Thorns

by Feliz Faber

  “All right, we can have dinner together, but I’d rather pay for myself. This is supposed to be a business meeting, isn’t it?”

  LeBon’s right eyebrow shot up, just a twitch, before he smiled again, but Will noticed it nevertheless.

  “Of course it is.”

  Will nodded. “One condition, though,” he said. The eyebrow twitched again as LeBon quietly regarded him, a picture of patience. You started it, Will thought. “If we could postpone the matter of business until after we finish eating? I’d hate to waste good food in case you’re out to bite my head off.”

  This time, the second eyebrow joined the first, a moment before LeBon broke out into a real grin, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and turned the pleasing handsomeness of his face into a thing of pure, radiant, mischievous beauty.

  “Au contraire, Mr. Yeats, don’t you worry,” he said, amusement trembling through his voice. “Biting your head off is the last thing on my mind, believe me. I’m glad to see you have your priorities in order, though.”

  “I’m doing my best,” Will said, pleased with himself.

  A smiling hostess came to lead them to their table. Will stood, and LeBon nodded toward the bar. “Don’t forget your keys.”

  The lawyer waited patiently as Will hurried to pocket them. Trust the damn things to ruin his carefully honed, smart poise.

  THEIR waitress’s nametag said “Antoinette,” and her accent was much more notable than LeBon’s, though she probably made a feature of it for business’s sake. After a polite welcome to Will, she addressed LeBon in French and with obvious familiarity. Will carefully refrained from appearing nosy, but LeBon must still have noticed his piqued curiosity.

  “I’m a regular here,” he answered Will’s unspoken question. “I live just a few blocks away, and since I hate cooking….” He shrugged. “My days tend to be long. This place is open late all week, and the food is good. Reminds me of home.”

  Miracles over miracles, LeBon wasn’t only as good as his word, he even seemed in the mood to socialize. This is almost too good to be true, Will thought. A small flock of butterflies started to flutter their wings in his belly.

  “You’re from Louisiana, aren’t you?” he asked. “Where, exactly, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  LeBon was kept from answering by Antoinette reappearing just then at their table. He waved the menu she offered him away. “I’ll have shrimp with Cajun sauce for starters and then the fried catfish, please, with corn and fries.”

  “Catfish!” Will exclaimed, smiling with delight as he handed his own menu back unread. “I’ll take that too. Haven’t had any in ages.”

  “It’s real fresh today. Would you like wine with your dinner, a Chardonnay perhaps?” Antoinette asked LeBon.

  “What do you think?” LeBon passed the question on to Will, who shrugged.

  “I don’t know the first thing about wine. I think I’ll just trust you.”

  When he met the sparkle in LeBon’s eyes, Will had to tamp down on a wince. Unfortunately he couldn’t do anything about his once-again heating ears. “Good choice, Mr. Yeats.”

  Once Antoinette left, LeBon answered Will’s earlier question. “I’m from Lafayette. From Broussard, to be precise. Do you know it?”

  “Not exactly, no,” Will said. “But I lived in the Baton Rouge area for a while.”

  The lawyer cocked his head. “You don’t say. Do you speak French, then?”

  “Only a few scraps. I didn’t stay there very long.”

  “Long enough for you to acquire a taste for the local delicacies, apparently,” LeBon teased, the smallest hint of a suggestive twist to his lips.

  Oh, Will could so get into that game. “Too right. It was a momentous experience,” he shot back, even daring a hint of a wink. LeBon only smiled in response.

  Antoinette brought the wine and some bread, and Will reduced a piece of baguette to crumbs between his fingers as he and LeBon chatted about this and that with amazing ease, jumping topics as the whim caught them.

  “So, you’ve got a dog?” LeBon asked at some point.

  Will blinked. “Beg your pardon?”

  LeBon gave a vague nod in the direction of the bar. “I got a glimpse at your key ring fob earlier. You have a picture of a Yorkshire terrier in it. Yours?”

  “Oh, that.” Will dropped his gaze as he tried to think of a dismissive answer fast. “That’s just a memento,” he muttered. Sentimental, Gary had called it. Also, cute. Will hated being called cute.

  Damn it all. There went the cool image he’d planned to counter LeBon’s suave attitude with. And all because of that silly old thing. Why’d the man have to be so observant?

  He fiddled with the crumbly mess he’d made on the nice white tablecloth, hoping LeBon would drop the subject.

  Wouldn’t you know it? No chance of that.

  “A childhood pet, then? What was his name?”

  LeBon’s genuinely interested tone made Will look up. The lawyer had his elbows propped up on the table and his fingers interlaced. His chin rested on the bridge formed by his hands, and where Will would’ve expected mockery or even a sneer, a hint of a smile curled those full lips. The pose was so elegant and at the same time, so… sincere… that Will dared a smile of his own.

  “Her name. Deedee,” he said, allowing himself a moment of nostalgia. Sentimental or not, he’d loved the mutt. She died when Will was eleven, the year when it had all gone to pieces. Will’s father left them only a few weeks later, and his mother started shunting Will and his sister off to various relatives and friends. He hadn’t lived longer than a year in one place since, nor wished to. Until now. Provided he didn’t screw up in the first job he valued highly enough that he wanted to keep it.

  Self-mockery turns weaknesses into traits. He wasn’t sure who told him that, but he’d found the statement true more than once.

  “Stupid, huh, for a grown man to carry a picture of a dog?” Will said, dropping his eyes once again as he fought the urge to pull out the picture for a showing like he’d have done with a friend.

  “Why?” LeBon said softly. “I think it’s—”

  Will’s head shot back up. “Don’t say cute!” he blurted, then blushed to the roots of his hair when LeBon chuckled.

  “Actually, I was going to say it’s telling.” He gave a slight flourish, making Will blush even deeper. “With regard to what your dog must’ve meant to you, of course.”

  Something like fondness lay in the curl of LeBon’s lips. Strange, Will thought, trying to shrug it off. “Well, yes. She was kind of my best friend.”

  LeBon nodded. “Dogs make great friends. Better ones than humans on occasion.” He reached for his wine glass, but instead of drinking, he merely toyed with the stem. “I had one too, when I was a boy. A Doberman. He bit a neighbor’s kid and had to be put down.”

  “Ah, poor thing. That must’ve hit you so hard,” Will blurted out. He could’ve kicked himself right away, but then, what was he supposed to do with that touch of sentiment from the other man?

  LeBon, for his part, simply ignored Will’s inappropriate familiarity. When their gazes met again, a gently mocking spark was back in LeBon’s eyes. “See? No shame in remembering a friend.” He raised his glass for a salute. “To them.”

  Slightly confused, Will returned the gesture. Then Antoinette brought their starters, which kept him from musing about the quirky toast any longer.

  LeBon leaned in to inhale the aroma that wafted up from the dishes. “So, you like a bit of spice with your food, I gather?” he asked with a mischievous side-glance at Will.

  “Not just with food,” Will went along, and just like that, they were back to the easy banter of earlier.

  “WOULD you like dessert?” LeBon asked once Antoinette had cleared their table and brought coffee. Patting his midriff, Will shook his head.

  “Thanks, but I’m full. I’m afraid I’d be big as a house if I always ate like this.”

  LeBon threw Will a measured loo
k from beneath lowered brows while he stirred cream and sugar into his coffee. His expression had Will sitting up straight right away as he realized their dinner was over.

  As if the last hour and a half had never existed, LeBon sat back, his face politely blank, his eyes unreadable. “Now, Mr. Yeats, since we’re back to business, I’m awfully curious to learn why you thought it a good idea to blackmail my clients.”

  Just like that, all those pleasant butterflies in Will’s belly turned into miniature choppers that scraped his insides with their rotors, and he took a deep breath to calm the little critters. Where had their comfortable companionship gone?

  The baffling abrupt mood change brought Will’s hackles up. “Well, allow me a little curiosity of my own in turn. How is it that Leeland, Myers, and Partners takes so much interest in a somewhat obscure foreign jockey? I’d have thought a law firm this renowned should be above such petty matters.”

  If Will hadn’t recently taken such pleasure in getting acquainted with every line, every plane of this man’s face, he’d have missed the telltale twitch of LeBon’s eyebrow, the short tightening of muscle along his jawline. As it was, the chilly reply didn’t come as a surprise.

  “My firm has nothing to do with this. Mr. Meerow and Mr. Pithiviers are personal friends of mine. It’s me you’re dealing with here, and I assure you, I’m fully capable to follow through with a legal muzzling of you and your magazine all on my own. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this in mind.”

  Working with Trevor Haussman had taught Will to recognize a brick wall when he hit one, and also the wisdom of soft-pedaling around touchy subjects.

  “I wouldn’t dream of doubting your competence, Mr. LeBon,” he said, averting his gaze. “It’s just—” He looked up, giving LeBon the puppy-dog eyes his mother always said could charm a snake out of its scales. “I don’t get it. Why all this fuss? What is so important about a horse race that took place ages ago?”

  At that, LeBon deflated. Will even thought he saw a flicker of amusement in those dark eyes, even if the lawyer’s face didn’t move.

  “No need to pull out the big guns on me, Mr. Yeats. I like you already, you know,” he said, and Will barely managed to bite back a triumphant grin. “Let me rephrase my question. Whatever gave you the idea that Mr. Meerow and Mr. Pithiviers’s relationship might be more than just professional in the first place? And what made you think they’d want to discuss their relationship with you—much less have it laid out before the eyes of the world in the Flag?”

  A loaded question, wasn’t it? As Trevor never tired of pointing out, it was the Flag’s job to defend people’s rights to be proud of who and what they were, regardless of where they lived or what they did for a living. At times, that kind of missionary zeal even tended to make Will forget the world was still far from ideal.

  LeBon’s gaze held Will’s, the liquid dark depths of his eyes veiled and serious. Will realized his next words would be crucial—he couldn’t figure out for what, much less how he knew—but he was dead certain that ideology wouldn’t get him anywhere at all with this man.

  Hesitatingly, he began. “There was that picture. The dead horse, and behind it, these two men—they looked so unmatched and yet they fit, somehow. Like they belonged…. I don’t know, this is probably my imagination running off with me, but I thought immediately that they looked like lovers. And then, the way Sampson talked about them, so disdainful. As if the whole mess with that horse had only happened because they were gay. It was…. It didn’t sit right with me. Something was off, and I thought perhaps I could… I dunno, rectify things for them or something.” He contemplated his hands, which cradled an almost full cup of cooling coffee.

  LeBon remained silent. Eventually, long, cool fingers brushed Will’s, making him look up.

  The lawyer leaned in. “I’d like to hear more about that,” he said. “Care to tell me the whole story?”

  Maybe it was the dismissal of the haughty tone or the genuine interest in LeBon’s eyes that brought Will’s defenses down. It could just as well have been Will’s professional pride—finding out about Meerow and Pithiviers had been a fine piece of journalistic work if he said so himself; nothing to be ashamed of, except for that foolhardy telephone call, of course. For whatever reason, Will threw caution overboard and met LeBon’s request.

  The lawyer listened closely, all the while watching Will’s face. After Will finished, LeBon’s gaze remained fixed on him, its intensity gradually making him uncomfortable. Will was just shy of squirming by the time LeBon took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, as if coming to a decision. When he looked back at Will, his face was open, devoid of any artificiality.

  “I first met Louis Meerow in 1987, when he rode my father’s horse at Evangeline Downs,” LeBon said.

  Will blinked at the unexpected confidentiality, and LeBon gave him a short smile before he went on. “My family wasn’t particularly rich, but my father had dreamed about owning a racehorse all his life, and in that year, he bought one. Its name was Sweet Dreams. Would’ve turned into a nightmare if not for Louis.”

  He paused, his eyes losing focus. “The horse literally ate my family out of house and home. And he kept losing. The endless fights my parents had! But then Louis came along, and it was like a miracle. With Louis riding him, Sweet Dreams started to win and soon earned more than his keep. They ended up finishing second in the Louisiana Derby, shortly before Louis moved on to Kentucky. My father was smart enough to sell the beast right afterward and made a huge profit. One might say that the horse won half my education.”

  LeBon’s hand brushed Will’s once again. “You ask yourself where I’m going with all this, don’t you?” the lawyer said, as much at ease as he had been detached before.

  The difference was incredible, heightening Will’s suspicion. He almost jumped when LeBon patted his hand.

  “Patience, Mr. Yeats. I’m getting to the point.” LeBon’s eyes sparkled with amusement now. His hand still lightly covered Will’s. “As you were smart enough to figure out, Louis is gay. Back then, he didn’t bother much with hiding it, which didn’t always work in his favor. My father’s horse was as much Louis’s chance for success as Louis was ours. But to me, there was more.” He paused, turning serious again.

  “See, my parents didn’t take it well when I told them I was gay. Particularly my father. He simply stopped talking to me.” Will opened his mouth to express his sympathy, but LeBon already continued.

  “Louis was the first person I could really talk to about all this. He showed me that being gay wasn’t something to be afraid or ashamed of. Louis didn’t take shit from anybody. Much of what I am today, I am thanks to him.”

  Stunned at this openness, Will stared. LeBon went on.

  “He and I have been friends ever since, and over time, I got to know Nic pretty well, too. The race you mentioned—I never quite figured out why they just bowed to the stewards’ judgment. Giving in without a fight is so unlike either of them. I’ve tried over and over to get them to tell me what happened then, but they won’t let out anything. They always said to let sleeping dogs lie. In the end, I found myself respecting their wish, even though I never understood their reasoning.”

  He seemed to consider his empty coffee cup. When he looked up, his expression had changed once more. Gone was the introversive, thoughtful expression; his face was now back to being professionally pleasant, his eyes unreadable again.

  “When Louis called me at an ungodly hour the other day, fuming with anger at you, I knew something was about to give. I know your magazine, I’m even a subscriber, and I don’t suppose your Mr. Haussman is likely to give up on something he’s set his mind on. I bet he’s already figured out a scheme to go around my C&D. Am I not right?”

  Even the charming smile that now graced this dark face couldn’t completely erase the picture of Trevor’s cunning scowl, nor the threat Will had read there. He shook his head to break LeBon’s spell, finally pulling his hand free of the la
wyer’s gentle grip.

  “I really can’t say, Mr. LeBon,” he managed, scraping his wits back together. “It’s not our publishing policy to—”

  A soft chuckle silenced him. “You don’t have to, Mr. Yeats. Let’s not talk about this anymore. I told my friends what I know about the Flag, and we had another long conversation later today. In the end, they left it up to me to handle this. Don’t get me wrong; I am prepared to fight Mr. Haussman—or you, for that matter—every step of the way. I can make it so you’ll find yourself wondering if dragging a ‘somewhat obscure foreign jockey’ through the dirt is really worth the bother, and I’ll still get something for my friends out of it all. But now that I’ve met you in person, I’m quite confident in regard to our further… relations.”

  Once again, Will felt himself mesmerized by those deep eyes that were a bit more guarded now, even though LeBon still smiled. Will found his mind taking longer than it should to kick back in.

  “What are you going to offer me?”

  “Now you’re talking, Mr. Yeats.” The lawyer gave him a broad, cheerful grin and a nod. “I’m glad to see we seem to have reached an understanding here.” In a wink of an eye, he was back to full business mode. His spins started to make Will downright dizzy.

  “My clients agree to be interviewed. They invite you to spend some time with them at their horse-training center in Normandy, France—say, a week or so. In return, I’ll have to ask you to respect their reservations in regard to the events surrounding the 114th Kentucky Derby the same way I do. Under this one condition you’ll be given the opportunity to do an in-depth portrait of them, full disclosure. I, for my part, would only ask you to grant me access to your writing prior to publication. Not for the sake of censoring, but so I can make sure what kind of response my friends should be prepared to meet. Do you find this acceptable?”

  Will couldn’t help it; he had to shake his head to clear his mind. “They invite me? Just like that? After what Mr. Meerow had to say to me, I find that a bit hard to believe, to put it mildly. And even if I’d be willing to accept, this decision isn’t mine to make. I’d have to confirm with Trev—Mr. Haussman first.”