Page 5 of Hamartia

“Nice?” she snorts. “That the best you got? I thought you were a poet?”

“It looks expensive.”

“My parents are paying,” she reminds me.

“I told you we don’t need them to pay.”

She made two and a half million on her last film, and the last time I met with my financial advisor things were looking decent, thanks to the last tour and some sound investments he’d suggested that I’d been high when I agreed to.

“And I told you papa is adamant. Surely you don’t want to piss him off even more?”

“Even more than I do by merely existing? No, I guess I don’t.”

“You are his favorite American if that makes you feel better.”

“It would if it was true.”

Fuck, I’m really fucking starving now. Feel a bit sick from it. I wonder what the room service is like. I haul my ass up from the bed and cross to the circular dining table by the window of the room to where the leather-bound book of Hotel Information is standing. Before opening it, I lift the remote and flick on the TV, scrolling until I find a music channel.

“Well?” She presses. “Do you think it’s the place?”

“Hard to tell from a few pictures…”

I vaguely recognize the song playing on the screen but it’s half-way through and I don’t recognize the girl in the video.

“So, do you want to go visit it? You have a week off at the end of the month, right?”

Do I want to spend my week off looking at chateaus that I may or may not get married in? Ardently, no, I fucking don’t.

“Babe, it’s a nice place. If you like it and your mom likes it, then go for it.” I try to sound both enthusiastic and submissive at the same time. “My feelings don’t really count here.”

“Of course, they count, Rapha!” A coating of French creeps into her accent whenever she whines. It happens in bed too, sometimes. “What are you talking about?”

Guess I didn’t quite get the tone right. With a sigh, I try again.

“I just mean, everyone knows guys take a back seat in this arranging–a–wedding shit. The brides have thought about this day for years. They’ll be the ones who’ll look back at the photos for years. Who’ll have all the regrets if things aren’t how they dreamed they’d be. I want whatever you want.”

Over the line Camille makes a mushy sound.

“You’re really sweet when you want to be, you know?”

“I do know. I’m sweet as American pie, baby.” Fuck, they have buffalo wings with a blue cheese sauce and a Chicago style pizza. My mouth waters. I can get sushi tomorrow.

“Mm, I miss you.”

“I miss you too. How’s London?”

“It’s raining.”

“Of course, it is.”

“You know what I was thinking about earlier? That time we were here for Papa’s premier…” and her voice trails off because the music video that was on TV has ended and another one fills the screen and then I’m staring athim.

He’s dressed in some kind of white silk shirt and corset combo which makes his waist look small enough to get my hands all the way around. His white trousers lead down into feet that are bare as he dances across an empty theatre. He moves like the dancer he is. All elegant lines and ballet dancer motion. Fluid as water. The prickling starts at the top of my head and peels down my spine, settling around my stomach before clutching hold of my dick. Then he starts to sing. That fucking voice. High and sweet, soft and smooth. Men shouldn’t have voices that high or that sweet. But he does. I don’t know what the fuck he’s singing about but it sounds melancholic, painful. It’s not YouTube so I can’t put the subtitles on to translate the lyrics. As he falls to the floor one of his bandmates fills the screen, voice deeper, more of a rap style, and I can breathe again.

Camille’s voice floats down the line.

“Rapha, do you? Do you remember that? It was hot.”