He awoke hours later to the grind of the outboard motor, the rip of the ignition, and the roar of the engine. A powerful, ravenous sound, one of consumption and speed. His spirits lifted. The captain would be pleased.
“She’s ready to go,” the man said when he’d turned off the motor. He grabbed his erection through his pants with an eye on the boy, standing over him like a giant. The doors had been shuttered and the blinds drawn so that only a fraction of the afternoon light bled into the darkened shop.
“What do you want?” the boy asked, unsure of what he’d promised or what the man might demand. A lesson for next time: be clear about expectations.
The man wanted a lot, as it turned out, alternating between using the boy’s mouth and ass in turn. The man said filthy, ugly things and handled him crudely. Not like his previous lovers, who’d touched him with reverence, like he was precious and rare. This man handled him like a crowbar or a wrench, holding his face against the wooden worktable, shoving his grease-blackened fingers inside him, forcing him to his knees and choking him with his cock. After he’d spilled that way for the second time, the man held the boy’s mouth shut until he swallowed. It was the first time the oyster slime had ever made it down the boy’s throat, and he didn’t like it. Not the taste, nor the sensation, nor the fact that it’d been the man’s doing and not his own.
The man grabbed two beers from the fridge and told the boy to wait until he was ready to go again. The boy was bitter and resentful, but the alcohol helped, dulled the pain and soothed the sting of degradation.
“I should get back,” the boy said, glancing around for his clothes.
“Not yet.”
Realizing he’d have to tie him up or let him go, the man rolled the boy over once more and took him there on the couch, driving into him with brute force, unable to finish but trying his damnedest. He’d paid for his meal and intended to lick the plate clean. The man berated the boy the entire time, as if he’d been robbed his due. His beer breath was hot and sour on the boy’s neck, and the man used him until the boy’s legs gave out, until the pain turned into numbness, and a trickle of what the boy suspected was his own blood began seeping out of him.
The man, disgusted or exhausted or both, climbed off of him at last, told him to clean himself up and get his things in order, that he’d give him a ride back to the docks. The boy took it because he didn’t have the strength or stubbornness to walk the whole way there.
After that, the outboard motor worked like a dream, but the boy couldn’t start the engine without his mind flickering back to that afternoon in the machine shop, remembering what it had cost him.
17
the incident
“Arden, we arranged this already.”
“I’m sorry, Michael, but I’m just not feeling well. I’ve been sneezing all afternoon, and I look like hell. I think I’m coming down with something.”
It was an hour before we were scheduled to have dinner with Bitzy and my father where I planned on telling him, politely, to butt out. I’d asked Arden to join me for emotional support and to give them another opportunity to get to know each other. I suspected this was Arden’s attempt at avoiding him altogether.
“Is this about my book launch?”
“I told you I’m over that,” he said stiffly.
“Matteo’s party then?”
“You know how I feel about repeating myself.”
I did indeed. Arden didn’t like stirring up old arguments or redressing past mistakes. I didn’t know if it was his aversion to conflict or that he might be wounded all over again in discussing it. I recalled something Matteo had said about him at our initial meeting. Arden might forgive, but he didn’t forget.
“Are you sure you can’t make it?” I asked one last time. If he was sick, then so be it, but if it was something else…
“I don’t want to pass along whatever it is that I have. I’ll come over tomorrow if I’m feeling better, and you can tell me all about it.”
We said our goodbyes, and I finished getting ready. My father, Bitzy, and I were meeting at a fancy French restaurant in Midtown, near where my father lived. I assumed he’d be paying, since he picked a place that was out of Bitzy and my price range. I wore a suit and tie (even though something less formal would be just as fitting) because I wanted my dad to take me seriously.
When we arrived, all of us on time, the maître d' informed us there was a wait despite having a reservation. We ordered drinks from the bar, and Bitzy filled us in on the latest. The TV executives were still very much interested in moving forward with the film option and had identified a screenwriter to adapt the first book to roughly six episodes. I asked for some examples of their previous work, and Bitzy supplied them. During that time, we were shown to our table. Once seated, I reiterated that I’d like some input on the adaptation.
“We can arrange it,” Bitzy assured me.
At the same time, my father boomed, “Cut the cord already, Michael. These books are out of your hands. Authors don’t know what works for film, especially when it comes to their own books.”
It reminded me of when I’d showed him my first draft, and he’d told me no publishing house would acquire a mystery where the main character was gay.
“When I told you that I wanted to be a writer, you tried to talk me out of it. When I sold my first book, you told me it’d never make it as a series. Now that I have a television deal, you’re telling me once again that my talent isn’t enough.”
“Don’t take it personal, Michael,” he said in a way that was meant to convey I was overreacting. “I’ve seen contracts fall apart when the writer is too close to the material. I don’t want to be fielding creative disputes between my son and the TV people. It’s not a good look. And I’ve got better things to do.”
Well, that was a perfect segue if there ever was one. Time to, as my father would say, cut the cord.
“That’s why I asked you to dinner tonight, Dad. I’d like Bitzy to handle negotiations moving forward.” And in case it wasn’t clear, “Without you present.”
Bitzy’s jaw dropped. She’d known what I was planning, but we both thought I’d be a little more tactful than that. Unfortunately, when it came to my father, I had to put my foot down or risk being steamrolled.
The waiter came then, bless his soul, and my father practically barked out his order. I told the waiter I’d take the special, whatever it was, and Bitzy ordered a niçoise salad. When he’d left, my dad had not calmed down in the least.
“You get one bestseller under your belt, and all of a sudden you’re the top banana? What makes you think you’re the expert? I’ve been in this business for thirty years.”
“I’m not an expert, Dad, but I’m at a point in my career where I want more control. Six years ago, I needed your guidance and wisdom, but I’m more established now. I know how these things work.”
“You wouldn’t have gotten a foot in the door without me.”
He never failed to bring that up, his ace in the hole. I’d be forever indebted to his connections.
“That’s probably true, but I deserve some of the credit for my success, as does Bitzy.” I nodded to her and she gave an encouraging smile.
“Alonzo,” Bitzy said in her most soothing female tone, the one that always softened my dad right up. “You’ve always been so good to me. You gave me my first shot at the agency, trusted me with your own son’s work. Haven’t I done right by you?”
“Very well,” my father said. “A little wet behind the ears but a fast learner.”
“I think we can make sure Michael has some say-so and still keep the TV people happy. They might even welcome Michael’s input. They’re counting on readers to be at least part of their viewership, aren’t they? People will trust it more if they know the author’s involved.”
If it were me making this appeal, my father would be arguing until he was blue in the face, but this was Bitzy, one of his protégés.
“Maybe you’re right,” my d
ad said reluctantly.
“Of course, I’m right,” Bitzy said, showing off a bit of that Boston brass while laying a hand on my dad’s reassuringly. “Now, why don’t you tell me what I need to know for when I meet with them?”
Bitzy, genius that she was, managed to get my father talking about the upcoming meeting with the expectation that he wouldn’t be there. Masterful. Our food was delivered, and conversation was amicable enough throughout the meal. The waiter was in the middle of replenishing our drinks, when my father bellowed across the table, “Michael, isn’t that your boyfriend?”
I swiveled in my seat to find my lover chatting up another man at the bar. I studied the two of them, too close to be merely platonic. Arden’s posture and body language told me this wasn’t a friend or an acquaintance. This was a john.
“What’s his name? Andrew?”
“Arden,” I corrected.
“I thought you said he was sick?” My dad pursed his lips as though he’d caught us in a lie.
“So, I did.” I wiped my mouth and dropped my napkin on the table, rising to go confront Arden while wondering how the hell I was going to talk my way out of this one. I couldn’t believe he’d lied to me.
I recalled Arden’s fear about his clients’ identities being discovered. Security at Matteo’s party had been tight, so I knew the man was serious about his privacy. There was also Arden’s warning that I not interfere with his livelihood. For all of those reasons and the fact that Bitzy and my father were likely watching me, I figured it best not to make a scene.
“Arden.” I touched his shoulder lightly. His eyes, when they met with mine, were wide. “I thought that was you. I was just having dinner when I saw you and figured I should come over and say, hello.”
My smile was plastered on my face, but Arden must know that I was livid. The other man assessed me with a cold, predatory glare. I didn’t like the look of him.
“Michael, what a surprise,” Arden said amiably, always the showman. There was a tightness in his expression, but other than that, nothing. Arden turned to the john. “Excuse me for just a moment. I need to buy this man a drink.”
Arden led me farther down the bar, where he signaled the bartender and ordered me some type of whiskey I’d never heard of before, a double. He must think I needed a stiff drink.
“Have you fully recovered?” I asked, hating the snideness in my voice.
“It came up last minute,” he said with no hint at apology.
“Are we lying to each other now?”
Arden gave me a wounded look, as if I was the one who’d manufactured this situation. “You’re here with your father,” he said.
“And I told him you were sick.”
The bartender laid the drink on a napkin. Arden paid in cash, leaving a substantial tip. He always over-tipped, and he refused to let me pay for him, both of which bothered me, because he couldn’t afford such extravagances.
“Have a drink,” Arden said. “Then, take me over there.”
I swallowed a deep draught of the peaty liquor, then led Arden to our table where he greeted both Bitzy and my father. He confessed right off the bat that he’d lied about being sick and apologized for it.
“The truth is that I thought this meeting would go better without me here.” He glanced over at me. “Michael is a wonderful writer, and I’m afraid I can’t give him much in the way of good advice. Not like the two of you can.” He smiled affably, always so charming. “I wish I could stay longer, but I’m having a drink with an old friend. I’ll see you tomorrow?” Arden said to me, an effective dismissal.
I nodded tersely and Arden returned to the bar. I sat down again, sick to my stomach. The drink wasn’t strong enough. My lover was a liar, sneaking around behind my back just like Franco. And perhaps even more painful, he’d just chosen a john over me.
“They appear to be very close.” My father eyed the two of them still at the bar. The older man rested his hand on the curve of Arden’s ass. I knew exactly what that particular stretch of muscle felt like underneath my palm.
“Arden’s an escort,” I said. If Arden wasn’t going to disguise it, then neither would I.
“Come again,” my father said, not trusting his own hearing.
“He racked up a lot of debt when he was younger. He’s working it off. I’m telling you now so that you’ll never need to mention it to me again.”
“Your boyfriend is a prostitute,” my father bellowed. I didn’t look around to see if anyone had overheard. Likely they had.
“Yes, he is, and this is the last I’ll speak of it.”
Bitzy swooped in and rescued me, yet again. I watched my Béchamel congeal on my plate. At the bar, Arden whispered something in the man’s ear. Moments later, they were settling their tab. Arden shot me one last inscrutable look over his shoulder, and then he was gone.
I’d always loved a good mystery.
I told my father and Bitzy I was going home, then walked back inside the restaurant, sat at the bar, and ordered a few more rounds of Arden’s fancy whiskey. It was good, and it was expensive. It did the trick.
I was celebrating. Severing ties, stepping out on my own, facing difficult and painful truths.
Part of me wished I’d never seen it. Another part wanted to give Arden an ultimatum. Me or them? This or that? Reality or fantasy? Time to decide. Only, I feared the outcome.
But I couldn’t go on like this. Liam was right. For all the fiction I wrote, I didn’t have the constitution to pretend.
I took a cab back to my place, but when we arrived there, I told the driver to deliver me to Greenpoint. It was a terrible idea. I was drunk enough to be walking sideways and slurring my speech. But I had to see him. And it had to be tonight. I needed something from him that couldn’t wait until the morning. An apology, an excuse. A hard, bitter fuck.
Arden didn’t answer my calls (plural), so I assumed he was still out. I sat on an ugly lime green chair in the lobby to await his return. A lady came up to me once—I’d been napping—and told me there was no loitering allowed.
“I’m waiting for my boyfriend,” I groused at her. Then made an effort to soften my tone. “His name is Arden Evans.”
That seemed to do the trick. His name was like a turnkey to whomever knew him. “Oh, you’re Arden’s boyfriend? Isn’t he delightful?” she said, all warm and bubbly. Had he fucked her too?
“Yes, he is delightful,” I said, feeling all the sorrier for myself.
Finally, what seemed like hours later, Arden returned. His head was down, but I’d recognize those golden-brown waves anywhere. His shirt was unbuttoned, and his suit jacket tossed carelessly over one shoulder. He was walking stiffly, and much to my surprise, heading toward the elevator. He still hadn’t noticed me, so I slipped in after him. Arden startled and raised his head. I saw red.
“Did that john do that to you?” I uttered in a low, feral growl. His cheek was swollen, and one eye was starting to bruise. His lip looked cut as well.
“Michael,” he said in a mixture of relief and despair.
“What the fuck is going on, Arden? And why are you taking the elevator?”
He looked away, and I knew why. Because he was in pain, too much pain to climb four flights of stairs. The john had been rough with him. Not rough, abusive. Had he been raped? I asked him through clenched teeth.
“No, it wasn’t that. Just… more athletic than usual. It happens every once in a while.”
I thought back to the man’s face, the nasty look in his eyes. I thought he’d looked familiar, and then I remembered where I’d seen him before. That night at the club when Arden had seemed hunted.
“That was the man from Carousel,” I said, putting it together, despite my mentally compromised state.
“Yes.”
“You were scared of him.”
Silence.
We got off the elevator, and Arden led me inside his apartment. He poured two glasses of water and offered me one. We stood together in his small kitchen,
hydrating. I waited until Arden had set his near-empty glass on the counter.
“What did he do to you?” I asked, trying very hard to control myself.
“It was consensual.”
“What did he do?”
“I don’t wish to discuss it.”
“What’s his name?”
“You know I can’t tell you.”
“Does Matteo know about this?”
Arden’s eyes skittered away as if tempted to lie. “Yes.”
“I’m going to kill him,” I said with absolute certainty. I wasn’t a violent man, but I knew how to throw a punch. I’d smash his arrogant Romanesque nose. Make him look like the back-alley thug he truly was.
Arden sighed. “You’re drunk and I’m tired. Let’s go to bed. We can talk about it in the morning.”
Arden made a move toward the bathroom and I followed.
“Stay here,” he commanded.
“Why?”
“You know why.”
Because there were bruises and marks and god only knew what else. Blood? I would get the man’s name from Matteo after punching him in the face and find out where he lived. And then I would…
Tears of rage sprouted in my eyes and Arden pulled me close.
“Damnit, Arden,” I rasped.
“It’s okay,” he soothed. “I’m fine.”
“I should be the one comforting you.”
“I’m sorry. I won’t see him again, I promise.”
“What about Matteo?”
“I’ll speak with him tomorrow. We have an appointment. He never forced me, Michael. I chose it.”
A Madness Most Discreet Page 20