“You worshiped your mother to an unhealthy degree. Even when she was being an absolute monster, you still tried to please her, to appeal to her vanity.”
My mother was terribly vain, and flattery was one of the only ways to appease her terrible temper. That and gifts. I learned early on in my childhood how to manage my mother’s tempestuous moods.
“It’s not that way with Adam. If anything, he’s trying to please me. He’s terribly insecure.”
“As was your mother. Adam is the version of Heather Hunter you can control. You can tell him what to do, orchestrate his career, dress him up however you want, and …” She waves her hand to allude to the sexual nature of our relationship.
“You’re saying I’m fucking my mother.”
She shrugs. “Freud made some compelling points. When Fabrizio and I broke up, my therapist told me we often pick romantic partners who allow us to relive our childhood trauma, all the while hoping for a different outcome.”
“Disturbing,” I remark, but also not untrue.
“I think it’s great you found someone who’s into your kinks, just make sure you don’t go all Kathy Bates on him.”
“What does that even mean, Lucia?”
“You know, don’t strap him to the bed and break his ankles with a sledgehammer so he won’t leave you.”
“You must have a really terrible opinion of me. I never did that to you.”
“You never saw me as a sexual object,” she says.
“Just because you minored in psychology doesn’t mean you can psychoanalyze me.”
“God forbid I try it.”
Yes, I have a bad track record with therapists.
“Low blow, bestie.” If I were capable, I might even be hurt by it, but for me, it’s mostly irritation that she knows all my secrets and can use them against me at will.
“Respectfully,bestie, all I’m saying is that it’s good to keep some amount of psychological distance between you two. Just in case.”
“In case what?”
“In case he finds some other rich playboy he wants to mooch off of for a while.”
“Unlikely,” I say, and to myself,over my dead body.
* * *
I’min a bit of a mood when I return home. Adam and Elliot are still on the patio, drinking White Claws in the rose-tinted glow of late afternoon. The magic hour, when artists everywhere scramble to capture the beautiful, gilded light, but not Elliot, apparently. Adam is bathed in the oranges and pinks reflected in the sky—golden curls, tanned skin, sculpted body lying loose and languid from the alcohol and draped over a lawn chair like a petulant, spoiled god. What are they even discussing out there? Elliot isnotthat interesting, which means he must be flattering Adam to an unhealthy extent. Adam’s ego is like a body’s temperature. It must be kept at precisely 98.6 degrees.
I call Adam’s cell phone and to his credit, he answers on the first ring. His head pivots to spot me through the French doors and he smiles, genuine warmth and happiness radiating from him. Or maybe it’s just because he’s tipsy. Is his affection for me authentic, or is it only because of my gifts and endless guidance? Lucia has a way of warping my good opinions of people.
“Welcome back, Mr. Peacock,” he says over the phone in a husky voice that tells me he’s looking to be used.
“You have sixty seconds to get your fine ass in here and swallow my cock,” I say briskly then end the call.
His smile widens and he drops his phone on the lawn chair to stretch both arms overhead, preening for me, delaying. I may initiate our games, but Adam is always happy to play along. He says something to Elliot, stands, and chugs the rest of his seltzer, throat working the liquid down his esophagus like he’ll soon be swallowing the juices from my cock. I stroke myself through my expensive slacks and pinch the head. Adam strides languidly toward where I’m seated, pausing at the edge of the room with the door wide open so that I may admire him. He’s not my mother but there are definite similarities.
“I missed you,” he says as he sinks to his knees on the plush carpet before me. “You were gone for a long time.”
“Luckily you had Elliot to entertain you.”
“But you’re my favorite,” he says with a generous pout.
“Take off your shirt,” I command, refusing to give in to his flattery. “You went in the pool?” I ask because the tips of his hair are damp, and he’s wearing the tiny swim shorts I bought him a while back for when Lucia comes over.
