A Madness Most Discreet

by Laura Lascarso

  So, he kept saying.

  “I’m coming with you,” I said. I’d never let him out of my sight again.

  “Fine. Go lay down. You smell like the bottom of a whiskey barrel.”

  I waited for Arden to shower and then climb into bed. He wore a long-sleeved shirt and pants where he usually slept naked. I held him gently and stroked his hair. I told him I loved him and waited for him to fall asleep. Then I used his thumbprint to unlock his phone and took it with me to the hallway of his apartment.

  I found Matteo’s number and dialed. It was three in the morning. I didn’t give a fuck.

  “Arden?” he answered almost immediately.

  “You’re lucky he’s alive, you rat-faced son of a bitch. Do you know what happened to him tonight?”

  “Michael.”

  I didn’t give him a chance to answer. “No wonder he doesn’t love you. You treat him like a fucking sex toy, loaning him out to sick, twisted men. You think because you’re rich, you can get away with it?”

  “I advised him against it,” Matteo said tiredly, “but the money was good.”

  “That’s what it’s all about right? The money. Paying him just enough to play your stupid games but not so much that he can be rid of you altogether? Tell me the man’s name.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I’ll call every goddamned number in this phone.”

  “If you do that, you’ll be putting Arden in a very difficult position. And a dangerous one. Many of these men aren’t out to their families or their wives or anyone else for that matter. I don’t think I need to spell out for you what could happen to him. And I can’t protect him.”

  “Of course not. Why would you? He’s disposable to you.”

  “That’s really not fair. Arden is an adult. He makes his own decisions.”

  And wasn’t that the kicker because I knew it was true. Arden took risks, no matter how reckless or dangerous. And I couldn’t stop him.

  “You’re going to pay for this,” I said like a stupid cartoon villain and ended the call. Matteo’s name flashed on the screen a few seconds later, but I ignored it. I scrolled through Arden’s contacts and found more numbers than I cared to consider.

  What the fuck was I going to do now?

  18

  the reason

  There wasn’t much conversation on our way to Matteo’s penthouse the next morning, though I did confess to Arden that I’d called him the night before. Arden was not pleased.

  “Why would you do that, Michael?” he said, as though I was the one in the wrong.

  “Leave him, Arden,” was my terse response. “Leave all of this behind. Start over with me.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Then explain it to me. What does he have on you that you cannot let him go?”

  “I can’t… it’s not like that.”

  He’d let me come as far as the sidewalk café near Matteo’s building but no more. We argued on the street until it became heated. Until Arden nearly stormed off.

  “I swear to fucking god, Michael, you will sit your ass down in that chair and order a drink while I go up there and try to fix this thing with Matteo.”

  “Fix what thing?” I shouted. I motioned to his eye, which had bloomed overnight into something dark and ugly. “End it with him, Arden. It’s over. Cut the fucking cord.”

  Fuck, I was quoting my father now? And I realized I was the problem—that was how Arden saw me, at least. The one screwing up all of his big plans.

  “Wait for me here,” he said with more control. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “If you’re not down here in half an hour, I’m calling the police.” I stormed over to the café and planted my ass in one of their flimsy metal chairs. I tracked his uneven gait to Matteo’s, still trying to mask the fact that he was hurt. Christ almighty. I set the timer on my phone and ordered a bloody Mary even though it was still early in the morning.

  What would I do if nothing changed? Would I leave him? No, probably not, but I would certainly make my best case. Perhaps get Franco involved. Arden couldn’t live the rest of his life indebted to this man, no matter the perks. It was outrageous that Matteo expected it. Perhaps that was part of his Medici fantasy—to keep a beautiful man like Arden as some kind of sex slave. Well, fuck that.

  Arden returned in less than the time I’d given him, and I took it as a good sign. He collapsed in the seat across from me and popped the top few buttons on his shirt. It was hot as hell and not even noon. I was about to inquire about their meeting when Arden began speaking.

  “When I went to Brown, I was a fish out of water. I was poor—had always been poor. My vocabulary was shit. All of my clothes were second-hand and hardly fit me right. I was an eyesore in all respects.”

  I doubted Arden could have been considered an eyesore, but I wasn’t going to interrupt him for that minor point. He swallowed, causing his elegant throat to jog, while I studied him in silence.

  “But I was a quick study. I learned about lacrosse and rowing and skiing—the rich kid sports. I spent my scholarship money to mimic their understated boho-chic clothing. I maxed out my credit cards so that I could fake like I was one of them. Christ, I even learned a whole new manner of speaking. The language of entitlement.”

  He shook his head ruefully. Arden was seldom bitter, and he rarely spoke about his past traumas. I was afraid that the slightest movement on my part might spook him, so I remained quiet and still.

  “But even with all of my efforts, when that stupid sex tape started circulating, everyone assumed I’d done it for a passing grade. It never occurred to them that it was consensual and that I was already doing well in the class. I was once again a white trash Florida hick, and they treated me like garbage.”

  “Fuck them, Arden. You know that’s not true.”

  “But it is true, Michael. I wasn’t raised like you and your friends. They all know you’ve lowered your standards to date me. Even Franco. I’ll never have what you have. I’ll always be scraping the bottom of the barrel in order to survive.”

  I leaned forward and took hold of his hand. “You won’t, Arden. That’s just what Matteo wants you to believe. So that you think you need him. He’s put that poison in your head.”

  “I’m an imposter,” he said, ignoring me. “And I’m sick of pretending. I’m not the person you think I am, and I never was. You deserve someone you can bring home to your parents, someone with prospects. A college graduate, at the very least.”

  “You really think I’m that shallow?” He didn’t answer, so I continued, “I love you, Arden. Only you. You are the standard in every way. I’ve told you over and over that I would do anything for you, and I mean it. Move in with me. Work your modeling jobs. Whatever money you owe, we’ll figure it out together. You don’t need this bullshit, and you don’t need him.”

  “And that’s why I’m ending it,” he said, his face an impenetrable mask.

  “No, Arden—”

  “I had to make a choice.” He bit his lower lip, still struggling to remain as emotionless as possible. “I chose the money. I always choose the money. That’s the difference between you and me, and that’s why we will never work.” He rose, staring down at me with his eyes shining. Was he holding back tears or was it only a trick of the light? “Goodbye, Michael.”

  “Arden.” I stood, tempted to leave without paying. I took a few steps in his direction, but he took off in a sprint. “Fuck,” I shouted and banged the table with both hands.

  I stuffed some bills under my empty glass and stalked over to Matteo’s mansion. I pushed the buzzer aggressively, until the people passing by started giving me looks.

  “Michael,” Matteo said tiredly.

  “I thought we had an agreement,” I said. “A gentlemen’s agreement.”

  “And what was that?”

  “That you weren’t going to make him choose.”

  “I didn’t give him any ultimatums if that’s what you’re insinuati
ng.”

  “You’re a fucking liar.”

  “As I’ve told you before, Arden does what Arden wants. I’m sorry that whatever you had to offer no longer appeals to him. Arden is fickle that way, but I can assure you that he’ll move on quickly. I’d suggest you do the same.”

  “Fuck you,” I yelled into the speaker, earning a withering glare from a rich-looking woman in heels.

  “Charming,” was Matteo’s clipped response, and then he clicked off. I’d let him have the last word.

  I made a full circle on the sidewalk, light-headed from the heat and my own fury. I needed a place to cool down and someone to vent to. Franco was at work, so I headed to Liam’s apartment.

  Liam poured me a glass of Lambrusco, my old standby, and brought the bottle with him to his balcony. He lived not far from Matteo, just across Central Park in the Upper West Side. His apartment building, one of those classic New York Brownstones, had been in the family for generations, and it had a beautiful view of the Hudson and Riverside Park.

  Perhaps I should have held back, but I was distraught and fairly tipsy already. I told Liam about that first john in that seedy hotel room off Route 30, one of Arden’s initial attempts to warn me off him. I told him about our tenuous arrangement, how I’d always wanted more, wanted everything. I blabbered on about how much I loved him, then onto what had happened last night.

  I was on my second glass of wine and nearing the events that had transpired that same morning when Travis appeared in the open doorway, naked save for his tighty-whities. How this grizzled (well-hung) lumberjack had landed in the middle of New York City, I had no idea. He assessed me and the bottle of wine, and then said to Liam, “this looks like it’s going to take a while.”

  Liam nodded and placed a comforting hand on my arm.

  “I’ll be back for dinner,” he said, then stood there, waiting for something.

  He and Liam engaged in a tense stand-off with Liam finally exclaiming, “Oh for fuck’s sake.”

  Liam picked his way delicately around the table and chairs and stood on tiptoe to kiss his Goliath goodbye. The man squeezed Liam’s ass with propriety, and I was shocked that Liam allowed it. Travis gave me a deuces hand sign and then left.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had company,” I said.

  “He’ll be back,” Liam said wryly. “He always comes back.”

  “How nice.” Franco was now monogamous, and Liam had a man who couldn’t be spurned by his sharp tongue. I should be happy for them, but I was, pardon the cliché, in the depths of my despair.

  “So, Arden met with Matteo this morning,” Liam said, prompting me where I’d left off in the story.

  “And he came outside and broke up with me. Right there on the street.”

  Would it have been better if our break-up had taken place in my apartment, in my arms just after making love? Or would it be worse to have that one bad memory tainting all of my good associations of our intimacy?

  “What was his reason?” Liam asked.

  “He was lying.” As usual, I silently added.

  “Well, what excuse did he give you?”

  “That we’re too different. That he didn’t fit in.”

  “He might be right about that.”

  “That’s bullshit. Matteo gave him an ultimatum, and rather than end it with him, he ended it with me.”

  “Are you sure that’s what happened?”

  Matteo wouldn’t have to be explicit. He’d assessed me as a threat early on, and this was a convenient way to get rid of me, when Arden was feeling vulnerable and upset. But, even if that’s what had happened, Arden still made the choice.

  “Doesn’t matter why he did it. I can’t let him go, Liam. I won’t.”

  Liam’s eyes narrowed in concentration while he sized up my predicament. “Here’s what we’re going to do, Michael. We’re going to spend a few hours here getting day drunk, then we’ll continue the party at Carousel where Franco will get you night drunk. Then you’ll stumble home with one of us, wake up tomorrow morning with a terrific hangover, and we’ll assess the situation then.”

  For all of our disagreements, Liam’s plan sounded like a solid one.

  “It’ll all work out,” Franco said in his aggravatingly nonchalant way. Where was this optimism when he was having relationship troubles of his own?

  We were at Carousel. Marquis had just finished his strip tease, this time in cowboy boots. He was backstage, presumably counting his money, and would soon join us upstairs. Travis sat back in the loveseat he shared with Liam, taking up more than half the room. One hand rested on Liam’s upper thigh while the other hand gripped a sweating tall boy of Old Milwaukee. He must not share in Liam’s expensive taste.

  Despite Liam and Franco’s best efforts, I was only mostly drunk.

  “How bad are his finances?” I asked Franco who only shook his head.

  “You know I can’t discuss it with you.”

  I grumbled and checked my phone again. No missed calls or texts. Maybe I should fire off something short and sweet. Thinking of you.

  “Don’t do it,” Franco warned. “Paciencia. Give him some time to cool off. Don’t be like your father.”

  It was the first time the comparison had been made, and it caught me off-guard.

  “You may not like it, but you two are a lot alike,” Franco continued. “Stubborn, determined, focused.”

  “Oblivious,” I said dismally.

  “A little,” Franco agreed. “And solid as a rock, protective, and loyal. Arden knows your good qualities too. He’ll come around, Michael. Lo sé.”

  I wasn’t so sure. Arden had been so furious with me for interfering. He’d warned me he would end it, and he had. Arden was accommodating, but I’d never known him to be indecisive.

  Marquis came over then and insisted everyone join him on the dance floor. I dragged my leaden feet along to the beat and tried to boogie away my sadness. I danced alongside my friends in the press of sweaty, gyrating bodies and thought about how stupid this all was. How stupid he was. To throw it all away like that.

  Liam was right, I thought dismally. We hadn’t even made it until the end of summer.

  Part VII.

  The boy had an unusual relationship with the captain. They really only had two modes. Well, three, in fact: fighting, bickering, and silence. The silence was sometimes due to their practiced efficiency while sailing, in which case, the quiet was near transcendental, like when the boy was with his lovers and they knew instinctively what each of them needed to get off.

  But more often, their silence was the result of one of their many fights, and on those occasions, it festered like a wound, swollen and ugly, until one of them would cool off with a swim in the water or a trip to one of the islands, and then, upon returning, would look at the other uneasily, and decide, usually with the clinking of beer bottles, that the fight was over.

  When they learned of the captain’s diagnosis and that the man was unwilling to undergo the treatment required to heal him, or at the very least, buy him more time, their fight was monumental. It lasted for hours, with the boy pacing and raging on the upper deck, then chasing the captain into the cabin where he spat fury at him some more. Like a hydra, the boy followed the captain to the backyard of his aunt’s house where the boat was docked and into the used pick-up truck the man had bought since he’d resigned himself to becoming a landlubber. They passed out that night, both of them shit-faced, the boy’s voice hoarse from yelling.

  The fight resumed the next morning, with the captain still bleary-eyed from drink and the boy rasping but fresh on the high of righteousness. The captain threatened to hit him if he didn’t shut his goddamned mouth, and the boy, at last, quieted.

  The silence that followed was much worse, like a windless day in July, when even the sails were saturated with damp and listless. When the seas were flat, and no one, not even the birds, were content with their lot in life.

  The captain turned on the baseball game and drank b
eers, one after another. The boy paced, losing items of clothing to the heat, until he wore only his underwear. He cooled off in the bathtub water of the intercoastal, but it felt gross to him, and dirty. It was nothing compared to the clear, turquoise waters of the Caribbean.

  “You’ll get better and we can sail again,” the boy said, changing tactics.

  “I won’t get better, and you need to be in school.” The captain had made sacrifices, in his own way, so that the boy could attend college.

  “I don’t give a fuck about school when you’re down here in this miserable hellhole, dying.” He hadn’t meant the boat, or even Florida. He’d meant the stillness of it all. The hopelessness. The captain was landlocked and stagnant. The two were essentially the same.

  “The doctor gave me six months. All I want to do is set my things in order and die on this here boat.”

  “The doctor said chemo and radiation could prolong your life.”

  “But not save it,” the captain said. He’d never said the word “cancer” himself. But the disease had already begun to spread. It would take a lot just to eradicate it in the places where they knew it lived.

  “You’re being selfish,” the boy snapped. He rarely slung accusations, but the moment called for it.

  “Aye,” the captain said, and then, after another beer, “Why don’t you make yourself useful and take us over to Anclote Key?”

  It had been a long time, nearly a year, since the boy’s last sail, but he knew the drill. He checked the water and propane tanks, and the oil and fuel levels, determined to fill up with diesel before they got too far out. He asked how the engine and bilge had been running.

  “Same as ever,” the captain said, which meant poorly. Either because of poverty or frugality, the captain seldom replaced anything, only patched up what he had, usually with his own spare parts. It was a frustrating way to live but one the boy had come to expect. When the boy learned of the power of credit cards, he wondered why the captain hadn’t taken advantage over the years, but he supposed he knew. The captain was indebted to no man. It was a lesson the boy had not yet learned, but he would.