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“This isn’t going to turn into anything, you know.”

Laurel snuck a look at Casey in the light from the dashboard. His skin was washed out, his dark eyes focused on the road ahead. A light mist had begun to fall, settling onto the windshield in lacy patterns and making the cab of the Land Rover seem hushed and intimate.

“I don’t expect it to,” Laurel said, trying to sound flippant. He could feel his pulse fluttering in his throat, feel the ghost of Casey’s hands in his hair. He had been half-hard for what felt like the last hour, blood pounding in his groin, teetering on the edge of desire. He licked his lips. “I don’t do relationships.”

“Me neither.”

“Besides, you’re scamming my mom.”

“Am I?” Casey made a face. “I’m not really sure what I’m doing anymore.” He ran a hand through his hair, looking out the window. For a moment, he looked unbearably young, and Laurel realized he didn’t even know how old Casey was. He’d assumed from his confidence that they were at least the same age.

He thought about asking, but instead he reached across the center console, squeezing Casey’s thigh. His hand traveled higher, and Casey met his eyes, smiling. Whatever expression had crossed his face moments earlier was gone, replaced by a look of challenge.

“How about you focus on driving?” he said smoothly.

Laurel smiled back. “I’m impatient.”

“I can tell. Get us back to your place. I’ll make it worth the wait.”

Rain had started to fall in earnest by the time Laurel pulled up to the beach condo, warm, satiny sheets that enveloped them as soon as they got out of the car. Laurel hardly had time to click the lock button on the key fob before Casey’s hand was on his belt buckle, yanking him up the stairs like he owned the place, pressing Laurel up against the front door and kissing him luxuriantly, rainwater sweet on his lips.

“Aren’t you going to let me in?” Casey whispered, grinding his hips against Laurel’s.

“I kind of need my hands.” They were pinned above his head.

Casey laughed, letting him go, and then they were stumbling in through the door. Casey smacked his ass as they crossed the threshold, saying, “I like these pants,” and Laurel wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or beg him for more, caught between hilarity and heat, self-consciousness beginning to creep in. This condo, with all its bland coastal bric-a-brac and themed linens, held no trace of Laurel’s personality, and he found himself wondering suddenly if anywhere did. It shouldn’t matter; Casey was undoing his shirt, scattering kisses over his shoulders and collarbone, and Laurel closed his eyes, breathing in the rain-damp smell of his hair.

They were in the kitchen somehow, no illumination but a hall light that one of them had turned on as they’d fumbled their way through the house, leaving a trail of wet clothes. Laurel was completely naked, but Casey had only lost his jacket, and Laurel felt himself tremble as Casey’s hand slid over the vulnerable curve of his ass.

“Do you have condoms?” he asked.

Laurel’s stomach sank, his face heating up. “No, I—we should have stopped at the Piggly Wiggly or something, I—”

“I am not being seen with you, buying condoms, at the Piggly Wiggly in the middle of the night.”

Casey was right, of course. Everyone knew everyone around here. But part of him wanted it, the tawdry rush of buying condoms together under fluorescent lights. “Good point. What do we do?”

“Improvise, I guess.”

There was the clink of a bottle on the counter. Laurel wondered who had staged this place, and who kept the olive oil container currently in Casey’s hand so pristine, if Denise hired people to dust the kitchen and stock it with cute little labeled bottles even though no one had ever cooked in here, and God, he hoped it wasn’t Miss Mina, because he’d probably never be able to look her in the eye again; he’d probably never be able to go to an Italian restaurant again, either, because Casey was sliding two fingers into him, his skin silky with oil, and there was something timeless and filthy and decadent and downright—Babylonian about it, as if Casey were a spoiled prince in a villa somewhere and Laurel his concubine.

A vein pulsed in Laurel’s neck, and Casey pressed a soft, sucking kiss to it.

“Stop thinking. I can see you doing it.”

He did. All the thoughts in his mind were like books tumbling off shelves, and it was just the hot press of Casey’s fingers inside him and the scrape of Casey’s teeth against his bare shoulder and Laurel’s hands, scrabbling against the edge of the countertop. He felt Casey undo his own belt buckle, and the metal scraping against Laurel’s tender skin sent currents of panicked desire rushing through him. His body was alight, like the Eiffel Tower at night, like the whole city of Paris, bright enough to be seen from space, his cock hard and bobbing untouched out in front of him as he moved his hips to the rhythm Casey had set. He turned his head, nuzzling against Casey’s throat.

“You can—you can—”

“No I can’t,” Casey said. “Don’t be stupid.” But he punctuated it with a kiss to Laurel’s temple, his jaw. Laurel could feel the hard press of Casey’s erection against his ass, could tell from the slick sounds of his other hand that he was jerking himself off, even as he continued to make Laurel see stars. Laurel was pleading, babbling, saying things that would make his mother faint dead away. All the need and want and rage of the past few hours was pounding in his chest, his balls, his brain, blotting out everything else. The edges of his mind had started to go white and staticky, and his thighs were shaking, his teeth on edge, his fingernails bending against the tiled edge of the counter, and he leaned back and their lips met in a shuddering kiss, Casey whispering into his mouth, “Go ahead. Touch yourself.”

It barely took two strokes of his own hand before Laurel was coming, slumping forward with a groan. He felt Casey finish a few moments later, across his lower back, his lips pressed to Laurel’s nape.

Casey started to pull away, and Laurel fumbled behind him, grabbing his hand, wrapping his arm around him and pressing it to his belly. Making Casey feel how he was still trembling.

“I’m not staying the night,” Casey murmured, his breath quick against Laurel’s skin.

“I know. Just hold me up for a second. You made me weak in the knees.”

Casey chuckled, but didn’t reply. The pad of his thumb traveled over Laurel’s shoulder and down his back, leaving behind shivery trails of delight.

“What are you doing?”

“Just—” Laurel heard Casey sigh. “Counting your freckles.” Untangling his other hand from Laurel’s, he stepped away. “I need to use your shower,” he said, as Laurel turned to face him. “And your dryer, I think. My clothes are still wet.”

“It’s all yours.”

He took a long time in the shower, so long that Laurel was on the verge of sleep when Casey came in, smelling of dryer sheets and Laurel’s soap. Laurel hadn’t showered, content to just wipe himself down with a towel and fall, still naked, into bed. He’d told himself he was too exhausted to clean up, but really, he hadn’t wanted to get rid of the evidence of what they’d done, not yet. His skin was still tingling, and his breath caught as he felt Casey sit down on the bed. Laurel didn’t open his eyes, not sure what kind of goodbye he could expect.

Casey’s hand brushed his cheek. “I know you’re awake, Sleeping Beauty.”

Laurel said nothing, his heart pounding. He ached, suddenly, for the soft press of Casey’s mouth on his, for Casey to curl up next to him and hold him through the night. But Casey hadn’t been able to wash him off fast enough. And as Laurel himself had said, he didn’t do relationships.

After a moment, he heard the sheets rustle as Casey stood up. “Well, get some rest,” he said. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

Laurel stayed rigid in the bed, hardly daring to breathe, as he listened to Casey’s steps disappear off down the hall. The front door closed, and then there was only the sound of the surf and the rain.

*

Casey pinched a salmon egg between the tines of his fork, daring it to burst. It didn’t, continuing to stare up at him like some gelatinous, orange, alien eye. He swallowed, wondering if anyone would notice that he’d just been pushing around the food on his tasting plate, not trying any of it.

Probably not. Even though Casey was, ostensibly, in charge of this whole thing, no one was paying attention to him right now. It was barely past noon and the consultation with Landry Hall’s event manager had already plunged from awkward into excruciating. Denise had insisted on coming, and there was a weird, prickly coldness between her and Laurel that was sucking all other energy out of the room.

“I just don’t know,” Denise said for the thousandth time, examining a piece of shrimp. She had not known about a lot of things Casey had thought were locked in. The black-and-white color scheme. The types of flowers. Basically all the aspects of the ball that he had actually been looking forward to.

“It’s just a little forbidding, isn’t it?” she’d asked, as Casey had shown her mockups of how he’d drape the arch at the head of the ballroom in ivy and black hollyhock. And, “I don’t understand why it would be so difficult to get a wall of sunflowers. You know, something colorful. People love color, Casey.” And, “What flowers did Lavinia Bonard have at their Carolina Day celebration? Can’t we do something like that? Very classy, very light and airy.”

Lavinia Bonard had had hydrangeas and peonies, which didn’t exactly scream Halloween. “We’ve already locked in the floral order with the Abernathys.”

“Oh, I know, Casey, but we’re still almost two months out. I don’t see how hard it would be to just modify it.”

I don’t see how hard it would be . No, of course she didn’t, because nothing was too hard, not if you had money to throw at it. They could get sunflowers, and pumpkins, and corn husk dolls and whatever else Denise’s basic, basic heart desired. It was just annoying . Casey could feel the pressure of a pimple building along the line of his jaw. He shouldn’t have used whatever cheap facial scrub it was that Laurel kept at the beach house. He pressed the edge of his thumbnail into his skin, willing the blemish to go away.

“Mom, why don’t you just let Casey do his job? He knows what he’s doing.” Laurel took a swig of the signature cocktail Landry Hall’s caterers had mocked up for them. Some kind of pumpkin spice espresso martini, it was sweet, laced with nutmeg and surprisingly good. Casey had only allowed himself a sip, but now he watched how it left Laurel’s lips wet and sticky, and imagined tasting it on him.

That was another problem: Laurel’s lips and his flushed skin, the smooth plane of his back and the way he had pulsed and shuddered around Casey’s fingers. The dusting of his eyelashes against his cheek. The plush softness of his mouth as he’d lain in bed, just begging to be kissed goodbye. Casey looked away, back to the unappetizing assortment of seafood pieces on his plate. The blood was roaring in his ears, and he felt heat rise in his face.

“Laurel, sweetie, I’m not even sure why you’re here,” Denise said. “This can’t be interesting for you.”

Even without looking up, Casey could hear the shrug in Laurel’s voice. “Free food.”

It was true that Laurel had seemed to enjoy each of the dishes, from the weird potato appetizer that was supposed to evoke a Lowcountry boil, to the she-crab soup fritters, to the caramelized pumpkin tartlets. But he’d been raised on this; Laurel knew how to pronounce amuse-bouche without sounding obnoxious and didn’t balk at the idea of a langoustine foam. (What the hell even was that? Casey longed for some crackers, or a Cup o’ Noodles.) Now he was happily peeling the shell off a prawn, his fingers red and gritty with seasoning, as Denise looked on in dismay.

“It just seems messy,” Denise said.

It did, didn’t it? Hooking up in the kitchen, getting a blow job at a party, throwing all caution to the wind. God, he’d even thought about spending the night, and Casey never did that. He’d stood in the shower and wondered what it would be like to cuddle up with Laurel, their hands tangled together, his face buried in Laurel’s hair.

What would Denise say if she knew? Casey had no problem keeping secrets from her. He had no problem lying to her face. But just now, he couldn’t seem to look her way, not without his stomach clenching. He watched Laurel suck a knuckle into his mouth. Why did this man and his appetites make Casey’s heart pound so hard? And when had Laurel’s little idiosyncrasies stopped being annoying and started being oddly adorable?

“Right, Casey? People aren’t going to want peel n’ eat shrimp at a ball.”

“We can definitely elevate it,” said the event manager. Her name, Casey remembered, was Jeanette. “Eliminate the finger food element, but keep the down-home feel.”

“Uh.” Casey pinched the bridge of his nose. Right, the shrimp were what was messy. “Yes, perfect. Finger food is a big no. People will be in costume.”

“What costume are you going to wear, Casey?” Laurel asked brightly.

“I’m not.” He met his eyes, daring him to react, to blush. “I’m sure you’ll come up with a great one, though.”

“Right.” Laurel smiled, a tantalizing hint of teeth. “I’m good at costumes, or so I’ve been told.”

“Oh, Casey, that reminds me. Do we have everything ordered for my outfit?” Casey startled as Denise put a hand on his arm.

“Yes. Of course.” No, we did not. Denise was going as Audrey Hepburn from Breakfast at Tiffany’s , and Casey hadn’t even started looking for a dress, let alone a little suit and tie for Jasper, which the poor dog would probably try to eat. Casey’s jaw was throbbing, and he suppressed the urge to run into the bathroom and examine his face, see if the zit had gotten bigger. He would have to call around and make sure no one else was planning the same costume. Denise wouldn’t want to be upstaged.

“Can we go over the design for the seafood towers?” Jeanette asked. Denise had requested one per table. Thousands of dollars of expensive seafood getting warm and rubbery under Landry Hall’s overhead lights as the night went on. Casey wondered if anyone would eat any of it. The fish egg on his plate stared up at him accusingly.

“The crab legs were delicious,” Laurel said. “You’ve got to include those.” He was leaning back in his chair, chewing on a skewer from one of the appetizers. Casual, careless. Maddeningly gorgeous. How did he do it? Casey spent hours on his appearance every morning, but Laurel seemed to just roll out of bed looking amazing. Involuntarily, Casey thought back to the night they’d met. Scrolling on his phone, bored in the casino, he had felt someone sit down next to him. He’d looked up. Laurel’s face had been like a punch in the chest.

Oh God damn it , he had thought.

He was thinking basically the same thing right now, watching Laurel across the table, remembering his freckles in the moonlight. Jeanette was showing Denise pictures of something on her tablet, but Casey had completely forgotten what they were talking about. Something to do with fish, right? Oh, the seafood towers.

He licked his lips, meaning to say something, but they seemed to be doing fine without him. Casey looked down into the well of his martini glass. He thought about draining it.

“So we’ve got a couple of mockups here for you,” Jeanette said.

Laurel leaned in, taking a look. “I like the one with the baby octopus.”

“Oh, Laurel, no. They’re creepy .” Denise shuddered.

“Isn’t that the idea? It’s Halloween. Don’t you want Sarah Ann Copeland to feel a little shiver down her spine?”

Denise crossed her arms. “This is a classy, elegant ball. Not some—some haunted house party.”

Denise’s tone and the thin line of her mouth made sweat break out on Casey’s forehead, but Laurel continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “Although to really scare Sarah Ann, you’d probably have to hire only nonbinary servers with purple hair, and pass out pamphlets on Critical Race Theory—”

“ Laurel . This isn’t funny.” Denise leaned forward in her chair, fingers clamped so tightly around the stem of her glass that Casey thought she might break it. “What has gotten into you? First I hear that you’re picking fights with Howie Bonard—at his brother’s fundraiser, no less—and now you’re making tasteless jokes.”

“What’s tasteless is your guest list,” Laurel muttered, looking down at the tablecloth like a scolded child. A line of tension stood out in his neck. Casey felt a little stab of curiosity, hearing about the fundraiser. It seemed out of character for Laurel to be picking fights with anyone. Was Howie Bonard what had set him off, made him so desperate? Had he actually been crying, out there in the stable? Casey bit his lip, stomach twisting. He didn’t want to get involved, not in any of it. He could feel something hostile building between Laurel and Denise, making the back of his neck itchy and uncomfortable.

The ballroom had gotten oddly silent, even the white-noise buzz of the air conditioner seeming muted. Denise’s lips were pressed together, her nostrils flared. Her usually-warm brown eyes were flat and hard. “I have been trying for years to get the people here to take me seriously, and nothing is ever good enough and Lavinia Bonard has taken all of the best holidays for herself. Halloween is the only one left, and by God, I am going to make it an event to remember.”

Laurel sighed. “Mom—”

“This is not your business.” Her voice was getting louder, more piercing. Casey cringed. “Don’t you have anything better to do? Why don’t you go cause trouble with that friend of yours?”

“Why don’t you listen to your party planner, instead of trying to change everything last-minute? He’s been working really hard on this, you know.”

Casey’s heart thudded, and he had the urge to hunch his shoulders, make himself smaller. He really wanted to stay out of this, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about Laurel defending him for the second time that day. Jeanette caught his eye, making a sympathetic grimace. She was clutching her tablet like she might need to hide behind it.

“This is my event,” Denise hissed, neck stretched long and taut like an angry swan. One manicured nail tapped on the table. “You don’t live here, Laurel. You don’t hear how people talk.”

“It’s literally just a party—”

“It’s my moment . Maybe you don’t care what people think, Laurel, but I do. And I am not going to let you just waltz into town and ruin this for me, like you’ve ruined everything else. You’d think you would have some sense of—of loyalty, or at least guilt, that you would let me have this, after the divorce and the singing lessons and all the money I spent on that stupid horse of yours—you’d think that if I can’t have an engagement and a white wedding and some grandchildren then at least I can throw a Halloween ball—”

The scrape of Laurel’s chair against the floor as he pushed back from the table was so loud that Casey bit back a gasp. He realized that he had been holding his breath.

“I—” Laurel shook his head. His face was red and blotchy, his mouth a trembling line. He stood, darting at glance at Jeanette. “I’m sorry. Everything was excellent. I have to go.” Tossing his napkin onto the table, he turned and hurried out of the room.

*

Jamie: So I haven’t heard from you in awhile.

That either means everything is good, or everything is really bad.

Casey groaned, leaning his forehead against the steering wheel. He needed to write Jamie back. The texts had been sitting on his phone for a week, the knowledge of them itching at the back of his mind. But he wasn’t sure what to say. Not the truth. God, no. It was too complicated, and Casey himself didn’t really know how to sort through it.

I’m depressed , he typed, before he could think better of it. Party is turning into a shitshow. Send raccoon pics.

Sighing, he put the phone down. Three little dots on the screen indicated that Jamie was typing. Casey looked at the keys in the ignition, thought about starting the car, backing out of the parking lot, getting onto I-95 and driving until he hit Jacksonville, or Palm Beach, or until he dropped off the edge of the United States entirely and into the ocean.

Casey had never felt fake, despite the fact that he lied for a living. He’d always believed that he kept some core, valuable part of him uncompromised, no matter who he pretended to be on the outside. So why did he have a bad taste in the back of his mouth? Why was the scene from that morning still knocking around in his head, the way he hadn’t gotten up when Laurel had rushed out, the soulless smile he’d plastered on after Denise had sighed dramatically at Laurel’s retreating back and said, “I just don’t know what to do with that boy sometimes. I swear he has no consideration for others.”

He was getting paid to agree with her. That was part of the arrangement. But at that moment, Casey had wanted to shove his plate of untouched seafood into Denise’s lap and run after her son.

Casey’s stomach felt cold and slimy. He was paralyzed, couldn’t seem to move, sitting here in Laurel’s parking lot, dreading seeing him and wanting to make sure he was okay.

He should just leave him alone. He was probably the last person Laurel wanted to see right now, and Casey could handle the next appointment just fine on his own. But Laurel had looked so miserable—

His phone dinged. It was a picture of a raccoon double-fisting what looked like an Oreo cookie and a slice of ham, and it did admittedly make him feel better.

Jamie: why shitshow? What’s happening?

Casey sighed. She’s just super demanding , he typed. And horrible to her son , he thought about adding, but didn’t. He wondered if Laurel liked raccoon pictures. Not that it mattered.

Jamie: so maybe time to cut your losses? How long are you going to milk this thing?

Casey: idk

Casey: …

Ugh, he couldn’t come up with anything to say, not without getting into the Laurel of it all. His head felt heavy, the air pressure getting to him even in the cab of the car. The barometer had been climbing steadily all day, echoing the tension in his body. Not much longer , he wrote finally. It’s a lot of money tho. worth it, I think.

Jamie: hope so

He could feel the weight behind the statement, as if his phone had suddenly turned to lead. As Jamie had told him many times, scamming people wasn’t a very solid or sustainable business model. Eventually, he would get in trouble.

Like he wasn’t already.

As if reading his mind, Jamie wrote, so no more drama with hot adult son? And he added insult to injury with a couple of eyeball emojis.

Casey: Nope. no problem. His stomach dipped as he switched his phone to silent. Taking a deep breath, he opened the car door and got out.