by Clare London
Carter moved quickly toward one of the corner booths. All he could see there was the crown of an auburn-haired head, the face buried deeply into the owner’s folded arms, resting on top of the stained table. Carter could hear quiet snoring. The lean young body was folded uncomfortably on the seat, but obviously not uncomfortably enough to prevent him from sleeping where he sat.
Carter moved a half-empty beer glass to the other side of the table and looked down on the sleeper. “Stupid asshole,” he murmured. It wasn’t as if he expected his words to be heard. “You’ve got a bed at home, haven’t you? And a friend to come look after you. A real one, not the kids you pick up and caress when the fancy takes you. So why’re you hanging out here again?”
The sleeping man must have registered something, because he stirred. And groaned. One of the arms peeled itself out from under his heavy head and stretched out straight with an ominous crack of the joint.
“Shit. Carter, is that you? Where the fuck am I?”
“Where do you think?” Carter sat down beside the waking man and sighed. “Thought you’d given this up after the last time. Drinking yourself stupid at Marty’s.”
“Am not,” mumbled the other man. “Not stupid at all… else he’d be yelling at me for the check.” His face was visible now, though he kept rubbing a hand over it, obviously trying to wake up properly. There were tired bags underneath the bright blue eyes and the smooth, tanned skin was dull in the dimming lights of the bar. His fringe hung limply over his forehead, and as he tugged at the rest of his hair, the auburn curls tangled in a weight at the nape of his neck. “Fucking hair… pulled it the wrong way. It’s killing me.”
“Something is,” said Carter, grimly. “Can you walk? Go home, Zeke.”
Zeke Roswell groaned again and sat up. It seemed to nag at some pain in his lower back, because he grimaced a little. “Got no home, though, have I? Going to sign it all away tomorrow. Lose the whole fucking lot.”
“Zeke, you did that some time ago. You lost it all, or rather you played and drank it all away. Don’t play the innocent victim with me. You’re no fool. You had a chance, but you fucked up. Right? You’ll get another. So get over it.”
“Is this your Kindly Friend approach, Carter?” Zeke sighed wearily. “Or you practicing for Oprah?”
“Dammit, Zeke.” Carter frowned. “Do you want me to go on lying? Go on pandering to you? You know you’re a bright, smart guy with talent the rest of us would kill for. Instead, you drink your checks away, bury yourself inside a filthy apartment, and snarl at anyone who gives you the time of day. Or you try to fuck them; seems those are the only two approaches you have in your repertoire.”
Zeke growled back at him, but the sound was tired. “I’m getting the feeling you’re pissed at me, Carter. And I can walk, you know. You won’t need that fireman’s carry you used last time.”
Carter rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to carry you anywhere, Zeke. Physically or metaphorically. Drop the past and move on. I’ve tried, haven’t I?”
“Guess so,” replied Zeke, a thread of anger in his voice now. He pushed at the table and lurched up on unsteady feet. “Guess you think you’re better than me. But this was just a farewell drink, you know? Because I am making the break. I’m changing my life. Aren’t you pleased with that?”
Carter stared at his friend. He clenched his fists at his sides. “I don’t think I’m better than you, Zeke….”
“Sure,” replied Zeke. He looked steadier on his feet now, and his mouth quirked with a sly smile. “After all, you ain’t got the looks, boy. And I bet the last thing you painted was something your mom put up on the door of the fridge.”
Carter smiled, responding to the younger man’s bluster. In his opinion, Zeke had more charm than was fair, at least when he was sober enough to use it properly. “As a friend, you’re a real pain in the ass, you know.”
“Yeah, I am. Guess if I had more friends, they’d tell me that as well as you.” Zeke sighed and spoke more quietly. “Can I come home with you tonight, Carter?”
Carter started. “I don’t think….”
Zeke’s deep blue eyes latched on to him, and the depth of misery Carter saw there took his breath away. It was all so very reminiscent—heart-wrenchingly so.
“’s corny, I know, but I don’t want to be on my own. Don’t get excited, now. I’m not making a pass at you, nothing like that….”
Carter slipped an arm around Zeke’s shoulder. For a second, his fingers brushed at Zeke’s sallow cheek. He wondered if Zeke realized sometimes the effect he had on people, on him. “Please. I’m far from excited, Zeke. You’re not exactly at your best right now. I doubt you’d do yourself justice in bed. Or me, for that matter.”
“Fuck that,” said Zeke, but rather fondly. “Can still get it up, you know. I like boys and girls, Carter. Never been one to restrict my options.”
Carter smiled, trying not to show his deeper emotions on his face. But it was damned hard. Zeke’s voice held traces of another voice, another time. Carter’s memories piqued him with small stabs of both delight and pain. “I’ll give it serious thought, bright boy. But not tonight, eh? Let’s get going, if you’re coming home with me. I’ll need to get the spare bedding out of the cupboard again.”
He dropped his arm down to hold on to Zeke’s waist, so it didn’t look quite so obvious that he was helping him stand up. Not that he and Marty didn’t know the score, but Zeke had his pride—even if he drowned it rather too regularly.
Zeke coughed, and Carter felt the other man’s body vibrate against his own. “I am doing the right thing, aren’t I? It’s all the past now. Right? I’ve got to drop it and find something new.”
“Jacky said the same, Zeke. All the time. Find something new, move on. You remember how he was, what he’d say. No regrets.”
Zeke’s head turned sharply toward Carter, startling him. “Easy for him to say, though, eh? Mr. Happy Corpse. Mr. Leave It All Behind for some other poor fucker to suffer. For someone else to sign over all our worldly goods.”
“Zeke….” Carter didn’t like the edge to Zeke’s voice. There wasn’t just pain there, but something more aggressive. He glanced over at Marty, wondering if he’d need the older man’s help after all.
But Zeke’s voice calmed again. “I’m okay, Carter. Don’t get all tense on me. I’m just a little more honest than you, eh?”
Carter stared at him, startled again.
“I really do want to move on, you see,” Zeke muttered, holding Carter’s gaze. “I’ve got no fucking interest in ghosts, my friend. None at all.”
THE cab pulled up at the front entrance of the Park Gate Apartments, and the doorman bent quickly to get the door. Miles stepped out, smoothing down his jacket, allowing his case to be lifted out for him. The doorman greeted him formally, and Miles moved quickly and with familiarity past the desk. The receptionist turned away from another resident who was asking directions to confirm to Mr. Winter that his laundry was ready for him, cleaned and pressed, and that his mail was in an orderly pile for his collection. There were no messages. Miles nodded thanks.
The apartments were select and luxuriously appointed. They had their own in-house facilities, including gymnasium and a reasonably sized pool. There was also a restaurant with a renowned chef and a bar and lounge exclusively for the residents. Tonight, Miles wandered over to the bar, and the manager was ready at once with his favorite rum and coke. Shortly after that, the restaurant manager came over to greet him with a respectful offer of that night’s menu, ready to take his order for dinner.
Miles accepted all the service quietly and calmly. He’d been living in this building for a year now. It was what he was used to. As he debated the salmon over the sole, he leaned against the bar and watched other residents arriving. He knew few of them by sight and none by name. Most of the individuals were as select as the apartments themselves. He saw the sudden grin on the doorman’s face as a younger couple joked with him about the weather. He saw the
receptionist lean forward at the desk and blush as another passing resident complimented her on something or other. Behind him, the bar manager flicked a peanut at his new barman, and they smothered an instinctive laugh.
When Miles turned back to pick up his glass, the respectful quietness settled back around him. He noted the contrast, not for the first time. He didn’t know why it made him feel a little depressed.
“Lookin’ a little morose there, Winter,” came a familiar male voice at his shoulder. Miles jumped, startled; he’d not been aware of any of his thoughts showing in his expression. “Wishin’ you were a man of the people? It’s not going to happen. They’re scared of you, you see.”
“Scared of me? They barely know me.”
“Okay.” The speaker gave an exaggerated sigh. “Maybe not scared of you. Just scared of displeasin’ you. They’ve got jobs and loans, y’know? They need happy tenants. They need the regular income from your exorbitantly priced suite. Upset Mr. Winter and wave goodbye to all that.”
Miles’ eyes narrowed. “That’s crap, De Vere, and you know it. I only expect what other clients do: the best care, attention to every detail. It should be the standard. Don’t you agree?”
His companion walked around to face him, laughing softly. He was a slim, blond man of a similar age, dressed far more casually than Miles but no less elegantly. He wore crisp linen pants and a silk shirt, left carelessly open at the neck but obviously expensive. His hair curled behind his ears, giving him a boyish look, but his pale blue eyes were sharp. As he moved, his hand trailed gently against Miles’ arm, and when Miles shook it off impatiently, the newcomer laughed again. His voice bubbled with a sense of fun, with confidence and mischief. The drawl was obviously exaggerated, but attractively so. It was noticeable that several of the staff were watching him, each of his movements followed with fascinated eyes.
Miles knew his companion would have been amused at this attention, and nothing more. Red De Vere was used to the mesmerizing effect he had on people. Indeed, how often did he cultivate it for his own entertainment?
“You bite every time, don’t you, Winter? I’m only teasin’; you should chill some. And I’ve been waitin’ a whole hour for you. Didn’t we agree on dinner tonight?”
Miles sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He turned and lowered himself into one of the plush armchairs provided. The blond man dropped into another one beside him.
“What is it, hon? Hard day at the office?”
“Christ, Red,” growled Miles. “Every damn phrase you use is loaded with innuendo, isn’t it? Don’t you get tired of the lounge-lizard act?” But although the words were angry, he knew he didn’t mean it.
“Guess I was right.” Red grimaced. He obviously knew it, too, because he didn’t seem to take any offense. “Come and eat with me, Miles. Eat, drink, and I swear to God I can make you merry. Goin’ to let me?”
Miles had to laugh. Only a short laugh, a ripple of amusement. If it’d come from anyone else, he would have dismissed it as nothing special. But wrung from him, after the day he’d had—well, he wasn’t surprised to see Red’s eyebrows raised.
“That’s better,” his friend said, softly.
“You’re the only one who can do that, you know?”
“Make it better?”
Miles smiled. “Amuse me in the most unexpected way. How the hell do you get away with such outrageousness?”
Red looked back steadily into Miles’ eyes. For a moment, the dilettante act was dropped, proving it was something he could put on or discard at will. “It’s good to hear you laugh, Miles. Glad to be of some service.”
“Red,” protested Miles. “I didn’t mean you’re not good company for other reasons….”
“No problem.” The other man smiled, his eyes brighter than before. “That’s why I’m one of your few and priceless friends. You can say what you like to me, and I accept it without judgment. Just… relax a bit, okay? Let someone close, let someone know what you’re really like. Let the damned world touch you on its own terms. It’s not weakness to join in, sweetheart.”
Miles frowned back at him. He really didn’t want to argue with Red tonight, but sometimes the man’s persistence….
Red touched his arm again, pressing his fingers into the smooth cloth of Miles’ jacket. “Hey, it’s okay, I’m backin’ off. You’re just too polite to tell me, right? No need for that, hon. Look, I’m as rich as you—and let’s face it, sometimes I’m as bored as you. So it works both ways, eh? You can play your hard-ass act with me, Mr. Big Business, but I can make you laugh at the end of another fourteen-hour day. We’ll eat and drink well, and then we’ll go back to your apartment where I can stretch out these long, limber legs on your king-size bed and drink more of your best brandy. And while we’re watchin’ some reality show on your forty-two inches—screen, of course—maybe you’ll let me massage those knots out of your too, too generous shoulders.”
Miles stared back. Red’s teasing touched him tonight far more deeply than he wanted to admit. Why was he feeling so unsettled? “One minute you’re dazzling the staff, next minute you’re offering me a quiet night in, in front of the TV. What are you really like, Red De Vere?” It was something he often asked himself, though not often as frankly or as openly as this.
His companion shrugged his broad shoulders, a wave of his hand dismissing the question. It appeared his playboy mask was scooped up and reapplied. He unfolded himself from the chair and beckoned to the hovering restaurant staff. “I’m damned hungry, darlin’, that’s what. For anything else, ask the gossip papers. They tell me what I’m doin’, how my stocks are climbin’, which of my racehorses is winnin’. Even who I’m fuckin’…. Oh, especially that.” He grinned, instantly looking much younger. “And I can’t remember the last time they got it right, okay? Like you should try readin’ the info on yourself, sometimes.”
“Let’s eat,” said Miles, firmly. He stood up, eager to halt the direction the conversation was heading.
Red rolled his eyes, and linked an arm into Miles’ as they were ushered toward the hotel dining room. “That saucy little stick of supermodel ass joinin’ us tonight?”
Miles tsked, but his heart wasn’t in it. “Don’t pretend you like her, Red. I know what you think. Anyway, Remy is busy, as I recall. Another photo shoot. A magazine interview. I think she said something like that.”
Red pursed lips that were obviously preparing a characteristically caustic comment about Miles’ sometime companion, the model Remy Dion. But, unusually for him, he bit it back.
“What?” Miles frowned.
Red’s expression was sympathetic. “Nothin’, hon. From the look on your face, it really has been a hell of a day. Let’s eat, eh?”
Miles paused, bringing them both to a halt. Behind them, the restaurant manager sucked in a worried breath.
“What you said earlier. I’m not bored,” Miles said. “Am I?”
He felt Red tense up. The playboy had known him for a very long time and was shrewd enough to know that Miles didn’t trust many people to come close to him. Red had been many places in his life, experienced much more than Miles in many ways. There were few things that either shocked or surprised him. Miles knew he could say anything, and Red would listen. But he couldn’t find the right words tonight to express just exactly what it was he was feeling. Anguish? A strange sense of distance and isolation from the world….
Red turned his back on the nervous manager and murmured to Miles. “Is it that bad? Somethin’ different happen today? Tell me.”
Miles grimaced. Was he that obvious? “I don’t know. I don’t know what it is.”
To his relief, Red didn’t press him. “You want to try some place else after dinner?”
Miles glanced up swiftly, catching the flicker of excitement in Red’s eyes. He took a deep breath but didn’t trust himself to answer. He knew what Red meant; he knew what they often did late at night after the public bars had closed their doors, when one or other of them neede
d some kind of adventure. It was usually Red who initiated it, but Miles couldn’t deny he was often excited by their trips to strange, dark, exclusive clubs and entertainment that cost a small fortune, yet Red assured him was worth every cent.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.” Red smiled. “I’ve got an invitation to a new place that’s very discreet, very fresh. Very wild.”
“You said discreet?” asked Miles, keeping his voice low. The manager was pathetically pleased that they were still intent on patronizing his restaurant, and was guiding them personally toward Miles’ usual table.
“Hon,” drawled Red, “I don’t do anythin’ else where you’re concerned. If you’re not sure….”
“No,” said Miles. “Count me in. So long as—”
Red nodded, already ahead of him. “You join in as much or as little strikes your fancy. As always. It’s just good to have your company.”
“Red.” Miles felt an unusual rush of gratitude. “Thanks. I’m sure I’ll be fine. It’s just tiredness.”
Red De Vere blinked hard, as if Miles had said something outrageous of his own. “No problem, like I said. Ever.” He turned back, directing his charm fully on the hesitant manager. “Now fetch me your wine list and rustle me up a fine Greek salad, okay?” He glanced back at Miles, mischief sparking in his eyes. “I’ll be needin’ some sunshine in my veins if I’m going huntin’ tonight.”
IT was the next morning, and the sun was way too bright. Or so it seemed to Miles, sitting directly opposite the drawn blinds of the office window. It was eleven a.m., he’d been offered nothing but lukewarm instant coffee by the vendor’s lawyer, and he was suffering a mild background hangover from the previous night. Red had taken him to several clubs and plied him with good food and drink and entertainment that ranged from pole dancing to poetry recitation, until Miles had tired of laughing and drinking and watching Red proposition all the best-looking patrons—of both sexes—and had taken a cab home.