drumming crap and very obviously not a rental. "Did you drive out here from Cali?"
"Yeah," Spencer says, tossing empty soda cans and bits of trash off the passenger seats. He hopes Brendon won't judge him for his road trip snacks, which mostly consisted of Red Bull and In-and-Out. He gets the car reasonably fit for a passenger, and then he rounds the back of the car, sliding into the driver's seat and plugging in his iPod. "You can pick," Spencer says, dropping it on the console between them. "Anything on there is fine, and if it's all bad, you can plug in yours."
"Uh, no," Brendon says, scrolling through Spencer's iPod. "Dude. These are like. All of my favorite bands, holy shit."
"Really?" Spencer says, sliding the key into the ignition and not bothering to hide the surprise in his voice.
"Yeah," Brendon says, sounding impressed. "This is like--dude, I'm not even sure I can choose. There's too many good options."
"Have you heard of fun.?" Spencer says. "They're not real big yet, it's, um, one of the guys from Steel Train, and a dude from The Format, and I think someone from Anathallo?"
"Oh," Brendon says, his eyes lighting up. "No, I haven't, do you care if I put it on?"
"Go for it," Spencer says. "I think I listened to that album like, eight times on the way here. I'm still really stuck on it. It's super catchy."
"I love catchy," Brendon agrees, pressing play.
"--you can't tell me you think Rivers Cuomo is a better frontman than Robert Plant," Spencer says heatedly, gesturing expansively as they pull into Crystal's fiancee's friend's driveway. "No fucking way, I mean, he's awesome, I love Weezer, but it's like apples to oranges--"
"Fuck you, it's like apples to apples," Brendon says, just as heatedly. "You can always compare across genre, it's about what they did for the music, and how they presented it, and sometimes you need to come out and wail on stage and sometimes you need to, like, not do that, and buck everyone's ideas about how the music should be presented--oh," Brendon says, suddenly sitting back and blinking. "We're here."
"Yeah," Spencer says, and then they're both laughing, sudden and embarrassed.
Brendon grins at him. You have the prettiest smile, Spencer thinks, and then tries to focus on what Brendon is actually saying. "Uh, anyway," Brendon says. "Does that count as our first fight?"
"It's not a fight if you admit that I was right all along," Spencer says.
Spencer thinks he probably should have expected this, but he's still a little floored when Brendon meets his parents and just goes right in for the hug.
"Hi, Mrs. Smith!" Brendon says, with a big, winning smile. "It's so nice to meet you. Spencer has so many stories."
"Oh," Spencer's mom says, looking surprised, pleased, and harried, all at once. She hugs Brendon back, still holding the flower girl's corsage in one hand. "It's nice to meet you too," she says, giving Spencer an interested look over Brendon's shoulder. Spencer tries to smile encouragingly and thinks oh god, please don't ask me too many questions.
"Your family is really nice," Brendon stage whispers, as they're taking their places in the backyard for the ceremony. Spencer and Brendon are up front, with the rest of the family; Crystal had insisted on the ceremony being as small and as uncomplicated as possible, which had resulted in Jackie being her only attendant and a wedding of under fifty friends and family members. Spencer fiddles with his tie and tries to look excited. He's pretty sure that after this he's going to be needed to go Lift Things and Set Up Things with his dad and his cousins, and he's looking forward to it more than he cares to admit. It's not that he doesn't adore his sister, and he honestly wishes her every happiness--James is a great guy--but having his entire extended family crammed into a space roughly the same size as his garage is making him twitchy.
"Yeah," Spencer says, and then he bites his lip, because Jackie's walking up the aisle, bare feet and a light-yellow sundress and a big, overwhelming spray of ferns and sunflowers and pink-tipped roses in her hand. She looks beautiful, and he can see Crystal behind her, standing with his dad and looking radiant, and Spencer is suddenly, entirely certain he's going to cry.
"Shit," he says softly, because this is actually happening. His baby sister is getting married, and Spencer's heart is a riot of emotions, happiness and sadness twining together into one big confusing mess.
"I brought a handkerchief," Brendon whispers, pressing it into Spencer's hand. "You can have it, if it you need it."
"Thanks," Spencer murmurs, crumpling it in his palm and blinking hard. Brendon nods, and doesn't let go of his hand.
"Spencer!" Crystal says, tripping her way into Spencer's arms. Spencer thinks she could probably win the lottery, and still never look happier than she does right now. "Spencerrr," Crystal says, kissing him on the cheek and then stepping away to give Brendon a once-over. "You never told me about him," Crystal says approvingly.
"I'm Brendon," Brendon says, holding out his hand. Crystal ignores him, going in for the hug and smooshing her bouquet against Brendon's back in the process.
"It's kind of a new thing," Spencer says, blushing.
"A good new thing," Crystal says, winking at him over Brendon's shoulder. She steps away after a moment, pushing her hair out of her face.
"Oh, here," Brendon says, reaching up to fix a piece that's come out of her updo. He stops a few inches away, uncertain. "Your hair," he says to Crystal, glancing over at Spencer for reassurance. "It just got a little--"
"Oh, yeah, thanks," Crystal says, tilting her face up while Brendon fixes it for her. "I like him," Crystal says decisively to Spencer, when Brendon's done. "Keep him."
"That's the plan," Brendon says lightly, smiling at Spencer.
Fuck, Spencer thinks, his chest fluttering as Brendon takes his hand again, for maybe the hundredth time this afternoon. This was such a bad idea.
"Brendon?" Spencer says, finally catching sight of his pretend boyfriend relaxing in a wicker chair with several members of his extended family. In the glow of the hanging lanterns he looks almost otherworldly, a fond smile playing on his lips as he listens to a story that Spencer's aunt is telling.
"Brendon," Spencer says, letting his palm fall gently on Brendon's shoulder. "Brendon, hey. It's--it's getting kind of late," Spencer says awkwardly. He can't say I just realized your time is up, and I can't afford to keep you for another hour in front of his aunt.
"Oh, right," Brendon says, realization flickering in his gaze. "Yeah, we have an early morning tomorrow, and then after we drive back I've got to go to work," he says apologetically, giving Spencer's aunt a smile as he stands up. "It was great to meet you, though."
"You too," she says, holding out her arms for a hug. Brendon hugs her back, leaning down so she doesn't have to stand. "I hope you boys are happy together," she tells Spencer sincerely, and Spencer thanks her and tries not to wince.
Saying goodbye to his parents is worse, or maybe just equally as bad. "I wish you didn't have to go," his mom says, hugging him tightly. "Are you sure you can't call out sick tomorrow?"
"No," Spencer says, and for a moment he really is sad that he can't stay. "But I'll be back next week when my vacation time starts," Spencer reminds her, gently extricating himself. He thinks his mom might have had a glass or two of the sangria; she's a lightweight who mostly just gets affectionate when she's tipsy. "I just need to finish up this one project and then I'll be back," Spencer says, and his mom nods, turning to Brendon to give him another hug as well.
"Make sure he doesn't work too hard," she tells Brendon firmly, and Brendon laughs and agrees solemnly that he will. The sound of the door shutting behind them feels too final, too soon.
"That was really fun," Brendon says softly, as they walk back to the car, shoulders touching but hands carefully tucked away in pockets, now that Brendon's off the clock. "Your family was great."
"Yeah," Spencer says. He's thinking sad, self-indulgent thoughts about the mini-bar in his hotel room, and the possibility of drinking himself into a stupor on those little bottles of wine, so he's taken by surprise when Brendon stops shorts next to Spencer's car.
"I, uh," Brendon says, his hands still shoved in his pockets. "I heard you say that you'd be back next week."
"Yeah," Spencer says. "I come back here pretty often, the wedding was just at a shitty time in terms of my work schedule. Normally I'd be staying a few days."
"Cool," Brendon says, nodding his head. He's still standing next to Spencer's car, and Spencer wonders if he's screwed up the etiquette somehow. Was he supposed to call a cab to get Brendon home?
"Should I call a cab?" Spencer says, pulling his phone out. "Or do you mind if I drive you back to the hotel? I don't--I told you, I don't really know how these things go."
"You'll be like, super busy next week, huh," Brendon says, apropos of nothing. "Lots of hanging out with your family and stuff."
"I guess," Spencer says uncertainly. "I mean. They're kind of the reason I'm coming back to Vegas?"
"Right," Brendon says.
"Are you okay?" Spencer says worriedly, because Brendon's acting kind of weird. "Did I screw something up?"
"No," Brendon says quietly, looking down at his feet, and then he squares his shoulders and looks up again at Spencer. "No," Brendon says, more firmly. "You didn't. You were pretty much the nicest client I've had in like. Forever."
"Good," Spencer says miserably. "That's--good. I'm glad. You deserve it."
"Do you like burritos?" Brendon says, in a rush. He is suddenly, inexplicably closer. Spencer blinks.
"...Yes?" Spencer says. "Doesn't everyone?"
"Do you want to get some?" Brendon says, still sort of oddly fierce. "There's a great place around here, you've probably been, but they do late nights."
"I--" Spencer says, and then falls silent. He thinks, I would totally pay another one hundred and fifty dollars to get a burrito with you, and then he thinks Spencer, get a fucking grip.
"Maybe I should just take you back to the hotel," Spencer says, unlocking his car door. "I would love to, I mean, but I don't actually belong to the young millionaires club." He says it as kindly as he can, because he's not trying to be an asshole, it's just--he can't afford Brendon, and this whole thing was a terrible idea, and he's going to feel even worse if Brendon expects him to be a repeat client.
"Not on the clock," Brendon says quietly, and Spencer turns around.
"What?" Spencer says, and then Brendon is kissing him on the cheek, feather-light press of lips and the smell of Brendon's skin before he's gone.
"I'm not on the clock right now, Spencer," Brendon says, biting his lip. "Come get a burrito with me, okay?"
"Okay," Spencer says dumbly. His pulse is rushing in his ears, the thumpthumpthump of blood and adrenaline and a shaky, unformed want.
"And maybe come to my acoustic showcase next week," Brendon says, looking unsure. "When you're here?"
"Yeah," Spencer says, helplessly. "That would. That would be awesome." Brendon, Spencer thinks. Brendonbrendonbrendon, fuck, how did I not know you existed?
"But just so you know," Brendon says, starting to smile again. "I don't put out on the first date."
"Neither do I," Spencer says, entirely honest. "But it's possible I might be convinced with burritos." Brendon laughs, leaning in to kiss Spencer's cheek again before crossing to the passenger's side of the car.
"Carnitas can definitely tempt a man to some awful things," Brendon agrees, dropping down onto the passenger's seat. "Hey," Brendon says, looking over at Spencer with a grin. "I'm buying, okay?"