Bath Haus

by P. J. Vernon

“They’re here!” Nathan shouts, and my heart thrums.

  I slip on a pair of swim trunks and take the stairs like a gallows march. In the kitchen, four champagne flutes wait on a granite counter. Nathan’s slicing peaches and muddling mint for the liquor he’s been watching the clock for.

  He’s made two cocktails before the doorbell chimes. It cuts through the vaulted space like a guillotine, and I will the mint leaves to turn into hemlock.

  Tilly yelps from under the table and bolts toward the sound.

  Don’t be foolish. Don’t be stupid. Don’t be paranoid. Kristian is very much not here. He cannot be here. Ten million Jeffs crawl the planet. None of them are a malicious abbreviation for Jefferson.

  “Finish these for me?” Nathan asks, but he’s running to the front door before I can answer. I’m left alone with only noises to scrutinize.

  You’re okay, I tell myself. You’re seconds away from total relief. You’ll simply meet a new person, that’s all. Then you’ll endure Tom. You’ll pack your bags. And you’ll flee far away with your husband, your legal husband, having proven yourself over pills, over cheating, and out of Kristian’s grasp.

  Wheels on roller bags and greetings unfold in the foyer. My knuckles whiten on the back of a stool. I brace myself, knees bent so they don’t buckle.

  “Oh my god! What a fucking mansion!” Tom’s shrill tenor. “Why is this the first time I’m seeing it?”

  It suddenly occurs to me that I haven’t seen Tom since his messages, his photos. That head-to-toe nude with his lips cracked in a wicked smile. My flaccid dick sent in return. And now we’ll share company. His and someone else’s. Before I can swallow all that, Nathan’s voice interrupts: “Come on in. Let me grab your bags. Oliver? Oliver, give us a hand!”

  Terror ties a ball gag around my skull.

  “Jeff!” Nathan shouts. The man I’ve yet to hear despite being aware of him all along.

  “Hello!” Jeff replies, and I clench my jaw, shut my eyes. Is there an accent? Is Jeff’s voice the one that uncoiled from deep within Haus’s steam and whispered in my ear?

  What are you looking for?

  But whatever words Jeff might’ve offered are drowned out by Tom’s shrieking. Tom’s fucking incessant shrieking. Footsteps. Louder and louder and closing in.

  “Drinks are ready!” Nathan’s as giddy as a six-year-old on Christmas morning, but my knees lock. The whole room rolls and sways like the ocean behind me. My chest catches fire because I’ve stopped breathing.

  They round the corner. First Nathan, a wide smile plastered across his face. Then Tom, mouth agape in perpetual conversation. Then Jeff. He peeks from between Nathan and Tom’s shoulders.

  “Oliver!” Tom waves for a hug. He steps aside and Jeff’s face finally comes into view.

  And Jeff isn’t a Jeff at all.

  But he’s not Kristian because Kristian’s not from Tyre, Indiana.

  49

  I’m stunned. A sandblaster, cranked to high, turns on me. My resolve, my steadiness disintegrates beneath the torrent.

  “I’m Jeff.” Hector extends his hand. He does this forcefully, and despite my being puddled on the kitchen floor, it reminds me of me. Of how I introduced myself to Detective Henning the second time we met, Nathan by my side.

  “Jeff,” I echo, hardly above a whisper. Reflex has my hand take his. When they meet, clasping each other for the sake of charade, electricity arcs through us. From me to him or him to me, I can’t be certain. But there’s energy. A relentless energy fueled by history and heartbreak. Pain and danger and unanswered questions.

  Both our palms are moist like we’re afraid, but Hector’s firm grip says he’s less so.

  “Oliver?” Nathan asks. His tone indicates he’s been saying my name and I’ve only heard him now. “You mind cleaning up in here while I show them their room?”

  Yeah, I say.

  “Oliver?”

  “Yeah,” I repeat, this time aloud.

  “This way, girls.” Nathan gestures to Tom and Hector. Or Jeff, rather. They maroon me in the kitchen, and I turn to the pitcher of pink froth. Another hyena’s cackle from Tom rattles my daze. Think, Oliver. Think!

  Why is Hector here? Chance, coincidence? He encountered Tom on MeetLockr—it’s an encounter, not a meeting. Tom only encounters.

  That makes zero sense. Hector’s home—his alleged home—is hundreds of miles away. What did Detective Henning say about coincidences? No, Hector’s here for me. It’s why he’s pretending to be someone named Jeff. A lie that’s thin as a tissue, but keeping his cover isn’t the point.

  His parting words just days ago, spat through clenched teeth while his grip nearly snapped my arm: Maybe I’ll see you again before that flight.

  Hector has no qualms about fake identities when it serves him. He’s proven that time and again. Fake prescriptions, fake Facebook, and for whatever reason, it serves him now. He’s nearer than he’s been in years. So close, I almost smell the staleness of his winter coat again.

  “Let’s toast!” Nathan reenters the kitchen, Tom and Hector in tow. The three of them each raise a glass. I hesitate, follow suit.

  “To fresh starts,” says Nathan.

  “Fresh starts,” Tom and Hector cheer. Hector’s eyes meet mine as we touch glasses. He mouths thank you.

  Thank you for what!? For not harpooning his ridiculous fraud right from the get-go? What I should’ve done! I should’ve called him out before he set a single foot inside the Kleins’ home.

  But now I can’t, and the room tilts. The walls stretch like long sheets of gauze. I can’t call Hector out because the moment’s already slipped. If I do it now, my initial hesitation will invite far more than questions from Nathan.

  The back of my neck tingles. What would he say if he knew who Jeff was? He’d be furious—and what would he do to Hector? Or Hector to him? There’s an unstoppable force and an immovable object for the record books. A collision so violent it’s astronomical.

  And what about Tom? I push that thought right in front of an imaginary train. Who cares about Tom; he’s brought Hector on himself.

  I won’t tell, Tom had taunted, and my arms gooseflesh.

  A thousand questions swirl, each splintering into thousands more. They number in the millions before my mind sharpens. My gaze fell to Hector’s left hand. Loose at his hip where his thumb hooks his denim belt loop, and any doubts about his intentions vanish. When he notices what I’ve seen, he grins at me in a way Kristian might.

  Years ago, I’d shoved soiled jeans into a fridge, and never looked back.

  Hector is wearing those same jeans now.

  * * *

  • •

  We gather on the back patio to finish the pitcher. Nathan’s bursting chattiness belies a strong buzz. I’m silent, but my mind spirals. Desperately searching out fixes while my knuckles grip a drink I’ve barely sipped.

  Likewise, Jeff is also careful. He responds to Tom or Nathan only when asked. His answers are precise, but he makes a good show of it. Like cruelty, charm comes easy for him.

  This is the same place where, just a short time ago, Nathan cast hope my way. A lifeline that Hector somehow buried a hook in. I’d bit hard, and by the time the shock waned, he’d already started to reel. Steel deep in my flesh, and the line’s getting tauter. Not much slack is left.

  I have to get Hector alone. I have to question him and pray Nathan’s presence keeps me safe. As fucked-up as it is, I ask myself how Kristian would do it. How he’d separate someone from the herd. When I do isolate Hector, I’ll have to roll the dice on how far he’ll take things.

  He hasn’t consumed a drop of liquor since the toast. Hector never doesn’t consume alcohol when it’s available. He’s not sober; I know he’s still using. So what is he planning and why, for the first time in his shit-eating life, does he want to stay lucid?
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  “Oh my god,” Tom squeals as Nathan shares the big news. For some reason, he keeps the lid on our move. “This is amazing!”

  “Congratulations,” Hector says. His tone is off, but I’m the only one who reads it as a sneer.

  When we finally make it to the ocean, Nathan’s drinking goes airborne. Unbroken imbibing through cycles of sunning and wading. At one point, throwing Tilly’s tennis ball down the beach takes more coordination than he can muster.

  I should put food in front of him—chips, salsa, something. Nathan’s taken vacation as license to get wasted, and as expected, the attractiveness of Jeff enthralls him. The more he drinks, the longer he lingers on Hector’s body.

  The thought of Hector and Nathan together—doing anything—shoots bile up my throat. My past and my present mixing. I separated them for a reason, to compartmentalize and control. I feared how a violent confrontation might unfold, but Nathan obviously fantasizing about Hector is almost unbearable.

  Almost. An opportunity emerges, and I seize it.

  “There a good place to smoke?” Hector asks Nathan as they towel off. Sand sticks to their knees and shins, dusts happy trails.

  “Porch is fine.” Nathan gives no indication Hector’s request to smoke—something he abhors—is one bit bothersome. “Grab a coffee cup for the butts.”

  Just like that, Hector nods and makes his way back.

  “You guys good on drinks?” I don’t miss a beat. Our second pitcher has been a watery cupful for the past half hour, and I’ve held it close as a card to play. Alcohol is always a royal flush over any hand of Nathan’s.

  “Bring some beers from the fridge,” he says. “Maybe move a case from the garage to the kitchen?”

  “No problem. You good, Tom?”

  “Beyond good,” Tom oozes behind vintage aviators. Polarized lenses render his eyes unreadable. They’ve been covered all afternoon, making it impossible to avoid being consumed by them.

  Hector’s some six or seven yards ahead on the steps to the house. I trail him, unnoticed.

  When he reaches the deck, I hang back, let him disappear into the kitchen. I count to ten, resume my climb, and my timing is perfect. When he returns—soft pack of Parliaments in one hand, mug in the other—our eyes meet.

  He flinches. His mask slips, just for a second, because he’s trapped.

  I get to the point: “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  His chest swells as he takes in a deep breath, steadies himself.

  “I’m here with Tom.” He slips a single white cigarette from his pack. Despite my anger and confusion, the crispness of unsmoked paper tugs. “Tom, who was so fixated on name-checking his own social media handles—the accounts that brag on his behalf—he never bothered to notice Jeff’s lack of online presence.”

  “I bet Hector has one, though. You’ve got thirty seconds till I grab my phone and out your ass.”

  “Good luck with that.” He gestures with his own phone. “Signal’s pretty shitty out here.”

  “You don’t think the Kleins have Wi-Fi?”

  “You don’t think the modem was the first thing I looked for?” He draws closer, props his elbows on the banister behind me. Our shoulders brush. Skin on skin. “Folks always put it somewhere central. Like the parlor or salon or whatever these people call a living room.”

  “New job in pharmaceutical sales,” I mock, “sure sounds a lot like stealing home modems.”

  “I didn’t touch it.” He waves the mug, smiles. “Just got a little sloppy with my water.”

  Shit. The answer to how far Hector’s willing to go? Very.

  “Want one?” He puts a second smoke on the railing, where I leave it untouched. Pop of flame from his lighter and he sucks. “You used to smoke. Quite a bit. Guess Oliver Klein quit.”

  He blows in my face, and I turn to the beach. Nathan and Tom are half-naked blurs on bright towels, and Hector’s capable of much worse than soaking a modem.

  “Nathan doesn’t strike me as the type that likes smoking.” He pulls another long drag. “What is he, like, a doctor, right? Doesn’t look like he’d put up with it.”

  This last sentence, the way Hector says put up with it, sharpens my ire into something pointy.

  I stab: “Tell me what you want.”

  “You’ve made a good go of it, Oliver.” Why does he keep saying my name? “Look at this place. Your life. Your boyfriend or husband or whatever. The ring on your finger?” His eyes fall to my hand, and I hide it in my pocket.

  “You know nothing about me.”

  “I know about us.” He steps away from the railing, turns to face me. “I know you’re gonna lie. Gonna tell me you found something better. But I could smell boredom the second I walked through the door. Stinks like stagnant water, and guess what?” He sucks another drag. “You reek.”

  “Want some real talk, Hector?” I ask. “Want to compare yourself—who steals petty shit to pay for whatever the hell you put in your veins these days—to Nathan? Look around, asshole. You don’t stack up.”

  “Oh, I’ve looked around,” he scoffs. “You’re a sugar baby, Oliver. And that sexist joker?” He points at Nathan with the cherry of his cigarette. “He treats you like the pool boy ’cause you let him. ‘Be a doll and bring towels.’ ‘Serve us girls drinks, babe.’ ‘Don’t be clumsy with the glasses.’ Tell me, Oliver. When you break something expensive, does he dock your pay or just fuck you harder?”

  Hector takes a step closer, and my pulse spikes. I make tight fists. The pitcher I’d brought sits on the patio table. Empty and glass and I could leap for the handle.

  “You didn’t stumble on some new idea.” Hector’s tone veers. “I’ve been with men like Nathan. For the same reason as you. To survive. The houseboy bit might not be abuse, but we both know he’s got a dog collar around your neck. We both know the nasty shit rich guys get off on, and all the Viagra they pop to do it.”

  “Funny thing is I don’t.” I grind my molars. “Because Nathan isn’t some dentist in Tyre I bang for painkillers.”

  “Look.” Hector flicks his still-smoldering cigarette over the rail. “Lie to me, but not to yourself. You know Nathan’s always watching, always tracking, never letting an opportunity to humiliate and denigrate and shit on you pass him by. Nathan knows the second you wise up is the second you leave. And you can leave, Oliver. I did.”

  Somewhere behind my eyes, I feel tears coming. I bite into my cheek to stop them.

  “We’re the same, and I can help you. Get you out and bring you home. You may not remember what it’s like to be a man’s equal, but I promise you will. A man who loves—”

  “A man like you?” Tears break, and my voice catches. “That right? A man who tried to—”

  “I get why you ran.” His eyes chase mine wherever they go. An ocean to one side, a mansion to the other, and nothing to see save Hector. “I know what I did, and I’m sorry. Said so over and over in my voicemails—”

  “I deleted them. Never listened to a single one. I’m happy now, Hector. I’m getting married.”

  “To that asshat?”

  “You tried to rape me.”

  “I said.” He tightens his jaw. “I know.”

  “I didn’t care how sorry you were then, and I don’t care now. I left you and drugs and Tyre fucking Indiana because I wanted to. It was my choice. I know what I want. And right now”—my whole body shivers—“I want you out!”

  “You don’t get it.” Heat flushes Hector’s cheeks and his dark eyes burn. “I came all the way from Tyre fucking Indiana, as you say. I’m not leaving. Not without you.”

  There’s a new venom in his voice, and fear blooms. Standing here on this deck, clenching my fragile shot at happiness between his sharp teeth, Hector is breaking me. He’s breaking me because he knows how. I fight against tears but can’t stop them fro
m falling fast and heavy.

  I grab the pitcher, stutter, “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “What did I just say about lying to yourself?”

  “I’m going inside.” I wipe my eyes, my lips. “I’m getting my phone. I’m telling Tom who you are. I’m telling Nathan.” I start to turn, and Hector’s hand falls on my shoulder, his grip tight. Same as when he struck my face.

  “The fuck you are.” My heart thumps louder, harder.

  Ice sloshes as I raise the container high. “I will break this over your head.”

  His grasp loosens, and I jerk my shoulder from it, half expecting him to lunge. He’s got nothing to lose now, and it might take more than smashing glass on his skull to stop him.

  Instead, he smiles. A sick sort of smile like bad milk. “You want me gone?”

  “Jesus. Did you hear anything I just said?”

  “Pay me.”

  “What?”

  “You hear anything I just said?” he parrots, then: “Pay. Me.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  But the smile fades and a new coldness says he’s deadly so. “This was always going down two ways. Only ever two.”

  The cold climbs my shoulders.

  “You either come back with me or you don’t. But no matter which”—he tips his stubbled chin to the beach—“you’re cleaning out a couple of Dr. Klein’s accounts, you follow?”

  I scoff. The proposition’s ridiculous enough to pull me back from the edge.

  “I need cash. You got cash. Fifty thousand bucks, and Jeff dumps Tom over dinner tonight.”

  “No.”

  “Jeff is a needy lover.” Again, Hector careens. He unlocks his phone, and where this is headed is anyone’s guess. “Paranoid and prone to checking iPhones. Texts, calls, camera rolls.” He turns his screen, and the image hits like a sledgehammer. “Your face might not be in frame, but I’d recognize you anywhere. Bet Nathan would too.”

  “Hector—”

  “Cash, Oliver. I’m not fucking around.”

  I swallow painfully. Hector may have nothing to lose—and that may make him dangerous—but it also makes two of us now. “Go fuck yourself.”