by Jo Adler
“Okay, okay,” I say when he finishes. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right about all of that. But the thing is…” I take a moment to collect my thoughts. “Here’s the thing, okay? I met the most amazing man last Friday night. He’s fucking gorgeous. The sex was epic. And I’d love to see him again. But now I’m afraid that’ll never happen.”
“Why the fuck not?” Richard asks.
“Because I wasn’t kidding about not having his number,” I say.
“It’s kind of like Cinderella,” Richard replies. “Except there’s no fairy godmother, no clock striking midnight and no lost slipper.”
I actually smile because his face is so animated while he’s running down the checklist of differences between the famous fairy tale and my tattered life.
“That’s right,” I tell him. “And I’m not a prince.”
“True that,” Richard says in the faux Southern accent he trots out whenever he’s trying to cheer up a friend. “You’re a princess. And I highly doubt the hunky daddy works as a scullery maid for his cruel stepmother.”
“No doubt,” I say glumly.
“Well, I hope you find him again,” Richard says as his phone rings. “And I sure hope that it’s soon.”
He pulls out the cell, glances at the screen and announces that his two husbands are wondering when he’ll be home.
“I better get going,” he says, coming in to give me a hug. “Good to see you, Nick. Don’t be a stranger. Maybe you can come up to the country one weekend soon.”
“That would be perfect,” I say. “Getting away from the city would be a nice change of pace.”
“And maybe you’ll have someone to bring with you,” he says, raising his arm to hail a cab. “Whether it’s this Adam fellow or someone else, you’d both be very welcome at Chez Metamucil.”
“Is that really what you guys named the new estate?” I ask.
Richard issues a wicked chuckle. “Not officially,” he says. “But it’s what we three call it. I mean, at this point, after the nightmare that we’ve been through with Alec’s cancer, we need to laugh as much as possible.”
“Amen to that!” I say as a taxi lurches to a stop. “Give my best to your boys.”
17
▬ ☼ ▬
ADAM
I’m regaling my clients at dinner on DAY night with a story about the first time I went to Paris to shop for antiques with a famous Hollywood actor when someone taps me on the shoulder.
“Pardon me, Mr. Coleman.”
My breath hitches at the familiar voice, but I manage to keep the smile from slipping away. When I shift in my chair and look back, Liam is standing expectantly to one side. He’s holding a smoldering cigarette and a half-filled bottle of beer. My eyes keep moving to the left as someone else steps into view. It’s the restaurant’s owner, a peevish man named Gentry. He’s glaring at me and motioning toward Liam.
“Will you please excuse me for a moment?” I say to the clients before getting out of my chair. “It’s a bit of a family emergency.”
Liam snickers. “Just a little bit,” he says, grinning at one of my guests like a drunken baboon. “But it won’t take long, okay? Sorry to interrupt your meal.”
As we zigzag through the crowded dining room, I apologize to Gentry and promise that it won’t happen again.
“That’s what you promised the last time,” he says in a curt tone. “I’ll believe it when it happens.”
Once we’re out on the sidewalk, I grab Liam’s wrist and pull him away from the restaurant entrance.
“What the fuck do you want?” I snap.
He glares at me. “What do you think? I want the money that you promised me.”
I turn toward the street, taking a moment to watch the traffic blur past on Second Avenue. Liam’s muttering something about Dirty Secrets Social Club, so I whirl around and catch the end of his rant.
“…and the sweet young thing that you nailed,” he says. “My buddy told me that part of your fun was streamed live from the elevator to all of the televisions in the club. That doesn’t sound like you at all, mister. Are you trying some new tricks now that you’re pushing fifty?”
My hands convulse before forming fists that I press against my thighs. I want to grab the lapels of his jacket and body slam him to the pavement, but I stop myself before there’s a chance it will go beyond an involuntary jerk of both arms.
“Ah, don’t get all grumpy,” he jeers. “I know that you’re not quite there yet, old man. Another seven or eight years, isn’t it?”
I swallow hard to keep from unleashing an angry outburst. Instead, I focus on my breathing, trying to remember the relaxation exercises that a fuck bud taught me once.
“How was he?” Liam asks, pulling my attention back to the moment.
“Who?”
He laughs again. “The kid in the elevator at Dirty Secrets? My buddy told me that you were going to fuck him right there until some old geezer needed to go upstairs.”
One, two, three. Breathe in. Hold. Four, five, six.
“Your buddy got it wrong,” I say after exhaling slowly.
“I don’t think so.” Liam winks. “I’ve seen the footage, Big Daddy. That little boy was thrusting back against your hand with his ass like a—”
“My personal life isn’t your business,” I say sharply. “And I don’t appreciate it being grist for the gossip mill.”
He laughs. “Grist? What the fuck is that?”
“Never mind,” I say. “Did you call Gillian yet?”
“The bitch told me that she’s done helping,” he snarls.
I wince at my sister being maligned so easily. I stare at the handsome young guy with the spiky black hair and scruff that darkens the lower half of his face like a permanent shadow. There’s a glint of cruelty in his eyes that reminds me of my father when I was a kid. I saw the same flash of malice before he delivered one of his infamous reprimands when Gillian and I were growing up. Life was hard enough with an alcoholic mother, so having an angry, spiteful father constantly berating every thought, word and deed seemed like a double dose of pitiless destiny. My close friends always tell me that’s the root of my successful career, but I was daydreaming about designing and building houses before my mother’s breast cancer was diagnosed or my father’s sunny disposition was forever darkened by her death.
“Why’re you looking at me that way?” Liam asks.
I blink away the unsolicited memories of my father. Then I tell him that I’m done serving as his personal ATM.
“It’s time you got a job,” I add. “And I’m talking about a real one, too. Not those half-baked schemes you cook up with your friends.”
“That’s what they told Steve Jobs,” he says. “And the guy that started Apple.”
I shake my head. “That is Steve Jobs, you dolt.”
He narrows his eyes. “You sure?”
I ignore the question, pull out my wallet and give him two hundred dollars.
“No more,” I say. “And if you put that up your nose, that’s something that I don’t want to ever hear about.”
He scowls. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Devon told me about your little dalliance with his ex,” I say. “He tried to get me to watch the video on that website, but I got the fuck out of his office before it started to play.”
Liam smiles. “We don’t fuck or anything. It’s just some harmless fun with a few other guys from the rugby team.”
“Ah, so post-game antics, huh?”
He shrugs. “Something like that. And for the fucking record, I didn’t buy the coke. Some other guy had it when I got there that night.”
“Not my business,” I say, holding up one hand. “The thing that I don’t understand is why you would let yourself be videotaped. Don’t you realize that shit is forever once it’s uploaded?”
“If it ever comes up, I’ll claim the tape was doctored. That excuse works for celebrities and shit. They say the video was doctored, the pictur
es were Photoshopped, the nose job wasn’t really a nose job.”
“Sorry to break this to you,” I say, “but you’re not famous.”
He flashes a wide grin. “Not yet. But I’m working on a deal with some girl. Her brother works for a guy that used to be the gardener at Tom Cruise’s house.”
I laugh. “Sounds rock solid, buddy. Good luck with show business.”
“Thanks, man. And here’s another one for the record, okay? After I get one of these ideas up and running, I’ll pay you back every last dime. The money you loaned me, the cost of fixing the broken window in your townhouse, the airplane ticket to London.”
“I won’t hold my breath,” I say. “But I will hope you’re right about one of your ideas. You’re a better person than you think, Liam. Underneath all that bullshit and hot air and anger is a really sweet kid.”
He growls. “I’m fucking thirty-two. I’m not a kid.”
After he slides the money into the back pocket of his jeans, Liam scuffs the toe of one boot against the concrete.
“Anyway,” he says. “I really do appreciate the help. And I’m still looking for that extra key. When I find it, I’ll drop it by your office.”
“Thanks,” I say, reaching to shake his hand. “I’m still on your side.”
He keeps staring at the sidewalk. “That’s good to hear. I wasn’t sure how you’d feel after…” His voice slides into silence; there’s no need to reiterate what we both know all too well. “But I’ll keep looking. It’s sure to turn up.”
“How did you know where I was having dinner?” I ask.
He finally looks up. “Some people still like me, Adam. I called your office.”
“Charlotte would never give out that kind of information,” I say. “Who’d you con this time?”
“No need to be petty,” he says slowly. “And it doesn’t matter which one of your minions told me that you’d be here tonight. I found you. You did the right thing. And now it’s time for me to exit stage left so you can get back in there and convince those poor suckers that you’re the greatest architect in the world.”
18
▬ ☼ ▬
NICK
Bandit Heart Tattoo is on Lafayette and Prince a few blocks north of my old apartment on Leonard Street. As I walk there from the subway early Wednesday evening, scattered images from the past two years tumble through my mind. That two-bedroom hovel was the first place that I lived when I moved to New York. I shared it with a photographer and a woman that made beautiful sculptures out of found objects that she scavenged from trash cans in the neighborhood. For a brief moment, I consider circling back to look at the old building, but then decide that my mission to find Adam is more important than rekindling fragments from my early days in the city.
When I arrive at my destination, I peer through the glass door before stepping into the narrow space lit by crisscross strands of small while bulbs suspended from the ceiling. It feels more like a coffee shop or bar than a tattoo parlor, but then I realize the front half of the long room is devoted to a collection of comfortable old sofas and lounge chairs.
“Help you?” comes a voice from somewhere in the back.
“Um…I called an hour ago,” I say. “My name’s Nick. I talked to Riley.”
A heavyset bald guy with a gray beard slides into view through a pair of black velvet curtains behind the counter at the back of the waiting area.
“I’m Riley,” he announces. “You’re Nick?”
I cross the room, moving toward him as he shuffles some paperwork on the countertop.
“Yeah,” I say when I reach him. “I’m Nick. I was wondering if you know—”
“Adam,” he interrupts. “But I’m going to tell you the same thing that I did on the phone, man. I don’t divulge the identity of my clients.”
“But he told me that you did his sleeves,” I say. “He said that you’re the best in the city.”
Riley’s mouth slides to one side and then up into a big grin. “Lots of people say that.”
I suddenly realize that the wall behind him is covered with photographs of famous faces: actors, musicians, chefs, tech guys, NFL players, and a couple of politicians. It’s like a gallery of the people that I’ve seen on TMZ or read about on Page Six.
“Why are you trying to find this dude so bad?” asks Riley. “He can’t owe you money or anything like that.”
I smile. “No. It’s not about money.”
“He steal your girlfriend?”
I shake my head.
“Boyfriend?”
“No, but…” My eyebrows are furrowed now as I try to interpret the questions. “Is he into women, too?”
When Riley laughs in response to my whispered question, I feel my face getting pink.
“Oh, fuck it,” I say after an awkward moment or two. “This was a bad idea.”
I whirl around and start toward the door. How did I think that showing up in person would convince the guy to tell me Adam’s number or address?
“Yo,” he calls. “Not so fast.”
I stop and turn slowly. “What?”
“I’ve been there, man. I know how it hurts.”
I give him a blank stare. “Been where exactly?”
“Ah, c’mon. Don’t be a twat. I’ve been in that limbo where you connect with somebody and then can’t get in touch. But I’ve got policies about protecting my clients. No numbers, no addresses, no personal information. I might joke about shit like did he steal your girlfriend or whatever, but I’m not going to actually give you his contact info. It’s too dangerous these days. People do weird shit. Like, all the time, right?”
“I’m not that guy,” I say, adding a wide smile. “I’m not dangerous or weird.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, I got that from your squeaky clean vibe and prep school getup.” He motions at my khakis and polo shirt. “But I’m still not giving you Adam’s number.”
“How about which part of the Village?” I ask.
Riley frowns. “Excuse me?”
“Adam told me that he lives in the West Village,” I answer. “I know that he’s an architect. And you did his sleeves. And he’s got a place at the beach.”
When I stop rambling, he comes over, puts one fleshy hand on my shoulder and clears his throat.
“Barrow Street,” he whispers.
I feel a flicker of excitement. Then I hear the door open and the glimmer of anticipation vanishes.
“Is that where he lives?” I ask.
Riley smiles. “Time to make the donuts,” he says, nodding at two women that are walking toward us. “But you should check it out, kid.”
“Barrow Street?”
He nods. “Good luck, dude. I’ll see you later on down the road.”
19
▬ ☼ ▬
ADAM
The morning after Liam ambushed my client dinner, I meet my sister for coffee at a Starbucks near her apartment. She’s intently studying something on her laptop when I sit across from her at a table near the front door.
“Hey, sis.”
She keeps staring at the screen.
“Gillian?” I tap the table near her computer. “You doing okay?”
Her eyes rotate slowly to meet mine. “Oh, Adam!” she says. “Sorry, sweetie. I’m a little drowsy from lack of sleep. I went to a concert last night with a few of my girlfriends and my ears are still adjusting.”
I imagine a group of fortysomething women piled into the back of a stretch SUV with bottles of wine and a stash of weed that they stole from their kids.
“Who’d you see?”
She shrugs. “Some British band. The lead singer reminded me of Freddie Mercury.”
“Was it a good time?”
“We had a blast!” she answers with a voluminous smile. “Lucy’s husband bought the tickets and we ate at Belinda’s restaurant in Soho before the concert.”
“Nice to have friends who are generous with the perks.” I tap my finger on her cup. “You need a refill?
I’m going to place my order.”
She shakes her head, so I get up, wait on line for a cappuccino and then head back to the table. When I arrive, Gillian is propped against the window and she’s fighting to stay awake. I sit down again and sample the coffee.
“Why don’t you go home?” I say when her eyes blink open. “We can meet for a chat next week.”
“Not a chance.” Her groggy voice matches the bleary glaze in her eyes. “I dragged my ass down here to see you. What’s going on? Your message about Liam sounded pretty urgent.”
I sample the cappuccino while she drinks some of her coffee. Then I describe the awkward encounter at the restaurant the previous evening. When I finish, Gillian offers a sad sigh.
“What are we going to do with that boy?”
“We?” I smile.
“I’d hoped that he would straighten out when he moved in with you,” she continues. “I thought the stable environment and good job would make him realize that he was worthy of a better life.”
“I think everyone hoped for that,” I say, feeling a spike of regret that I couldn’t soothe Liam’s anger and bitterness. “But he’s making the bad choices, sis, not you or me.”
Gillian exhales loudly as she swirls the last few sips of coffee in her cup.
“Everybody in the family is aware of that fact,” she says finally. “There was a general sense that moving in with his uncle would help Liam get on a better path. If he saw how successful you are and how smoothly life can run, then maybe he’d step up and be a man. Instead, he kept hanging out with those despicable friends. And I thought it might actually be a good idea since you were no longer sleeping with that college student.”
“Brent isn’t a college student,” I say trying not to sound too defensive. “He graduated four years ago. Besides, Liam’s despicable friends are all from the private schools and two Ivy League colleges that you sent him to.”
Gillian tapers her eyes, glaring at me with the cold fury that I’ve known since childhood. She’s four years older, so I learned at an early age how to put up with her dictatorial approach to being the more senior sibling.