“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 toldmy 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 neededsomethingfrom 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 thatjohndo 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.”
