A Madness Most Discreet Read online

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “He knows, Michael.”

  “Knows what?”

  “He knows what I do for a living.”

  I doubted their circles overlapped. And aside from his own work, my father wasn’t the most curious man. “How is that possible?”

  “I don’t know, but I felt it in the way he looked at me.”

  I stared at my lover’s despondent expression and figured he was just suffering a bout of paranoia. Like when Arden said hello to a man on the street, and I automatically assumed it was because they’d fucked. It wasn’t a healthy mindset, but it was understandable.

  “He looks at everyone that way, Arden. Trust me, I have thirty years of experience with that look.”

  “He knows,” Arden said again. He stared out the open window, and I breathed in the smell of the city, a fecund blend of exhaust, sewage, and the brine of the East River. I made no further argument, and we drifted into a strained silence.

  “I miss the ocean,” Arden said softly.

  All along, I thought that I was competing with a millionaire for Arden’s affections, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Part V.

  They were in the outdoor markets of Georgetown when the boy noticed someone following them.

  The captain had a routine, whenever they reached port, where he and the boy would stroll through the town to see what the vendors were selling. They’d learn the going price of things, not making any purchases, then come back later when the sellers were closing up and haggle until they’d gotten what the captain considered a square deal. The boy wasn’t any good at bargaining. He always paid full price, or more.

  Which was why he was seldom trusted with the captain’s purse. But he did like to accompany the captain on these outings. After being so long in isolation, he delighted in the bustling activity of the towns. People hurrying here and there, women in long skirts, balancing baskets on their heads or their hips, children running free, men smoking and drinking and arguing over sports and politics and the price of things.

  His eyes darted all around, at all the beautiful shapes and colors of the people and their wares. Their activities reminded him of the sea life on a coral reef. He especially enjoyed watching the basket weavers, who used dried palm fronds to create everything from hats to purses. He thought that if his plan of being a doctor didn’t pan out, this would be a good profession for him. One day he’d have a boat of his own. He’d live off fish and lobsters and wild bananas, and when he needed money for fuel, he’d join the basket weavers in selling their crafts.

  He was at the weaving stands, the captain having moved on a long time ago, when the boy who’d been following them approached.

  “Come wit me,” the older boy said.

  “Who are you?”

  “Angelique.”

  “Are you a boy?” He thought so, but the name sounded feminine.

  “Yes. And you?”

  “Obviously.” His rudeness came out whenever he was feeling unsure.

  “It’s jam-up round here. Come wit me, boy.”

  The boy followed Angelique into a narrow lane between two wooden structures. It was blocked from the sight of the crowds by a tarp on one side and a stack of boxes on the other.

  “You live round here?” Angelique asked, studying the boy as if he were now having second thoughts.

  “No. My father’s a sailor.”

  “I never seen you before,” Angelique said, still sounding suspicious. The boy wondered if this young man was in charge of keeping an eye on things.

  “We just got in today.”

  Angelique glanced both ways and licked his full lips. The boy watched him, suddenly hungry. Starving.

  “I do you. Den you do me,” Angelique said. The boy had no concrete idea of what he’d meant, only a suspicion. “Dat all right?” Angelique asked. The boy didn’t know if his urgency was due to their compromising location or his own impatience.

  “All right,” the boy said.

  Angelique stripped him of his shorts, dragged them all the way to his ankles, and touched his cock until it was stiff and protruding. Angelique squatted in the alleyway and took the boy in his mouth, giving him such pleasure that the boy moaned despite himself and locked his shaking knees. Angelique braced the boy’s hips against the flimsy wooden wall and sucked him with vigor, only glancing up once to find the boy completely flabbergasted. It didn’t take long at all for the boy to come, much quicker than when he was alone. Angelique spat the white film on the street like his father hocked loogies in the mornings.

  “You now,” Angelique said while the boy was still fumbling to draw up his shorts. Angelique pushed the boy down and pinched his cheeks so that his mouth would open. The boy had only a moment to gauge Angelique’s cock. It was the first he’d seen outside of his own and the captain’s. Dark like the rest of him, it reminded the boy of the deep-fried hot dogs at his favorite barbeque joint from home. It was salty like those hot dogs, too, and filled his mouth completely.

  Angelique pressed forward, shielding the boy where he knelt in the alley from anyone’s view. Angelique pumped his hips a few times and came nearly as fast as the boy had. The boy gagged as his mouth filled with semen. As Angelique had done, he spat it in the street, two identical piles of white, cooling fluid, interspersed with spit bubbles.

  “You like sweet tings?” Angelique asked, hauling the boy up to his feet again. He could hardly keep up, but he liked the way this young man took control.

  The boy nodded and wiped his mouth, followed Angelique out of the alleyway and into one of the shops just outside the market. Inside, the air was thick with fry grease and so sweet, the boy could practically taste the powdered sugar as it coated the inside of his nostrils and his tongue.

  Angelique told him to point out a few of the donuts that he liked best, and the smiling woman behind the counter boxed them up for him. Angelique encouraged him to eat one right then, so the boy selected a jelly-filled one, trying not to think of the similarities to their mischief. Angelique chuckled anyway, a secret pleasure they both knew. After going so long without a homemade dessert, the boy thought he might sink to his knees again in gratitude.

  He realized then, that he was late in meeting the captain, and relayed this to Angelique. Angelique guided him through the bustling market and toward the docks, pulling him into another alleyway just before they arrived to lick at his mouth. The boy didn’t understand until Angelique pulled back and said, “open your mouth.”

  The boy did, and Angelique filled it with his tongue, still sweet from the donuts. The boy moved his tongue in a similar fashion, until they were kissing.

  “Will you be back tomorrow?” Angelique asked.

  The boy nodded. “We’ll be here all week.”

  “Don’t go wit anyone else. I’ll find you.”

  The captain was angry that the boy had kept him waiting, but his ire softened when he saw that the boy had brought with him an assortment of donuts. The captain, after eyeing the box suspiciously, took one out, inspected it, then took a bite.

  The boy saw the transformation overtake him. With the exception of his drink and smoke, the captain was accustomed to only the bare essentials, exactly what it took to survive and no more.

  “Where’d you get the money to pay for these?” the captain asked.

  “I made a friend. He gave them to me.”

  “A friend, huh?” the captain said skeptically. It was no different from his usual distrusting tone, but the boy flushed scarlet.

  “He asked if I was coming back tomorrow,” the boy admitted. It didn’t feel right to hide it from the captain. “He said he’d find me.”

  “Hmph,” the captain said, and the coil of shame in the boy’s gut loosened a little.

  15

  the party

  “How was lunch?” Arden asked.

  I grunted and tossed my tie on the kitchen counter. My suit jacket came next and then the cuffs. Arden unbuttoned my shirtfront f
or me. He knew how I detested wearing a suit and tie.

  “That good?” he asked.

  I’d just come back from a business lunch with my father, Bitzy, and the contract lawyer for the television producer interested in optioning my book series. My father had done most of the talking, even going so far as to silence me when I had questions with, “We’ll work all that out in the fine print.”

  “I want more creative control than what they’re offering, but my dad thinks we won’t get another deal. Or a better one.”

  Arden studied me thoughtfully. “Do you want my advice?”

  “Of course.”

  “Hold out. These are your books and your creative vision. You have the power to say yes or no, so make sure it’s what you really want.”

  “There’s a good chance the project will never make it to production. These things fall apart all the time.”

  “Even so, this is your only opportunity to negotiate, isn’t it? Once the papers are signed…”

  “Then it’s done.” He was close enough that I could rest my forearms on his shoulders and smell his expensive aftershave. “I should have you come with me. Be my advocate.”

  “Isn’t that what Bitzy’s for?”

  “Yes, but she gets flustered around my father, and so do I.”

  “Talk to her about it. Or schedule a meeting without your father there.”

  To go behind his back felt like a betrayal, but Arden had a point. I was the client. The agency worked for me, something I often forgot. I noticed then, that Arden seemed to be readying himself to leave.

  “Working again today?” I didn’t bother to hide my disappointment. Lately, it seemed whenever I was arriving, Arden was on his way out. “I was hoping we’d have a lazy day in.”

  “I’ve got party planning to do this afternoon, but I’ll be back this evening.”

  The party in question was some fancy, themed event being held in a couple of weeks at Matteo’s mansion. Arden was particularly cagey about the details but told me to mark the date on my calendar. I was wary about what to expect.

  “Is it coming together then?” I asked.

  “It’s going to be delightful. Will you ask Liam and Franco to come too? I think they’d really enjoy it. Franco especially. I’ll put their names on the list.”

  Had he thrown himself into this project as a way to spend more time apart? Other than our lovemaking, it seemed he’d been avoiding me since my launch party.

  “You’ll be back tonight?” I asked. Coded within my question was whether or not he had plans with anyone else.

  Arden stopped gathering his things to stare at me questioningly. “I told you already that I would.” There was a warning in the slight stiffening of his posture.

  “I miss you,” I said.

  His face softened and he kissed me lightly on the lips. “I’ll bring takeout. We’ll spend the whole night together.”

  “I’d like that.” I squeezed his arm. I wanted to hold on, wrap him up, and make him stay, but Arden was like a butterfly. To grip him too tightly would crush his delicate wings.

  Later, he called to tell me he’d have to work late, and even though I didn’t care about the time, he insisted on not disturbing me. He didn’t say whether he’d be spending the night at his own apartment or at Matteo’s penthouse. I didn’t ask, and it bothered me that I felt like I couldn’t.

  On the date of the party, we met at a bar in the Upper East Side—Franco, Liam, and I—to have a drink before we ventured the rest of the way to Matteo’s on foot. My friends were curious about Arden’s relationship with Matteo and, like myself, perplexed that we’d been invited to what I presumed to be an extravagant sex party. My nerves were a bit frayed, and this seemed already too much to manage.

  “Will Arden be working tonight?” Franco asked with uncharacteristic delicacy.

  “In an event coordinating capacity.”

  “I don’t know how you’re able to compartmentalize it, Michael.” Liam said, his own bafflement apparent on his face.

  “It’s not easy,” I admitted. Especially with Arden arriving home late every night this past week with the scent of another man’s cologne on his shirt collar. I wanted to discuss it—our long-term plans and just how patient he expected me to be—but I was waiting until this party was out of the way.

  “It’s too bad Marquis had to work tonight,” Franco said.

  “And make me the fifth wheel?” Liam huffed.

  “You could have brought your stud.”

  “You’re dating someone?” I asked Liam. His trysts were few and far between. Liam was picky about who shared his bed, partly due to his discriminating nature as well as his family’s foolish expectations.

  “It’s not serious,” Liam said.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Travis DeWitt.”

  “Do we know him?”

  “Doubtful. He’s not from around here.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “The South.”

  “That’s a large geographic area, Liam. Want to narrow it down some?”

  “What does it matter? It’s not going to last.”

  “Liam,” Franco chided. “Don’t be so negative.”

  “I’m just being pragmatic. We’re nothing alike. He’s practically monosyllabic.”

  “More room for you to wax poetic,” I teased, and he scowled at me. “Where did you meet him?”

  “Carousel,” Liam said. “Well, before then, I suppose. On the street outside your apartment. He’s working on that housing project going up across from you.”

  “Can you get them to pick up the pace?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have that kind of pull. Not yet at least.”

  I recalled Liam arguing with someone at the bar, a man of significant stature. I asked Liam if it was the same one.

  “Yes, he tried to get me absurdly drunk, and I brought him back to my place to make sure he didn’t suffocate on his own vomit, which was my first mistake. Now, he keeps inventing reasons to come over.”

  “What kind of reasons?” Franco asked, as though he might use the trick himself.

  “The smoke detectors need new batteries. The garbage disposal needs fixing. He’s practically rewired the electricity in my apartment.”

  “He’s handy.” In the bastardization of Flannery O’Connor’s seminal work, I added, “A good handyman is hard to find. Can I have his number?”

  “No,” Liam said curtly.

  “Please?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Liam, don’t be selfish.”

  “You’ll tell him all my secrets and embarrass me terribly.”

  “I won’t. I promise. Besides, you said it wasn’t serious.”

  “It’s not,” he snapped. I sensed we were reaching the upper reaches of Liam’s patience. “Besides, he has better things to do than build your stupid bookshelves. Order some from Ikea.”

  “They’re too flimsy.” I liked solid, sturdy wood, built to last. One of these days I’d learn to do some basic carpentry myself. When Arden moved in with me, he’d need some as well.

  “I think it’s good,” Franco said. “You need someone down to earth. You spend too much time with snobs.”

  “Franco, how positively rude,” Liam protested. “You should count yourself as one of them.”

  “I’m the most humble man I know,” Franco proclaimed, and I had to laugh.

  I recalled then how Liam had been lusting so heavily after those construction workers that day in my apartment. “Does your handyman wear work boots?”

  “Shut up,” Liam said, blushing beet-red. “I’d rather talk about your own troubles in love. Surely, you’ve screwed up at least once since the last time, Franco?”

  “I’ve been on my best behavior. We’re doing the whole monogamy thing, you know?” Franco shot me a pointed look.

  “Radical,” I said.

  “Jealous, Michael?” Franco jabbed. He couldn’t have known how personal I might take it, but
my ensuing silence gave me away. “I didn’t mean…”

  “Never mind,” I said shortly. “I’m sure we have better things to talk about than our sex lives. Art. Film. The price of wheat in Kansas.”

  We spoke then of other things, but I was distracted. I didn’t want to share Arden with other men or worry about him when he wasn’t with me. I’d never been comfortable with our arrangement, but I’d made compromises because I wanted it to work. Now, I feared that if I made any demands, I’d find myself in the unhappy situation of losing him altogether.

  These thoughts buzzed like house flies as we strolled up to the familiar black door and pushed the buzzer. The voice that greeted us was not Mr. Horne but someone in a gruff, authoritative tone.

  “Names?” the voice asked, their brusqueness just shy of rude. I supplied them, and a moment later, the door opened. We were greeted by security, then instructed to provide identification and lock up our cell phones in what looked like mailboxes from when the building was divided into apartments.

  “No photos, no videos, no posting to social media,” a square-jawed man said, looking as though he might attempt to frisk us next. “If you need to make a call, take it outside.”

  We were given the keys to our respective boxes, and the man pointed toward the elevators where another security guard stood waiting.

  “I’d rather take the stairs,” I said.

  “Stairs are for emergencies only,” the man said.

  Perhaps Matteo wanted to keep the other two floors secure. We boarded the elevator, and Franco shot me a questioning look.

  “I’m as clueless as you,” I assured him.

  When we arrived at the landing, the doors to Matteo’s penthouse were already thrown open. Flowers were strewn about the marble floor in a pathway leading us to the party. Though seemingly random, there was an artistry in their arrangement that I recognized. I imagined Arden carefully placing each blossom, turning them just so in order to present their “good side,” similar to how he insisted on posing for pictures.

  Inside, the foyer was a riot of color with massive, cascading flower arrangements, small, potted trees strung with tea lights, and an arbor threaded with climbing vines, underneath which two men were intimately engaged in conversation.