The Spindle's Curse: A modern mm romance inspired by Sleeping Beauty (Ever After Book 1)

by TL Gehr

  The Spindle’s Curse

  Ever After Book 1

  T L Gehr

  Copyright © 2020 by T L Gehr

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters and locations are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Edited by: Alex B. Dove

  Find more of the author’s work at www.artisrose.com

  Content warnings: Explicit sex, drug use, injury, some violence.

  Contents

  1. Brian

  2. Brian

  3. Philip

  4. Brian

  5. Philip

  6. Brian

  7. Brian

  8. Brian

  9. Philip

  10. Brian

  11. Philip

  12. Brian

  13. Brian

  14. Philip

  15. Brian

  16. Brian

  17. Brian

  18. Philip

  19. Brian

  20. Philip

  21. Brian

  22. Brian

  23. Brian

  24. Brian

  25. Philip

  26. Brian

  27. Brian

  28. Philip

  29. Brian

  30. Brian

  31. Brian

  32. Philip

  33. Brian

  34. Brian

  35. Philip

  36. Brian

  37. Brian

  38. Philip

  39. Brian

  40. Philip

  41. Brian

  42. Brian

  43. Brian

  44. Brian

  45. Philip

  46. Brian

  47. Brian

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note & Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  1

  Brian

  I was born addicted to smack.

  My mother used when I was in utero and my father only found out when the nurses told them I had NAS—Neonatal Abstinence Syndrome. I spent the first months of my life in withdrawal. Which kind of explains a lot about me.

  I grew up thinking she’d cursed me. It was easy to blame her the first time I shot up: It was inevitable really, I didn’t stand a chance. But my therapist, Gene, said that way of thinking wasn’t conducive to recovery.

  “The only person responsible for you is you, Brian,” she’d say. And she’d make me repeat it whenever I brought up my mother. “You’re still young, you have the opportunity to make something of yourself. You can’t let someone else’s mistakes hold you back.”

  I don’t think she actually read my file. If she had, she would have seen the ADHD, the learning disorders and, oh yeah, that year that I spent behind bars. I wonder if she would have changed her mind about my future then.

  It’s funny, I always thought that psychologists blamed the mother for everything, but it seems like they only do that if she was actually a part of your life.

  I’ve met my mother twice and I remember neither time.

  The first was on the day I was born—no avoiding that one. The second was at my Christening. Dad would tell the story of how she stumbled in drunk, ranting about how he stole her child and didn’t even bother to invite her to the Christening. Whatever maternal instinct had driven her to the church and through those doors ended there. He said she cursed and swore at me until I was a screaming, howling bundle of white lace and she had to be escorted out.

  After that, Dad got a restraining order on the grounds that she might want to hurt me. He needn’t have bothered though. We didn’t hear from her again.

  That is, until two weeks ago when I got a letter saying she would like to meet me.

  When I first opened it, I freaked out and called Dad. He told me to calm down and write a pros and cons list. Tackle it logically. That’s his answer to everything.

  So I made the list. In the cons column I had:

  She’s evil

  She’s had no interest in you so far, so why start now?

  She doesn’t deserve to meet you

  What does she want from you?

  She ruined your life before you were even born (Sorry, Gene), do you really want to open yourself up to more harm?

  In the pros column I had:

  Closure.

  I didn’t know how else to summarize my compulsion to know her. Gene would probably call it mommy issues. (Well, not in those words, but something Freudian.) It’s not like Dad wasn’t enough. He did the best he could with me and I wish that there was a way I could be 100% his DNA, but I’m not. I have this other half, this wicked, broken, dark half that Dad will never understand, that I need to understand.

  So that’s probably why I completely disregarded the rules of the pros/cons decision-making matrix and bought a train ticket to Manhattan.

  I haven’t actually contacted her yet. I figured I’d start by just going to the city. Maybe I’d track her down, observe her in her natural habitat (Here you see a wicked witch in the wild, marvel at how she corners her prey). Maybe I’d talk to her. Or maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe once I got to the city, I’d settle down, I’d build a life for myself, I’d find something to fix my corrupted half, something to plug the hole in my life. I’d find some way to make it all up to Dad.

  He was all for this adventure. “I think a new start is just what you need. Maybe you can get a job, take some classes.”

  My insides squirm whenever he mentions my education, but I nodded along because I like it when he believes in me. He even gave me cash for the ticket and a two months’ rent—Manhattan rent—as if I hadn’t just put him in debt with my little vacation to ‘the ranch’.

  “I’m proud of you, son,” he said at the station, reaching up to pat my shoulder. I’m not particularly tall, but Dad only comes up to my chin when he stands up straight, which isn’t often nowadays with that walking cane.

  I looked away then, not wanting him to read the shame in my face. The thing that he’s proud of me for? Not dying. That’s all I’ve managed to achieve in the entire twenty-three years of my existence. I went to rehab before my habit got bad enough to land me in a coffin. Or in prison again, which would be worse.

  “No, look at me,” he said, taking my chin and guiding my gaze back to his. “You’ve taken the first step. The first step is the hardest.”

  “The first step is admitting you have a problem,” I recited the NA line. “This must be at least step three.”

  “No, Brian, listen to what I am saying. You have made the choice to move towards a new future. You have done away with all that was holding you back. I am proud of you. Today, the rest of your life begins.”

  For an accountant, he’s always been oddly fond of inspirational posters and self-help books. Maybe he’s needed them because of me.

  I stooped to let him hug me and whispered, “That’s definitely step three or four.”

  It’s not. I know the steps. Step three is pray. Step four is pray. Step five is pray… you get the idea. Lots of praying. They do actually have a term for what I’m doing now: future tripping, getting high on dreams of a clean future. A high that’s just as dangerous as anything that comes from a needle. I don’t mention that to Dad.

  As I said, I like it wh
en he believes in me.

  There on that platform, Dad smiled at me and his eyes were glassy. “Now, remember to call as soon as you get there.”

  “Sure, Pops. I’ll call and let you know I haven’t been mugged or corrupted by the big city yet.”

  “That’s my boy.”

  The last I saw of him as the train drew away was him waving his cane at me and grinning. I try to hold on to that as the nerves set in. If I managed to mess everything up so bad when he was right there, what am I going to do when left to my own devices? This is a mistake.

  I take out the piece of paper where I scribbled the address of the apartment I’m letting. It’s in Midtown and wasn’t a bad price so it must be a shithole. The owner had it up on Craigslist. It might not even be there at all. The address is probably some dumpster, the deposit’s probably long gone.

  I press the heels of my hands to my eyes. Negative thought spiral already and I only just left home. Gene would be so proud.

  It’s going to be fine. And if it’s not fine, it’s probably not going to be as bad as you think.

  The thoughts are mostly still in Gene’s voice, but eventually I’ll have repeated these mantras so much they’ll be a natural part of me. That’s what she said, anyway. I hope she wasn’t future tripping.

  2

  Brian

  I always forget how tall Manhattan is. The tallest building in New Paltz is that red brick university tower. I think it’s nine or ten floors. Pretty much everything outside SUNY is two stories with an attic—squat and dormered with a tree outside and a porch. Perfect little farmhouses all in a row, with trellises and flowers and old ladies peeping from behind lace curtains.

  I stand on the sidewalk outside Penn Station and gaze up and up and up at the mirrored giant that is One Penn Plaza.

  I’m not really sure where my new pad is. I probably should have checked before I left, but that would have required forethought. I chew the inside of my cheek as I punch the address into my shitty phone. People brush past, a woman tsks at me for getting in her way. I ignore them. A hawker waves a peak cap with the Statue of Liberty sewn into the visor under my nose. Good going, Brian, you look like a fucking tourist. I sneer at him and he backs away. I may look like a tourist, but I know I also look intimidating with my leather jacket, nose ring and dark eyebrows. I had a teacher who called me “half-feral” on a report card. It was a point of pride.

  Okay, so the address isn’t coming up in Maps. That’s not good.

  My stomach twists itself into a knot while I navigate back to my email to double-check the address. The landlord signed off with his first name—Alex. That should have already been a red flag. And no contact number. What was I thinking? What was I thinking? What was I thinking?

  A bright blue and yellow umbrella with the words “we’re on a roll!” emblazoned on it catches my eye. I stuff my hands into my pockets and stalk across the street to the hot dog stand. I haven’t eaten yet, so I order a frank with everything on it. While the guy is scooping the sausage onto the bun, I ask in the most casual voice I can muster, “Hey man, do you know where I can find Clinton?”

  His brow furrows. “Like, the old president? Or you mean his wife?”

  “No, the uh neighborhood.” I show him the address.

  “Oh!” He laughs a deep belly laugh, like Santa. Ho ho ho. “You mean Hell’s Kitchen. It’s that way.” He points down 8th Avenue in the direction of Times Square.

  “No, I’m pretty sure he said Clinton.” The sun is baking down on my neck, but the sweat beneath my jacket is cold. I don’t come to Manhattan often, but even I know that an area that starts with the word Hell is not a good one. I vaguely recall it’s where that blind superhero fought crime. What was his name? Something with Devil in it. And wasn’t it like full of mobsters?

  The hot dog man smiles broadly. “Businesses like to call it that. Looks better on the stationery, yes?” He winks. “Carry on on 8th for ‘bout a mile. Turn left at the bodega. You can’t miss it.”

  I probably will miss it, but I thank him. The sidewalks are crowded with tourists and I join the flow towards Times Square. The city always smells like garbage and diesel, with a side order of baked concrete and body odor. Why am I doing this? I should just turn around and go home. But what will I tell Dad if I didn’t even see the place?

  I expect the stench to grow worse as I get to my part of town, but the only thing that smells bad as I round the block into my street is me. I was not built for heat. The neighborhood doesn’t stink at all. In fact, it smells like baking bagels and fresh laundry. The street is shaded by trees. I bring out the crumpled piece of paper once again to check the address, but I don’t need to. There’s the building from the Craigslist ad with the red fire escape, right next to the laundromat. It actually exists. It’s walking distance from Times Square and Central Park, it’s affordable and it somehow actually exists.

  There’s no doorman so I creep inside, feeling like an intruder. The lobby is cool. Not like aircon cool, but like really old buildings with proper insulation cool. The elevator has an “out of order” sign, so I take the stairs. My feet echo on the gray linoleum.

  I find my apartment right near the stairs on the top floor—the fourth—check the number again to make sure it hasn’t transposed itself in my head and knock.

  “Hold on!” A female voice calls.

  That voice seems confirmation. I was right. This is a scam. Someone already lives here.

  The door opens to reveal a woman with big hair wrestling an orange tabby. He takes a swipe at her face, wriggles free and darts down the hall.

  “Murdock! For fucksakes! Get back here!”

  I do what any good Samaritan would and race after him. He takes the stairs to the roof. I follow. The little shit is quick and he’s out the open door and through a flock of pigeons before I even reach the top of the stairs, panting and clutching my side. He scampers along the low wall at the edge of the building, onto the fire escape and hops into a tree.

  The woman lets out a string of expletives as she emerges onto the roof. She glares at the cat. He glares back.

  She sighs, then turns to me. “You must be Brian.”

  My heart, which is pounding so hard already, still manages a little double beat of surprise.

  “I’m Alex.” She offers her hand.

  A woman. I’m an asshole for just assuming otherwise.

  “Yeah, Brian.” I accept her hand, intensely aware of how sweaty my palm must be.

  “You want to see the place?” She must catch me looking back at the cat, because she adds, “Daredevil not included.”

  Daredevil. That’s the superhero’s name. “I get it. Hell’s Kitchen?”

  “Yeah. That damned show.” She starts towards the stairs. “You drink beer?”

  “Long as it’s cold, I’ll drink anything.” I hesitate. “Uh… should we call the fire department or something?”

  “What, for Murdock? Nah. He’ll find his way in again. He’s a thug.”

  As Alex leads the way back, she carries on ranting about Netflix and how it did her neighborhood dirty. “I grew up here, you know? Now, Ms. Howard, next door, she can tell you about the old days. It’s not that it’s not real, it’s that it’s so not current. They should have set it in the ’60s if they wanted to set it in the ’60s. Then there was gang warfare and shit. Now, well, you know because otherwise you wouldn’t have taken the apartment.”

  I’m too embarrassed to admit that I do not, in fact, know; that I took the apartment because it was the most recently posted one on the results page for “Apartment in Manhattan” in my price range.

  “My flight leaves in a couple hours,” she says as she opens the door, “but if you need anything just text me and I’ll help you out from Hong Kong.”

  The apartment is long and narrow with a gray carpet. The bathroom is only just large enough for a toilet, basin and bath. I’m relieved to see a shower head suspended on the wall over the bath. Not a fan of soaking in my filth. The
main room is dissected by a breakfast bar with a white vinyl surface. The remaining space is completely taken up by a small suitcase on wheels.

  “There’s beer in the fridge.” Alex waves towards it. “Think of it as a housewarming gift.”

  The fridge looks like it dates back to the Daredevil decades. The stove beside it doesn’t look much newer.

  Alex takes her suitcase by the handle. “Bedroom’s through there. I’ve already put clean linen on the bed.”

  A horrible thought occurs to me. Maybe I misread the listing. Maybe she wasn’t looking to rent out the place, but to have someone house sit while she was away.

  “How long will you be gone for?” I ask, trying to sound unconcerned and failing.

  She pulls her phone out of her pocket. “Six-month contract to start, and then they’ll see. That’s why I don’t want to lose this place, you know?”

  “Lose this place…” I repeat, dumbly.

  “Yeah, it’s rent controlled.” At my blank look, she shakes her head. “I thought you would have figured by the price? You know what places in this area usually go for?”

  “I actually don’t.”

  “So you’re telling me you just stumbled upon my listing by accident?”

  Now I’m really confused. “Maybe you could slow down a minute and explain?”