“He wouldn’t.”
“And if there’s a maintenance issue?”
“Then I call the super.”
“What if there’s a leak in the unit above yours, and your expensive clothes get ruined. Or your books?”
Arden thought about it. “I guess I’d just get new ones.”
I was drifting from my target. “So, what you’re saying is, you’d like to keep your apartment?”
Arden gave a small smile, indulging me, and nodded. “Think of it as a storage unit. I’m here all the time anyway.”
Except for when you’re not.
“Then at least bring some of your favorite things over here.”
He rose up and shifted so that he covered me, his smooth body warm and pliant against my more hirsute one.
“But my favorite thing is already here.” He gave me a long, languid kiss. The kind that melted in sunshine and left only sweetness behind. His invitation led to another round of lovemaking until I’d forgotten the thrust of my argument entirely.
That was likely his goal all along.
At my next opportunity, I called up Franco and asked him to meet me for dinner.
“Is this a date?” he asked playfully.
“No, it’s a business dinner. You can write it off on your taxes.”
“Does that mean I’m paying?”
“I’ll do you one better. I’ll pay and give you the receipt.”
We met that night at an Italian restaurant in Cobble Hill, a place we used to go when we were officially dating. You could call it our place, but I hoped we’d both moved on from attaching any romantic associations to it.
Regardless, they had a killer chicken parm with a crisp breading, and their homemade marinara had a little kick. Their bread and house red were good too. I ordered a bottle for us to share. We caught up for a few minutes. Franco informed me he was no longer dating Marquis, which begged the question, why not? He informed me that the man was only out for his money.
“You did begin the relationship by stuffing dollar bills down his jock,” I said.
Franco pursed his lips then gave a rueful smile. “Well, when you put it that way. He did have a beautiful ass.” Franco’s sigh was a little forlorn. “A lo hecho, pecho. How are things with you and Mr. Fabulous?”
“Pretty fabulous.” I’d mulled it over before this meeting, how much might be necessary to disclose about Arden’s past and current vocation in order to give Franco a fuller picture of what I was asking. I hated that I was confirming Franco’s initial suspicions about Arden, but I didn’t see any way around it. If Franco wanted more info, he could ask Arden directly. So, I gave him the basics. That Arden was in debt—how much I didn’t know. That he had an arrangement with a rich man where he was paid under the table for services that were likely sexual in nature.
“I’d like for him to be financially independent,” I said. “I think he wants that too. I offered to have him move into my place to cut down on his monthly expenses, but he politely declined.”
“He doesn’t want to be your kept boy,” Franco said. “I wish Marquis had some of that. We’d go out to eat, and he’d order the most expensive thing on the menu and then eat only half. Who does that?”
“Maybe he didn’t want to eat too much if the two of you were going to be intimate later.”
“Then he should order an appetizer.”
“Franco.”
“What? I like nice things, but I’m not wasteful.”
That was true. Other than his designer suits and luxury automobile, Franco was fairly frugal. It was why Liam always brought the wine.
“I’m sorry things didn’t work out with Marquis. I hope you let him down gently.”
“He broke up with me.”
“Really?”
“Yes. We had a fight. About pancakes. Well, one pancake in particular. He told me to enjoy fucking myself and stormed out.”
I’d done something similar on more than one occasion. Franco could inspire the wrath of even the most level-headed man.
“Did you apologize?” I assumed the fight was Franco’s fault.
“Yes.”
“Did you use the English-is-your-second-language excuse?”
“I tried.”
“What about the boarding school one?”
“That one too.”
“What about the, ‘I’m descended from the kings of Spain, and in my country, we don’t do things that way?’”
Franco gave me a perturbed look. “Be nice to me, Michael. Can’t you see I’m suffering?”
I patted his hand in sympathy. “Have you tried calling him?”
“Yes, but he refuses to see me. I should try Venmo. At least then I’ll get a receipt. Anyway, enough about my problems. What is it you need?”
I wasn’t surprised by the sudden shift in conversation. Franco didn’t like to dwell on his own failings.
“I was hoping we could revisit you taking a look at Arden’s finances. He wouldn’t want me involved, but he’s said himself he’s not good with money.”
“Are you trying to break up the family?”
“What do you mean?”
“Arden has a relationship with a man, one that sounds beneficial for both sides, and you want to get between them. How do you know it’s just sex?”
I stammered. “I guess I don’t. It just seems that… well… if Arden wasn’t obligated to him…”
“Then you could have him all to yourself?”
Franco had a way of cutting through the bullshit.
“Look, I don’t want to be involved in Arden’s financial decisions. And if he wants to continue his relationship with this man, I won’t stop him, but I’d like for it to be on his terms. Arden has this… ” I didn’t know how to describe it. “When he’s working a job, he becomes this whole other person, and I’m not sure he likes it.”
“Maybe he does like it. You of all people know how satisfying it is to slip into another character.”
“Franco, fuck, would you just help me out here? As a friend?”
Franco chuckled. He loved to rile me up. “I said it already, I’d be happy to meet with him. You can give him my card.”
“That’s not enough. I’ve offered before, and he hasn’t taken me up on it. Maybe if I can get you two together.”
“And I give him my pitch?”
“Yes, and I’d prefer you offer to do it for free. Just send your invoices to me. Or, if it’s a commission thing, take it out of our arrangement.”
“He’d be upset to know you’re doing this,” Franco said.
“Probably, but it’s worth the risk.”
Franco considered it. His time and expertise were valuable, but he rarely turned me down.
“All right,” he said at last. “How do you want to do this? Should I drop by when you two are in the middle of fucking?”
I shook my head at his stupid fantasy. “How about Sunday brunch? I’ll mention it to Arden. Tell him you broke up with your boyfriend, and you’re feeling lonely.”
“Should I act heartbroken?” Franco asked with a clownish sad face.
“Don’t be an ass. I’ve seen you make up worse stories when talking to investors.”
“I don’t lie to my friends, Michael,” he said as if that’s what I was suggesting.
“Because you’re such an honest man,” I said. He gave me a hurt look. The thing with being friends with ex-lovers was that you knew all the ways in which to wound them, in small ways and in big ones. But Franco, being the generous man that he was, let my dig go unanswered.
“Brunch on Sunday,” he said. “I’ll bring the champagne, since I know you’re on a budget. But if this plan of yours goes tits-out, don’t blame me.”
“Tits-up,” I corrected.
“Tits up, tits out, wherever there are tits, you’ll be in trouble.”
I nodded and considered myself warned.
We opened the French doors to the balcony and set up the dining table so that it straddled the doo
rway, since there wasn’t enough space on the fire escape for us to be fully outside. It would have been better if the construction crew didn’t have front-row seats to our display and vice versa, but the weather was beautiful and so was my lover.
“Don’t they ever get a day off?” I mused to a steady percussion of banging in the background.
“They’re behind schedule,” Arden said.
“How do you know that?”
“I asked them. You should talk to your neighbors more often, Michael. If you did, you’d know that they’re due to finish up work at the end of this summer, that the hat shop has got in a new line of adorable fedoras, and our flower lady has just become a grandmother.”
I didn’t have a flower lady until Arden insisted on buying them fresh. I wished I had his gift of knowing just what to say to put people at ease. Even then, I probably wouldn’t go seeking conversation with strangers. Maybe it was a New Yorker thing.
“You are a man of the people,” I said.
“I am the people.”
Arden had brought over some of his own clothes in the past week. Today, he wore a white linen shirt with delicate, mother-of-pearl buttons. The fabric was so thin that when the light was at his back, you could glimpse the shape of him. His fitted pants were a Victorian blue that showed off his bare ankles, though he admitted it was due to his trouble in finding trousers that fit both his long legs and slim waist, more so than any fashion statement.
He’d found a forgotten shower curtain in my linen closet to use as a tablecloth, which he said was necessary for a proper setting, and he was, at present, arranging a bouquet of flowers in a glass vase. Watching him delicately place each stem to highlight the flower’s form and beauty, with the morning light streaming in around him, how could I not fall in love?
“What?” he asked, glancing up at me. His cheeks were full of color, his hazel eyes teasing.
“I adore you.”
His smile widened, turning bashful, and his gaze dropped before slowly rising again. “I adore you too,” he said, only quieter and with less confidence.
He made his way over to me, planted his feet wide so that we were roughly the same height, and gave me one of those slow, sensual kisses that never failed to dissolve clothing in a matter of minutes.
“We’d better get this out of the way now,” Arden said, licking the seam of my lips. “We don’t want to make Franco even more sad about his breakup.”
I nodded, feeling a little guilty for the mistruth. “You started it this time.”
His smile turned into a scowl. “How can I not kiss you when you say such stupid things?”
I grinned and slid my hand along the curve of his ass, cupping him gently. “I love you,” I said, making it official.
He dropped his forehead so that it met with mine. “I love you too. And don’t start something you can’t finish.”
Arden went back to fussing over the flowers, and I took a store-bought quiche out of the oven to cool. I also had an egg white and spinach version without crust for Arden and some other carb-light dishes. I’d mentioned that he might be better off gaining a few pounds, but he insisted that the camera added too much weight already, and that it was far easier to maintain his physique than to indulge and have to work it off later. It was yet another area of his life where I overreached.
Franco arrived soon after with two bottles of Moet (expensive for him), and I set to making mimosas. Arden listened patiently while Franco talked about his trials at work that week. Marquis’s name didn’t come up at all, and I worried Arden might see right through my ruse, but when we sat down together at the table, conversation shifted again, and Franco admitted that he was missing his ex.
“I couldn’t afford him,” Franco said, and I cringed internally at the phrasing. “He made me feel like a human cash machine.”
Arden nodded in sympathy and Franco eyed him thoughtfully. “I bet you have a lot of hot friends. Maybe you could introduce me?”
Arden laughed and then proceeded to pull up his Instagram feed where he and Franco mulled over said friends’ various attributes. Arden invariably highlighted their personality and character while Franco focused more on their appearance. Arden took it a step farther and snapped a picture of Franco sitting on my balcony with the stem of a peony between his teeth. He then posted it to his Instagram with the caption, This handsome Spaniard is up for grabs. DM me if you’re interested. That set off a flurry of responses, which they had a good time in fielding. By this time, I’d drunk three mimosas and felt our mission slipping away. I kicked Franco under the table, and he jolted so hard that the table shook and rattled the dishes.
“Right,” he said and then straightened up a bit. “You know, Michael, I was looking at your investment portfolio the other day, and I think we should move some of your stocks away from discretionary goods and into the technology sector.”
“I trust you, Franco. If it weren’t for your planning, I’d be worried, not having another book in the hopper.”
“That’s why I’m here,” he said magnanimously. Our attempts at being conversational came off as rehearsed, and Franco, half-drunk and senseless, turned to Arden without any segue whatsoever. “Being self-employed, I could set you up with something similar. A rainy-day fund for when your modeling may be slow.”
Arden’s eyes cut from Franco to me and he said, very sweetly, “Lucky for me, I have a pretty regular gig of sucking cock.”
My face blanched and Franco stalled for a beat before recovering. “Do you claim that income?”
“No,” Arden said. “The IRS isn’t exactly set up for sex work.”
“I have a client who grows marijuana in a state where it’s not legal. They claim their sales as produce and list themselves as organic farmers. Both are true. The IRS doesn’t care so much about the exact service you’re providing, only that they’re getting their cut. You probably have a lot of expenses that could be written off—travel, clothing, personal care, cell phone service and internet if you use them as your main way to communicate. I could go over it with you sometime.”
“I don’t think—”
Franco, now on a roll, interrupted him. “When I met Michael, he had thousands of dollars in a savings account that was paying pennies in interest. We invested that money in broad index funds, which have a much higher yield and are fairly low risk. Since then, his principle has tripled in size.”
“Michael,” Arden said, eying me steadily. “May I speak with you privately?”
Franco shrugged helplessly, and I followed Arden into the bedroom. His carriage was stiff as he squared off with me.
“You told me he was getting over a breakup,” he said.
“He bounces back pretty quickly.” I’d hoped Arden would find that funny, but no.
“I thought he wanted to get to know me better, as a person.”
Christ, I’d hurt his feelings. That was the last thing I’d wanted to do. I stepped closer to touch him, but Arden moved away.
“Arden, he does want to get to know you better. My friends are all very interested in you. They’re begging me for another dinner party, even Liam.”
“You set me up,” Arden said with a note of betrayal.
I sighed and dropped my head, ashamed of my duplicity. There was no use in denying it. “You’re right. I did.”
“Do you think I’m stupid?”
“No, I don’t think that at all, but you’ve told me yourself you’re bad with money, and I thought Franco could help.”
“The last time someone made me that offer, I ended up with a sex tape I didn’t ask for and a school probation.” Arden must be referring to his indiscretion at Brown. My lack of surprise triggered something else. “Wait, you knew about that?”
This plan of mine was imploding with astounding velocity.
“Liam has a friend who was a teacher’s assistant at Brown.”
“Liam knows too?” Arden said, even more alarmed. “Does everyone?”
“I don’t know, an
d I don’t care. It’s in your past.” Arden looked at me as if to say it was very much his present, but that was not the topic of discussion, so I barreled on. “You can trust Franco. He’s a friend.”
Arden’s expression conveyed his skepticism. “The nature of my business is very private. I know the secrets of some very powerful men. Men who could ruin people like you or me with a word. I can’t have it getting out—who my clients are or what they’ve done.”
“You don’t have to go into any detail. Franco’s a numbers guy. Even if you don’t claim your income, he can figure out a way to invest it, or consolidate your debt and bring down your interest rate. Whatever it is that you need.”
“You trust him?” Arden asked.
“Not with my heart, but with my money, yes.”
Arden chewed on the end of his thumb, caught himself doing it, then stopped.
“Let me talk to Franco alone,” he said. I nodded and gestured to the door, signaling that I wouldn’t follow. Arden closed it behind him, and I sat on the edge of my bed, hoping I hadn’t made a huge mistake in orchestrating this. I’d done it with (mostly) good intentions, but I hadn’t known about Arden’s previous experience—that he’d been taken advantage of in more ways than one. I also didn’t realize that to disclose his work might put him at risk.
I’d done my part, and it was in Arden’s hands now. I wouldn’t bring it up again. I probably wouldn’t bring it up again. Who was I kidding? Of course, I’d bring it up again. The thought of anyone—clients or creditors—preying on Arden made my blood boil.
They certainly seemed to be taking their time. I heard them laughing, which I took to be a good sign. I paced the room for a while, then stared absently out the window at the project across the street. One man to hammer and ten more to supervise.
A few minutes later, I heard the clinking of glasses, and I hoped some arrangement had been made. Arden called for me. The two of them looked smug as well-fed house cats. Franco was twirling his near-empty champagne glass, his smile too gleeful to be a simple favor for a friend.
“We reached an agreement,” Arden said. The light in his eyes was brilliant, his face beatific in his excitement.
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