A Madness Most Discreet Read online

  A Madness Most Discreet

  A Midsummer Story

  Laura Lascarso

  Contents

  Description

  1. the meeting

  2. the lunches

  3. the dinner party

  4. the apartment

  5. the rumors

  6. the muse

  Part I.

  7. the john

  8. the arrangement

  Part II.

  9. the finances

  10. the threesome

  Part III.

  11. the friends

  12. the benefactor

  Part IV.

  13. the gift

  14. the slight

  Part V.

  15. the party

  16. the afterparty

  Part VI.

  17. the incident

  18. the reason

  Part VII.

  19. the aftermath

  20. the announcement

  VIII.

  21. the reunion

  22. the proposal

  Epilogue

  Part IX.

  Acknowledgments

  The complete Mortal and Divine Trilogy

  Other Works

  About the Author

  Published by

  Laura Lascarso

  www.lauralascarso.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A Madness Most Discreet

  First Edition: © 2020 Laura Lascarso

  Cover Art by Laura Lascarso

  Original Illustration by MopsTati

  Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

  All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Laura Lascarso via lauralascarso.com.

  ISBN: 9798646006760

  Description

  Michael D’Agostino is a bestselling mystery author suffering from writer’s block when he meets Arden Evans, a beguiling escort and catalog model attempting to write a memoir of his own.

  Michael is captivated by the young man, whom he finds refreshingly honest and authentic. When Arden asks that they “keep it simple,” Michael readily obliges. Their arrangement becomes increasingly complicated, however, as Michael begins to want more from his enchanting lover.

  And then there is the matter of Arden’s finances, something so fiercely personal that Arden refuses to discuss it. This same debt is what obligates Arden to his wealthy benefactor, much to Michael’s vexation.

  Michael wants their love affair to last, but how do you hold onto a man whose gaze is forever fixed on the horizon?

  1

  the meeting

  Arden Evans had the kind of sweetness heralded by theologists and poets alike as divine. Like that first crunch of a fresh apple or the pop of a ripened grape as it spreads across the tongue, Arden’s sweetness had the potential to move me toward ecstasy or madness.

  I met Arden at a book signing in my honor, hosted by my father’s literary agency. I’d just made the New York Times Best Seller List for my latest release, the fourth in a series of mystery novels set in the Adirondacks and popular among the aging Grisham demographic. The previous three had been building steam over the past few years, and this achievement was a first for me. Proof that my success wasn’t only the result of my father’s connections but that my talent and work ethic might also be to blame.

  I was at the bar, hovering near my agent and good friend Elizabeth “Bitzy” Lane. We’d met at Columbia where we both studied English and Comparative Literature. Bitzy wanted to be an editor for one of the Big Five publishing houses but interned at my father’s agency where I was destined to wind up as well. When I, with trembling hands, presented my father with my first manuscript, what would one day become the beginning of Cold Lake Chronicles, he told me I’d need an agent, and naturally, I chose Bitzy.

  My father thought my first book would be a flop. And he didn’t expect me to be able to reproduce the second in the series to that caliber, which was why he’d insisted the first book be sold as a standalone. When my second book did just as well, he begrudgingly acknowledged that I might have some writerly talent after all.

  How much of my success can be credited to my compulsion to impress my father?

  Bitzy was working the crowd on my behalf, my wing woman at these types of events. Her Boston accent became more pronounced when she’d been drinking. Or when she was angry. She was at about a five right now, but I’d known her to get full-on townie, especially when defending one of her own.

  I only half-listened to her exchange with an older gentleman, a reviewer for Reader’s Digest. I was stressed about the reading I was supposed to deliver in less than a half hour and debating as to whether another glass of wine might help or hurt my performance. What I really wanted was a cigarette. Even though I’d given up smoking a few years back, times like these really tested my willpower. I went for the wine instead.

  “Michael, have you thought about what your next project will be?” Bitzy asked with an amused tilt to her head, which clued me in to the fact that she was repeating the question for my benefit.

  I struggled for an answer. I’d just sent the final installment of Cold Lake Chronicles to my editor for proofing, which meant I should already be well on my way to drafting my next book, but I’d been sorely lacking in inspiration. I’d even considered penning something outside the mystery genre, which had caused such a kerfuffle with my father that he’d scheduled a lunch with my publisher. They all but gave me an ultimatum. They wanted another mystery. Something the same, only a little different.

  Since then, I’d been paralyzed by doubt.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” I told the man whose bright, inquisitive eyes were still focused on me. He said he’d read all of my books and was looking forward to what had been billed as the final installment, due to come out that summer.

  “It’s going to be hard to top Vanishing Point,” he said. “I was at the edge of my seat in that one.”

  “It certainly will,” I told him with an affable nod. Thank you, kind sir, for voicing my exact insecurity. “If you’ll excuse me.” I ignored Bitzy’s raised brow. I needed some fresh air before I disassociated altogether.

  I turned away with the intent of escaping to the reception hall’s outdoor balcony where I could go over my notecards one more time (and see about bumming a cigarette). I shouldn’t need either, but I’d been painfully shy as a child, and my fear of public speaking hadn’t lessened over the years. If it weren’t for Bitzy’s and my father’s insistence, this event wouldn’t even be taking place.

  My head was down sipping my wine, oblivious, when I barreled into a young man and spilled the entire contents on my shirtfront. We stood there for a moment, gawking at each other. His eyes were striking—green at the outer edges and brown around the pupil—and I would later learn that from a distance, they appeared as a warm butterscotch color. In the moment, I was struck by their dichotomy. And his beauty. He had the kind
of bone structure and facial symmetry that was rare for us regular humans—high cheekbones, angular jaw, wide mouth, and a shave that I envied. (Being of Italian descent, mine only lasted until mid-afternoon.) The man’s eyebrows settled into something that hinted at mischief.

  “I’m so sorry,” he exclaimed with a smile, revealing a slight gap-tooth that only added to his appeal. Too much perfection was only so palatable.

  “It’s my fault,” I told him. Luckily, I’d taken the brunt of it. I grabbed a nearby bar napkin and tried, unsuccessfully, to mop it up. My shirtfront looked like a crime scene. The man continued to apologize, and I waved off his concern while wondering if it might help if I turned my shirt inside out.

  “You’re the author.” His expression was horrified but still with that impish grin as he placed one hand over his open mouth. He grabbed my arm tightly. “Come with me.”

  He dragged me past the who’s who of the New York literary scene—editors, publishing house executives, agents, and several veteran authors, many who’d known my father for decades. Sprinkled in were the critics, reporters, reviewers, and more than a few of my contemporaries, some of them bitter that my pulp fiction had surpassed their literary masterpieces in the horse race that was the New York Times Best Seller List.

  “Are you kidnapping me?” I finally asked him as we traveled through a doorway, above which was a sign marked EXIT.

  “Maybe,” he said with a conspiratorial lift to his voice. We ended up in the stairwell. How he knew where it was located, I had no idea. The door closed behind us with a soft snick, and I debated whether a setting such as this might work well for a murder scene or if a badly lit stairwell was just too tropey.

  “You didn’t have to go to such lengths to get my autograph,” I said. Murder was still a possibility, but there was an equal chance that he’d brought me here for an illicit tryst. Those chances increased exponentially as the handsome stranger began unbuttoning his shirt.

  “This is better than being murdered,” I mused aloud. Even in the dull fluorescent lighting, I could see that my companion had abs for days.

  “Murdered?” he said with a bemused grin. “I’m giving you my shirt.” He shrugged and the soft, blue material fell away like a robe from a lover’s shoulder. He caught the fabric in one hand and held it out to me. “Here. Take it.”

  “Your shirt?” No one had ever given me the literal shirt off their back.

  “Don’t you have to give a reading? You don’t want to do it with a stained shirt, do you?”

  “I guess not.” He seemed more concerned with my presentation than I was, which was flattering, in a way. I gripped the soft, blue fabric in one hand. The material felt as though it were spun from clouds. “I can’t take your shirt. It looks—” I’d meant to say “expensive,” but instead of coming up with an appropriate descriptor, this wordsmith smelled his shirt.

  “That’s nice,” I said.

  “The shirt or the scent.”

  “Both,” I admitted with a sheepish smile.

  “They’re Issey Miyake.”

  “I’m sorry. What?”

  The man laughed, and I found myself loving the sound of it. “He’s a Japanese fashion designer. He did the shirt and the scent. I wear them together. Seems fitting.”

  “Right. Of course.” The cologne wasn’t the highlight of the aroma. I got lost again in the man’s arresting eyes. He was younger than me but sure of himself in a way that seemed utterly authentic. My friends and I came from affluent families, still trying to prove we were worth the cost of our Ivy League educations—to our parents, our lovers, each other. The writers in my circle were by far the most insecure, riddled with anxiety and existential grief, our self-worth hinging on the number of zero’s in our book advances and whether the New York Times deemed our work worthy of a review.

  Pretty pathetic, all in all.

  “Your nipples are hard,” I said stupidly and shook my head at my slip. “I mean, you’re cold. Here, take mine.” I unbuttoned my own shirt and handed it over, thankful that I’d been exercising regularly. We each buttoned up and smoothed our rumpled shirtfronts. I made a mental note to check my libido. Just because a man drags you into an empty stairwell and offers you his shirt does not mean he’s interested in going home with you later.

  But it could happen.

  “I’m Michael D'Agostino.” I held out my hand even though introductions seemed like a formality at this point.

  “Yes, I know,” he said with another winning smile and shook my hand heartily. He had an enthusiasm about everything he did, a contagious energy like an unexpected burst of sunshine from between the clouds.

  “God, I could really use a cigarette right now,” I admitted. The man’s eyebrows quirked, and he pulled a soft pack of Newports from his pocket with a single cigarette inside of it. Mmmm, menthol, my favorite.

  “For emergencies only,” he said. “Mind if we share?”

  “Of course not.”

  The man flipped the cigarette into his mouth and lit it in the practiced way that only a habitual smoker could accomplish. Many of my friends had turned to vaping in recent years. I’d tried it myself, but it didn’t satisfy quite like a cigarette. Give me that carcinogenic, throat-raking smoke and the bitter aftertaste of tobacco over watermelon e-juice any day.

  “I quit a few years back,” I said, my mouth watering for it.

  “Same.” He tilted his head and inhaled, giving me an excellent view of his throat. The architecture of tendon and bone, fluted like a Grecian column and narrowing to the delicate hollow, made me think I’d never seen a man’s anatomy more artfully done. He blew smoke off to one side and offered the lit cigarette to me.

  My drag was more furtive with the cigarette cupped behind one hand, because I was used to hiding this particular vice. It was a filthy habit and one that had always shamed me. It had been a long while since my last, and the jolt of nicotine hit me almost immediately. I imagined my sensory receptors bursting with dopamine like juice vesicles as my spirit settled into that familiar buzz.

  “That’s good,” I said with a smoke-filled sigh of satisfaction.

  “Too good,” the man said ruefully and shook his head.

  We shared in the quiet intimacy of an illicit treasure passed back and forth. On any other occasion, this exchange might be the prelude to sex, but we were each content to simply share a smoke and wonder. Or in my case, admire. Overwhelmed by the closeness of our encounter and my impending reading, I didn’t think to ask his name or get his phone number. I simply settled into the verve coursing through my veins and my newfound invincibility, surely a side effect of this man’s attention.

  After we’d burned the cigarette down to its filter, he crushed it on the pavement and cradled the butt in his hand. Then he was moving toward the door and urging me out of the stairwell.

  “You’d better get out there and do your thing. Everyone’s waiting.”

  My momentary calm was interrupted by the throngs of people waiting on me and the newfound worry that I probably reeked of smoke. We navigated our way back to the main reception where he deposited me near the podium, then melted back into the crowd.

  Throughout my speech and subsequent reading, I searched for a glimpse of the beautiful man in a wine-stained shirt, but I couldn’t locate him anywhere.

  Afterward, while I was sitting at a table signing books for readers and hoping to find him again, Bitzy caught up with me.

  “You were simply fabulous, dahhhling,” she said in an exaggerated upper-crust accent. She sniffed my shirt and said, “Smoking again?”

  “Just one, Mom,” I said with a pang of guilt. But not regret.

  She did a doubletake. “Is that an Issey Miyake shirt?”

  “You know his work?”

  “That shirt’s worth $700 retail.”

  Bitzy sold merchandise online as a side hustle and knew the price of such things, so even though that seemed like an extravagant amount of money for a shirt, I didn’t doubt her.
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br />   “There was a man.” I glanced around again, hoping to catch sight of him.

  “A man?” Bitzy said with a grin. “How mysterious.”

  “I dumped wine on my shirt, and he switched with me. I didn’t know it was expensive. He didn’t give me his name,” I added in frustration.

  “Sounds like you need to get Nathan Shields on the case,” she snarked. Nathan Shields was the name of my protagonist in Cold Lake Chronicles. An ex-FBI profiler turned lodge owner who kicks off the series by finding a strangulated body in one of his rented rooms.

  “How will I return it?” I asked, flummoxed.

  She shrugged. She couldn’t be bothered. “I’m sure you’ll run into him again.”

  In a city of eight million, it seemed unlikely. All he’d left me was his outrageously expensive, cloud-spun shirt and a first impression that would be impossible for me to forget.

  Damnit.

  2

  the lunches

  Through sheer luck and a blessing from the gods, I found him a few weeks later. I was reading through an author profile in GQ’s online magazine when it suggested that I might also like to “Set My Pits Free with Spring’s Best Lightweight Sweaters.”

  The photograph accompanying the appeal was my mysterious stranger, modeling a cable-knit sweater in a rose-quartz hue that complimented his tanned skin beautifully. A pair of reflective sunglasses perched on his slightly upturned nose, lowered enough that his duotone eyes were visible. The man should model for LASIK surgery.