I fucking love it here—right here. This house on the hill above Camp Haven. I love the night sounds and the star-filled sky and the smell of summer. I love the thump of music from below, the faint splashes from the pool, the occasional howl of pleasure or pain or probably both.
Liev—and now Grace’s—place is one of those big, wide brick houses that looks low-slung, but has weirdly high ceilings. I’ve never hit my head on a single doorframe here. I like the sturdy pillars on the front and back porches, the thick walls and tall windows. According to Liev, it’s a craftsman bungalow, whatever the hell that means. I like it, though, and I like the way Grace has worked with Liev to redecorate. Everything about it is warmer than the pristine finish of the significantly older, fancier, and more expensive Georgetown house I share—shared—with Twyla.
“You okay?” Liev asks, watching me in that quiet way of his that sees everything.
“Good.” Ignoring the twinge in my chest, I sink into the old-fashioned rocking chair, suddenly not looking forward to telling the whole story of how I got here. “Fuckin’ glad to be home.”
The front gate squeaks. Out of habit, I lower my head, hiding my face in the shadows, although it occurs to me for the first time that it might not matter anymore if my fellow kinksters—the folks I consider to be my people, after all—recognize me.
Shouldn’t have bothered. The voice that sails over the boxwoods is instantly familiar. Lamé. The only other person who knows my secret.
“He here yet? I swear to goddess if you are hoardingtheZion Mason up in here, just keeping him all to yourselves, you two, I will—” Lamé’s tall form sweeps around the bushes, all floating dress, swishing hair, and swinging bag, and comes to a dead stop the moment they see me. Their pale ochre skin glows warm in the light of the candles, their eyes wide and bright and excited. “Oh my god, honey. You made it.” Lamé starts up again, picking up speed.
I stand and, by the time they’re on the porch, I’ve got my arms open and, I’ll tell you, Lamé knows how to hug. There’s a fierceness to the embrace that makes me feel…well, loved, I guess. Embraced in every sense.
I sigh, long and deep, breathe in this summer’s new perfume, and hug them tighter.
They finally step back with a sniff and flick a long-nailed hand into the air. “I’ll take a mai tai, Boss.”
Liev, who’s started to stand up from the seat he’s sharing with his girlfriend, sinks back down when Lamé snorts. “Kidding.” They drop the sparkly rainbow bag from their shoulder and hold it open. “Brought my own.” From the tote, our very own Mary Poppins pulls out a ton of shit, only instead of a lamp and so on, there’s a massive cocktail shaker, four martini glasses, a jar of ice and then—Christ, I swear there’s magic involved—they produce a tray of those little pigs in blankets that in my other life are called canapés.
Once our glasses are all filled and the food’s served—somehow still hot—and Lamé’s settled into a deep, wicker armchair, they lean forward and give me a stern look. The kind that brooks no argument.
“Now, what fresh hell did you go and get yourself into, young man?” Lamé’s seven years younger than me, but whatever. “And what, pray tell, have you done”—they look over one shoulder, then the other—“with your lovely spouse, ’cause I know you didn’t leave her to fend off the paps on her own.”
Half to piss them off and half because I need it, I slug back the whole fucking mai-tai in a single gulp and let my head fall against the chair, with a long, drawn-out, exhausted, “Fuck.”
“You left her,” Lamé says, voice flat.
“She’s safe.”
“Safe? Where? There’s no safer place than camp.”
“Twyla’s not like us, Lamé. She’d hate it here.”
“Yeah?” Lamé’s thick, perfectly-shaped eyebrows lift above eyes that are currently tinted purple. “If she hates what we have, then she doesn’t deserve you.”
“It’s afakemarriage. How many times do I have to tell you? We were not…together.” Liev sniffs and I turn to him. “What? You saw how it was in the truck. She hates me.” A sick feeling rises up inside me at the way I left things with her. No, it wasn’t a real relationship. But I fucked her over and I know for a fact I didn’t do enough to fix it.
I will, though. Somehow, I’ll make it up to her.
“No comment.” A smile plays at Liev’s lips. That happens a lot these days, which is good to see, generally. What I don’t like is the knowing expression he’s wearing. Like somehow I’m not seeing what’s really happening here and it’s my life, dammit.Mine.They have no idea what it’s like being me right now.
“I’ve got a comment,” Grace says, so casually I know she’s about to set fire to this whole conversation. “If you’re not into your wife, Zion, then why’d you go and fuck someone who—”
Liev clears his throat, catching Grace’s eye with a quick head shake. I see it all, obviously. How could I not?
“Someone who what?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure I don’t want to hear what she was about to say.
“Never mind.” Grace shoots a look at Liev. “So, how is she, do you think? Pissed?”
“Twyla?” That nasty thing squirms inside me again. It feels like guilt or shame or a toxic mixture of the two. “Yeah, she’s pissed. She’ll be fine, though.” I hope. Shit, why’d I leave her to fend for herself like that? What kind of selfish prick does that?
“You know what would be funny?” Lamé jumps up and pours me another drink. “Imagine if your gorgeous little hotty of a fake wife turned out to be, I don’t know, kinky or something? Wouldn’t that be fun?”
“What?” My head’s starting to hurt. “No!”
Lamé rears back, looking almost hurt. “Have you not even wondered if she’s kinky?”
