by Jo Adler
“Maybe tonight,” I suggest. “If you can find another invite, maybe you can go back to Dirty Secrets and find a different hot daddy to get into trouble with.”
He takes a long sip of his Bloody Mary. “No way, José! I’m done with that shit for a while. I told myself that if I didn’t meet a good guy last night, I was going to spend some time alone and figure out what the fuck I’m doing wrong.”
“Hey, now!” I hurry over and give him a hug. “You’re not doing anything wrong. You’ve just had a little run of bad luck.”
He sticks out his tongue. “A little run? I dazzled that motherfucker last night, babe. I was witty. I was articulate. And I was charming. And what did I get? An old geezer who fell sleep. And before that? I gave Jean-Michel two of my best years. I loved him. I worshiped him. And I fucking ran that household like Mary Fucking Poppins. And what did I get? Tossed out into the alley like yesterday’s trash. I’m done with it all for a while!”
“Well, what’re you going to do then?”
“For the rest of my life?” he asks.
“I was thinking more about tonight,” I say.
His mouth flickers with a faint smile. “Well, I’m going to drink that pitcher of Bloody Marys. Then I’m going to take a bubble bath. Then I’m going to order Thai food. And then I’m going to watch The Golden Girls until I fall asleep.”
“Sounds pretty perfect,” I say.
“Want to join me?”
I shake my head. “Wish I could, but I’m working for Dede tonight.”
“See? Even my friends desert me during my hour of need.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” I say. “Slather on the guilt and pour on the shame.”
He takes a few more sips of his drink. “They say you should stick with what you’re good at, babe,” Oliver says. “And I’ve learned to be very, very, very good at both guilt and shame.”
11
▬ ☼ ▬
ADAM
I’m in my office on Monday morning, staring out the window and daydreaming about my cock sliding into Nick’s ass, when someone knocks on the door.
“You okay, Adam?”
I spin around and find Charlotte walking toward my desk with two cups of coffee from the shop in the building’s lobby.
“Hey, Char,” I say as she puts one cup on the desk. “What’s the good news?”
She sits in a guest chair, takes a quick sip of coffee and pulls out her phone.
“You missed the staff meeting earlier,” she says. “What’s wrong?”
Charlotte has been my assistant for years. She’s a bit older, and it sometimes feels like I’m talking to my sister instead of a professional associate. She knows all about my preference for younger guys; in fact, she introduced me to Brent during a party at my beach house. When the sparks flew and we began spending more and more time together, Charlotte acted like a proud matchmaker. But when Brent’s moods darkened and he suddenly left me, she apologized so many times that I made her promise to avoid the subject of regrets from any of our conversations ever again.
“But I feel responsible,” she’d protested during one of our chats about Brent. “I only knew him as a handsome young guy that I met at a few parties around the city. I had no idea he could be so hateful.”
Brent was a clever, self-interested and good-looking boy who was on a mission to climb whatever ladder he encountered: personal, professional and social. We were together for nearly two years, but I never felt like I got the real story about his family or childhood. A few weeks after I discovered the inexplicable withdrawals from the account that I used for incidental household expenses, Brent confessed that he took the money to help his sister through a serious illness. When I realized that his left eye twitched as he relayed the story—a physical tic that I’d begun to associate with his more colorful explanations for arriving home late or taking cash from my wallet—I hired a private detective to look into his past.
As I’d also begun to suspect, there was no sister, no family in Scarsdale, no degree from Harvard. In fact, his real name wasn’t even Brent, although I continued using it out of habit. Even after he moved out, he dropped by the house every so often to ask for help with his rent. Despite all of the red flags and proof positive that the guy was bad news, I still found it impossible to completely cut him off. He was carefree and impetuous. He was brash and cocky. In a certain way, I saw my younger self in Brent; the man that I was before my career took off and my freedom was constricted by meetings and buying trips and client dinners and the nonstop parade of publicists and accountants and business associates.
“Hello?” Charlotte taps her knuckles on the desk. “What’s got you so distracted?”
I reach for my coffee and take a few tentative sips. Then I lean back in my chair and assure her that everything is fine.
“Nonsense,” she says with a laugh. “You only skip staff meetings if you’re hungover or had a bad weekend. Which is it?”
I shake my head. “Neither, actually. And before you ask, the trip to Miami went great. They loved our options for the outdoor kitchen and the guest bathroom floor.”
She smirks. “See?” There’s a crooked grin on her face. “Something’s definitely going on. You left me a message about that while you were flying back last night.”
I have no memory of the call, but Charlotte is so precise about business matters that I know she’s telling me the truth.
“Okay, so…” I swivel in my chair toward the window. “So maybe there’s something on my mind.”
“What’s his name?” Charlotte asks.
I spin around and we share a laugh. “It’s kind of spooky how well you know me,” I say. “And yes, I met someone. But it’s not going anywhere.”
She frowns. “How do you know that already?”
“Because I won’t let it,” I reply. “I have rules.”
“Such as?”
“It doesn’t matter, okay?”
“Here we go again,” she says, throwing both hands up in the air. “Like I said, the only time you miss our Monday morning staff is when something’s wrong.”
“Or when I oversleep,” I say. “That’s all it was.”
“Adam?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t be a wanker,” she says. “What’s his name?”
I lean back in the chair, gazing up at the ceiling. “It’s Nick.”
“And the rest?” She’s smiling again. “Or did we not bother to get a last name?”
“It wasn’t that I didn’t bother to get one,” I reply. “I just didn’t need to. Because it’s not—”
“I know, I know,” she interrupts. “It’s not going anywhere. Because big, strong, brave tough Adam Coleman is a control freak. And if he decides that something isn’t going anywhere, then for fuck’s sake don’t you dare question his authority or decision.”
“Is that true?” I feel a prickle of embarrassment when I glance down from the ceiling and look at Charlotte again. “Am I that bad?”
“You’re worse,” she says. “Especially when it comes to matters of the heart.”
I chuckle at the phrase. “Matters of the heart? From the way you just described me, maybe I don’t even have a heart.”
“Ah, there it is!” she says in her sarcastic singsong tone. “Did I hit a nerve? Are you going to bring out the self-deprecation and clichés that you use for defense mechanisms? I’m just a heartless bastard. I don’t have time for love. I’d rather be alone than feel pain again. No wonder Brent stole from me. I couldn’t give him the support he deserved, so he took my money to fill the—”
“That’s enough,” I say softly. “I’m really not in the mood for that today.”
There’s a moment where it seems like Charlotte will unfurl another snappish rebuke, but then the playful glare in her eyes softens.
“Holy shit,” she says. “You’re being serious.”
I nod. “I’m wiped out from the flight.”
“And distracted by the boy,” she says, �
�whose name we shall not speak because we’ll never see him again.”
I put my head back against the chair and close my eyes. “Nick. His name is Nick. And I’m not going to—”
“Stop right there,” Charlotte says. “I’ve known you for ten years, Adam. And I’ve only seen you like this twice before.”
I know what she’s talking about. Actually, who she’s talking about. Cole and Brent. The two other times that I met a younger guy who became more than just a hookup. Ten years separated the experiences. It took me that long to recover from Cole’s death in a car accident. And it’s anybody’s guess how long it’ll take me to get over Brent’s betrayal. It’s been six months, but I still feel that sorrowful pang in my heart when I hear his name or look at the photos still on the bookshelves at home. Devon and Charlotte have both told me to put them away if not actually burn them in the fireplace. But they also know that I’m a pushover for nostalgia and sentiment. I still have the tattered stuffed teddy bear that my parents bought for my first birthday. There are boxes of old family photo albums in my storage unit. And I visit my sister and her family for Christmas every year, even if it means flying in and out on the same day to accommodate whatever projects I’m juggling for clients.
“So?” Charlotte says. “Why aren’t you going to see Nick again?”
“Because he didn’t call,” I say, invoking the old standard explanation. “And he didn’t come over. I left a note and my business card for Nick. I wrote my cell on the back along with my personal email. There’s no excuse for him not to get in touch, especially when you consider the incredible night that we spent together.”
She sighs. “Oh, here we go again. We talked about how ridiculous that game is, Adam. As I recall, Brent didn’t call the next day either, right?”
I can’t help but laugh. “Yeah. Look how great that turned out in the end.”
She smirks. “Stop being an ass. Brent and Nick are not the same person.”
“But I am,” I say. “I’m the same guy that was fool enough to overlook the red flags and warning signs.”
“I wouldn’t exactly put it that way,” she replies. “You loved Brent. And you know what they say about love being blind.”
“Sure, whatever,” I say. “But I’m not going to make the same mistake twice. I left my number. Nick didn’t call. So I’m moving on.”
“Not so fast,” Charlotte says. “It’s only been a few days. What if I can find this Nick guy for you? What if you give him a second chance?”
“Not going to happen,” I say. “First of all, I don’t know his last name. And second, that’s not the way that I handle these things.”
She arches one brow. “That’s exactly my point! Try a new approach. Try not being such a hard ass. Try relaxing for a change.”
“Isn’t that what I did wrong with Brent?” I ask. “I was so relaxed and comfortable with how things were that I ignored the reality that was happening all around me.”
She smiles. “Hey, the guy’s a grifter. And grifters gotta grift.”
I laugh at the goofy expression on her face. “Is that what he is? A grifter?”
Charlotte nods and gets up from the chair. “Absolutely! Brent’s a grifter alright. As well as a liar and a cheat and a charming, handsome young man who knows how to manipulate other people to get what he wants.”
“I suppose so,” I say, wincing at the truth that I’d ignored for so long. “But now he’s no longer my problem. It’s over and done with.”
“Did you change the locks yet?” she asks.
“Holy shit,” I sit up and reach for my phone. “I keep meaning to ask Charlie to take care of that.”
“Maybe it’s time to get a new handyman, too,” she suggests. “You and I have both talked to Charlie about that.”
“Cut him some slack, will you? He’s getting older.”
She laughs and rolls her eyes. “Aren’t we all?”
“Well, I’ll text him again right now,” I say. “And if you don’t mind, give him another call in a couple of days to see when he’ll take care of that.”
“I can have somebody else do it today,” Charlotte offers.
I shake my head. “I’ll stick with Charlie. He may not be moving as fast as he once did, but I like being loyal to the good guys.”
“And that,” Charlotte says with a mischievous chuckle, “is how you end up getting into trouble. Some of those guys turn out to be the exact opposite of good.”
12
▬ ☼ ▬
NICK
When I walk into Dede’s pizzeria on Tuesday afternoon, she’s behind the counter folding carryout menus and drinking a Red Bull.
“Want one?” She points at the can. “My ne’er-do-well brother-in-law gave me a case for my birthday.”
“Wow! What a thoughtful gift, huh?”
“Oh, it’s actually perfect,” she tells me. “Jeremy used to give me the most hideous sweaters for Christmas and birthday presents. I finally told him that Red Bull was the only thing that I wanted. It was sort of a joke, but I’m glad I told him. Now, there’s no question about whether it’s the right size or not.”
“And you don’t have to worry about cramming anything more into that overflowing closet,” I say.
She stops folding menus. “That’s another good reason.”
I look around the dining room. There are two tables of NYU students, an elderly couple studying the subway map and two regulars laughing and chattering as they enjoy a pizza and bottle of Snapple.
“Not very busy today,” I say.
Dede shrugs. “It was earlier for lunch.”
“Want me to fold some menus?”
“Don’t worry about it,” she says. “I want to hear about your hot night at Filthy Secrets. We never got the chance to dish on Saturday.”
“Dirty Secrets,” I say. “And that’s not the official name.”
“Sure thing,” she replies. “But a little birdie told me that you met a hot man.”
I smile. “A little birdie named Oliver?”
Dede pantomimes locking her lips and throwing away the key. Then she says, “Spill the beans, buster. Was it a slice of heaven?”
I nod, but keep quiet.
“Oh, c’mon,” she says. “You’re usually all too ready to tell me about the latest and greatest.”
“I’m trying to turn over a new leaf,” I say.
She chuckles. “Since when?”
“You know what I mean,” I tell her.
“Is this about Taylor again?” she asks.
I ignore the question. I don’t want to talk about Taylor or his betrayal or my broken heart. I want to replay the night with Adam over and over and over, hoping it will be a way to break the spell and escape the seemingly endless loop of negative thoughts that has been playing in my mind since the day I found Taylor in bed with two twinks.
“Okay,” Dede says after a brief silence. “Let me ask a couple of questions because I can tell from that crafty little grin on your face that there’s a story to tell.”
I shrug. “It was nice. We went to the club, had a drink and I checked out the art collection.”
“Where is this place?” she asks.
“Upper East Side,” I reply. “Some guy inherited an amazing townhouse from a family member.”
“And he turned it into a sex club?”
I shake my head. “It’s not like that. Dirty Secrets is truly like a social club for older men. It’s a place where they can discretely meet younger guys.”
“And then go upstairs and fuck like rabbits?” She winks. “Oliver told me a couple of things.”
“That asshole,” I hiss. “I told him not to blab.”
She laughs again. “That’s like asking him not to breathe, sweetheart. It’s literally impossible for Oliver to keep a secret.”
“True,” I agree. “Guess it’s my fault for telling him anything.”
“Nonsense,” Dede says, giving my hand a quick squeeze. “You had a great night. You wan
ted to share it with your best friend.”
“I suppose.”
She leans closer. “So? Go ahead and share it with your other best friend.”
“There’s not much to say,” I tell her. “I met a guy. He’s hot as fuck. And we eventually got naked in one of the private suites upstairs.”
“Well, la-di-da!” Dede says. “Private suites, huh? This place sounds pretty posh.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“What about one word for the man that you met?” she asks. “Was he posh, too?”
I shake my head. “No, but he was fucking hot. And he was…real. You know what I mean? There was no pretense or bullshit. He’s this tall, muscular hunk with—”
“Does he have a straight brother?” she asks. “If so, please, please, please tell him about your favorite redheaded pizzeria owner.”
“Will do,” I say. “But I have no idea if he has a brother. Or sister, for that matter. I barely know anything at all about him.”
She scoffs. “Well, what do you know? And I don’t mean how big he is or how it felt like heaven when he was fucking you.”
My cheeks go red. “Don’t do that!”
She offers a sly grin. “Don’t do what?”
I fan my face with a menu. “You know what I mean,” I say. “Anyway, his first name is Adam. He lives in the West Village. And I really think that he’s the hottest man that I’ve ever met in my entire life.”
Dede’s crafty smile widens. “Hotter than the banker with the place in Bucks County?”
I nod.
“Hotter than Torpedo Tom?” She winks mischievously. “I seem to remember the weekend that you spent with him in Southampton. You claimed it was the biggest schlong you’d ever—”
“Stop!” I hiss. “People might hear you.”
She glances around the pizzeria. “If they do,” she says, “it won’t be the first time they’ve heard a gay guy dishing with his friend about a hunky conquest.”