Page 5

The little town of Bonard was languishing in the heat, even though the sun had only been up for a few hours, sunlight smearing over the cobbles, steam rising from lawns and flower pots, wrought-iron lamp posts and fences and cemetery gates already hot to the touch. It was the kind of day that most men of means would spend golfing, or out on the water, but Laurel hated golf and didn’t own a boat, so here he was, lurking in the long slice of shade that the clocktower cast over the east side of Main Street, licking sweat off his upper lip and regretting the hot latte in his hand.

At this time of day, the town was barely awake, most shops still shuttered, a few cars meandering down the street in a daze. The only sounds were the drone of insects and the hiss of sprinklers, his only company the occasional seagull or squirrel. Normally, Laurel liked being up before everyone else. His frequent travels often left him between time zones, waking up at odd hours. The early morning always seemed like a little capsule of hope and possibility, before all the noise of reality came rushing in. A time to breathe, to feel refreshed.

He felt anything but refreshed this morning. He’d tossed and turned all night, sweaty despite the AC, achingly aware of the sheets caressing his bare skin. He’d had such a hard time figuring out where to put his hands. Thoughts of Casey had swirled around in his mind: Casey’s adorable little frown of annoyance at the polo match, Casey looking pressed and professional on his LinkedIn, Casey trailing his tongue down Laurel’s spine. Really, it was Casey’s fault he was downtown so early. He’d hoped to go to Landry Hall, to talk to the event coordinator there and learn more about the party. Over the phone, they had said they hadn’t received a deposit yet. Maybe Casey would be there too. Maybe—

Laurel let out a disgusted sigh, giving up on the latte and dumping it into a nearby trash can. He didn’t like feeling this way. He wasn’t obsessed; he wasn’t. He was doing this for Melody, right? It was the party that mattered, not the planner.

Laurel kept telling himself that as he started off down the street toward Landry Hall, past the milk-white colonnades of mansions that had been turned into art galleries and bed and breakfasts and trendy brunch spots, the old red-brick market building that still had faded feed and seed advertisements painted on the side, the little boutiques with quirky names, the multitude of churches and bars and the one New-Age store that had somehow been clinging on since the 90s, exhaling a cloud of patchouli into the air even now. Not much had changed since he’d been here last, but that was by design. The town got by on being a snapshot of better times—though who they’d been better for was debatable.

As Main crossed Third, the street curved out around the crescent-shaped park where the Bonard arch stood, made of vine-draped brick and looming over everything. It really wasn’t a terribly offensive structure, but Laurel was offended that someone had stuck a bunch of bright red signs for Wayon Bonard’s congressional campaign in the surrounding lawn. He was half-tempted to throw them away, or at least step on a couple of them, but he refrained. He was here for a purpose, after all. And he managed to stay single-minded until he saw a horse.

It was a horse that he recognized, and it was tethered to a carriage, pulling up mouthfuls of grass from the parking strip outside a coffee shop.

“Clementine!” Laurel exclaimed.

There was something joyful about seeing the old Clydesdale again, the sheer size of her, the weighty cinder block of her head and the way she stood there chewing nonchalantly, an immovable object taking up the entire sidewalk. Her chestnut coat was glossy despite her age, and the fur on her massive hooves made it look like she was wearing bell bottoms. As Laurel approached, she shot him a calm side-eye from beneath heavy lashes, then went back to demolishing the lawn. Her teeth and jaws were probably strong enough to grind up concrete.

“Hey, girl. Do you remember me?” Laurel petted her neck, smelling the sweet barnyard smell of her. She acknowledged him with a brief snuffle at his foot and shin, her rubbery lips grazing his skin and making him laugh. Her muscles were like steel cable under his hand, flexing as she moved. Her mane was long and white and rough as straw, and Laurel’s head just crested her shoulder.

Clementine was a fixture of downtown, and of weddings and parades and any other occasion that called for a carriage. Later today, she would probably be hauling tourists around on a historical tour, her slow, plodding steps echoing down the street. Right now, it seemed like she was off the clock.

“Mr. Petrowski left you out here on your own, huh?” Laurel scratched the warm, velvety expanse of her flank. “He must be getting coffee.”

Sure enough, the door to the coffee shop opened with a jingle of bells, and Stephen Petrowski stepped out, holding the door for someone behind him.

“Laurel!” Mr. Petrowski cried, in his rich, plummy voice. He was a part-time drama teacher at the high school, as well as running his own tour company and owning a horse stable out by the beach. And, according to Melody, he also moonlighted at several drag clubs in Charleston as a queen named Toptimus Prime. Laurel wondered how awkward it would be to turn up at one of his shows. “Well, well, what a coincidence. We were just talking about you.”

Looking over his shoulder, Laurel saw who we was. Casey had followed Mr. Petrowski out of the door, looking as cool and pristine as the unadulterated iced coffee in his hand. Laurel suddenly regretted not washing his hair that morning. He was achingly aware of the oiliness of his scalp, the sweaty collar of his shirt.

“It’s good to see you again,” Mr. Petrowski said, clapping him on the shoulder. Turning to Casey, he added, “Laurel was my favorite student. Such a voice. The pipes on this kid, I swear.”

“Oh yeah?” Casey looked unimpressed. “The lead in every school play, huh?”

“Oh, definitely not,” said Mr. Petrowski. “I always had to put him in the chorus. Great at singing, but the boy simply cannot act. He’s too honest.”

You’d be surprised , Laurel thought, watching Casey’s face.

“And what are you up to this morning, Casey?” he asked, hand still on Clementine’s flank. “Important party business?”

“Yeah.” Casey checked his phone. “Actually, I should get back to—”

“Now wait a second, Casey.” Mr. Petrowski held up a hand. “I wasn’t kidding about the tour. I’d be happy to show you around.”

“Right now?” Casey frowned. Several thoughts seemed to pass behind his eyes before his expression evened back out. “I don’t want to impose—”

“Don’t be silly.” Mr. Petrowski patted Clementine’s neck, and the horse replied with a thunderous grunt. “I don’t have any bookings this morning, and the old girl gets bored if she’s got nothing to do.”

“I really—”

“Oh,” Laurel said, seeing an opportunity. “You haven’t experienced Bonard until you’ve been on one of Mr. Petrowski’s tours. Nobody can tell a story quite like he can.”

“Laurel.” Mr. Petrowski put a hand to his heart. “I’m flattered.”

“Actually, I might tag along, if you don’t mind. It’s been so long.” His heart was pounding, and he could feel his neck getting hot. He caught Casey’s eye, gave him a smile.

Casey pressed his lips together, looking like he very much did mind, but Mr. Petrowski was already climbing up into the driver’s seat of the carriage. “Of course not, the more the merrier! Get in, boys, and let me regale you with local color.”

Casey squeezed himself in against the window sash, as far from Laurel as was possible. As the wheels began to roll, he looked resolutely out onto the street, his shoulders stiff, his profile sharp and brittle. Laurel studied the long line of his neck, the delicate shell of his ear. He remembered sucking Casey’s earlobe into his mouth like a piece of candy, peppering his neck with kisses as Casey moved inside of him, slow and decadent and deliberate, then fast and filthy and—

Jesus . His teacher was driving. Laurel couldn’t be thinking like this.

“...Clarissa Bonard died of a broken heart. Or so the doctor claimed at the time, the doctor who was, as you remember, employed by her husband. And some say, on foggy nights, the figure of a woman in white appears beneath the arch, searching for her murdered lover…” Mr. Petrowski looked over his shoulder, a wicked grin on his face. “I’d stay away from the arch at night, boys. A couple of good-looking young men like y’all would be catnip for a ghost.”

Casey rolled his eyes, taking a sip of his iced coffee. Laurel watched his lips on the straw.

“Speaking of catnip, this little hole-in-the-wall has catnip for the living. The best crab in the county, if not the whole state.”

“Casey doesn’t like seafood,” Laurel said.

“What a shame,” said Mr. Petrowski. “Well, nobody’s perfect.”

“It is a shame,” Laurel said in a low voice. “You don’t seem to like much. Are you on some kind of a diet?”

Casey made an exasperated noise, picking at a threadbare patch on the seat.

“You don’t need to be, you know. And you are in the South. There’s so much amazing food around—“

“I’m good,” Casey said. “Thanks.”

“Now here is a house with quite a history. There was a Madame here during prohibition who ran her business with an iron fist…”

Laurel snuck another glance at Casey. He had sunk into the seat, nursing his coffee. As the tour went on, Laurel saw the tight lines of his posture relaxing slightly. Mr. Petrowski really was an excellent storyteller, his voice melodious and commanding, and he knew the town and its scandals like the back of his hand. The morning haze had burned off, and the sunlight dripped down the facades of the buildings they passed, catching on the sharp leaves of palmettos and the wiry branches of live oaks. The sky was a bright, aching blue, scalloped by wispy clouds. Clementine’s hooves clopped lazily across the cobbles as Mr. Petrowski told them about murder and prostitution, about gangsters and Civil War ghosts and cross-dressing pirate queens. Every so often, a certain turn of phrase would cause a genuine smile to crinkle Casey’s face, his teeth white and straight, his dark eyes shining.

He caught Laurel staring at him and the smile dropped off his face. Laurel’s stomach flip-flopped, his heart jumping oddly in his chest.

“Enjoying the tour?” he asked.

Casey didn’t answer.

“Must be nice getting a break from your busy schedule. My mom is driving you so hard that you forgot to pay the deposit at Landry Hall.”

Casey looked at him sharply. “I’m sorry?”

“The deposit,” Laurel said, sitting up. Sparks were going off in his belly, and his fingers dug into the seat cushion. “They haven’t gotten it yet.”

“Why do you care?”

“Well, it’s just a little strange. Seems like my mom has given you carte blanche with her credit card. Seems like she just trusts that the money will make it to the right place. I’m only looking out for her.”

“It slipped my mind,” Casey said, an annoyed little tic appearing between his eyebrows. “I’ll pay it after I’m done wasting my time here.”

“Wasting your time? Come on, don’t you think it’s a little romantic? You and me, in a horse-drawn carriage, learning about murder and mayhem?”

“You have a weird concept of romance.” Casey looked him up and down, narrowing his eyes. “And a weird concept of keeping things discreet.”

“I don’t know.” Laurel licked his lips, feeling a little giddy. God, he had to stop flirting, he really did. But was he imagining it, or had Casey’s gaze lingered on his crotch, his thighs? “We keep running into each other. Maybe—”

“It’s a small town, like you said before.” Casey looked back out the window.

They were passing the Belmont Hotel now, and Mr. Petrowski was telling them about its resident ghost, a phantom dog that would press up against the legs of people it liked. Pretty adorable as far as hauntings went. Laurel tried again to get Casey’s attention.

“Do you like dogs, Casey?”

Casey shrugged, an irritated frown on his face. “They’re fine, I guess.”

“Wow, what an enthusiastic endorsement. Not exactly what a dog lover would say.”

“My grandmother had birds when I was a kid.”

“Birds?” Laurel hadn’t been expecting that. He sat up, curious about what else Casey might reveal.

“Parakeets. And love birds. They were—” Laurel might have been mistaken, but his face seemed to soften for a moment. Then the frown was back. “Loud. They were really loud.”

“God. I don’t know how I feel about you being a bird person.”

“Says the guy who gives off big Horse Girl Energy.” Casey crossed his arms. “And it was my grandma, not me. I just had to put up with them. Like I’m having to put up with you. Why are you so obsessed with me, anyway?”

Because it was hard not to be. Because Casey had been starring in his dreams for the last three months, had been a constant in the back of his mind. Every shock of bleach-blond hair he’d seen across the room, in clubs, in airport lounges, had made his stomach drop and his skin feel hot all over. Every time he put on a tie, he could feel it wrapped around his wrists, could close his eyes and inhale Casey’s scent, the salty, intimate scent of his skin beneath the cologne.

Laurel swallowed, feeling desperate and pathetic, feeling like a dog ghost plastering itself to Casey’s leg. “I just want to get to know you.”

“Well, I don’t.” Casey looked at him for a long moment. Outside were the footsteps of the horse, slow and deliberate. The sounds of the city waking up. Mr. Petrowski was telling another story, but all Laurel could hear was static, his heart pounding, his tongue heavy in his mouth. Casey held his gaze as he slid across the seat toward him, and then his hand was on Laurel’s thigh, his breath against Laurel’s ear, and Laurel barely kept himself from gasping. His skin was on fire, his scalp tingling and his dick stirring to life as Casey whispered, “I already know everything I want to know about you, Laurel Van Marcke. I know that you’re spoiled, and useless, and not as smart as you think you are. I know that you’re used to getting what you want. But this time, you’re not going to, because it’s run its course. I’m not interested. And when this party is over, I’m looking forward to never having to think of you again.”

“Ouch,” Laurel said, not sure why excitement was bubbling in his chest, not sure why—God—he was still hard. Somehow his hand had found its way onto Casey’s collar, and he could smell the coffee on him, feel the quickness of his breath.

“Are we clear?” Casey asked.

“Sure.” Laurel struggled out. “So clear. Crystal.” Casey’s lips were so close, and he knew how he would taste. Bitter, then sweet and familiar.

“Good,” said Casey, and moved away, going back to looking out the window.

Laurel’s ears were ringing, moths fluttering in his stomach, his thigh throbbing where Casey’s hand had been. So this was it, then. Casey wasn’t interested in playing nice; he’d said it himself. If there was no hope of being friends ( or more, so much more ), then there was no reason not to go scorched earth. Figure out what he was hiding once and for all. Laurel cleared his throat. He could still feel the roughness of Casey’s collar between his fingers. “I actually am very smart, you know. Despite evidence to the contrary.”

“Could you stop talking?” Casey pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Ooh, I’m not good at that. Not good at stopping in general.” He felt a smile sliding across his face.

“You’re going to have to be.”

“We’ll see,” Laurel said, tapping his fingers on the seat. “We’ll see.”

*

Casey’s teeth were on edge the whole next day, anticipation needling at his spine. He was sure Laurel would show up. He seemed incapable of not being everywhere Casey was, and the whole speech in the carriage hadn’t deterred him as much as Casey had hoped; in fact, it had seemed to make him more excited and buoyant than ever. Casey shouldn’t have touched him. He shouldn’t have gotten into an enclosed space with him to begin with. The air had been too thick, Laurel’s imperfect smile too arresting, his lips too lush and sweet-looking.

It didn’t matter. Casey refused to let him get into his head. He was so focused on not thinking about Laurel, in fact, that he lost several hours scrolling through dog costumes without registering a single one, and completely missed what Denise was saying about the entrance to Landry Hall—something involving a red carpet and a flower wall?

“We can get a step and repeat, right, Casey? I want plenty of pictures.”

“What? Oh, absolutely.” He doodled something on his tablet, trying to look like he was taking notes. He knew Denise would never ask to see them. She was convinced that Casey was hanging on her every word. So far he had written, signature cocktail. Jasper: top hat? And part of a grocery list. He needed more ramen packets. And maybe some of those blueberry muffins with the crumble topping. But no, scratch that. He wasn’t going to let Laurel make him stress-eat a bunch of sugar, either.

“And what about chandeliers? I mean, I know they already have some.” Denise scrunched up her face prettily. “But I don’t really like the ones there. Do you think it would be possible to put up replacements, just for the party? I really like the ones with a lot of beading, don’t you?”

Was she insane? “Gorgeous,” Casey said. “Totally.” Yeah. I’ll just pull ten to twelve chandeliers out of my ass. God, no wonder Laurel seemed to think he deserved Casey’s undivided attention. He was just as entitled as his mother. “And what’s our budget for that?” he asked innocently.

“Oh, whatever you think it needs to be is fine,” Denise said, waving a hand in the air. “I trust you.”

You shouldn’t, Casey thought, drawing a series of dollar signs in his notes app.

Mercifully, Laurel never appeared. There was no sign of him the next day, either, or the next, and then it was Thursday, which was Casey’s one day to work from home. There wasn’t really any work to do besides replying to emails, making vague, rote promises that he had no plans to keep. He tried to relax, but even soothing five steps of his skincare routine and the familiar background noise of a CSI marathon on the TV (it had been on constantly at his grandma’s, along with the chattering of her birds and the belting voice of Shania Twain) didn’t calm him down. So he paced, and obsessed over every single one of his pores in the mirror, his T-zone feeling dense and sticky as if a dozen zits were building under the skin. Close-up, his face looked too much like his dad’s, especially with the dark roots of his hair starting to grow back in. Casey didn’t like seeing him there, knowing how much they had in common.

Denise hadn’t been worried. Laurel came and went, so maybe he had just lost interest. Or actually taken the hint. Or maybe he was on a days-long bender with that Melody girl. Maybe—

There was a knock on the door, as invasive as if someone were knocking on his actual skull. Casey flinched.

Through the fish-eye lens of the peephole, he saw Laurel, standing on his doorstep with his hands in his pockets and a stupid grin on his face. Of course. Casey should pretend he wasn’t here. The blinds were drawn, and Laurel didn’t know which of the cars outside the apartment complex was his. Did he?

“I know you’re there, Casey. I saw your car outside.”

Well, fuck.

“Come on, open up. We need to talk.”

Casey opened the door a crack, blocking the view into his apartment with his body. He didn’t want Laurel to know what his personal space looked like, much less let him in.

“I called Landry Hall again,” Laurel said. His voice was casual, but there was a jittery edge to his shoulders, and he was practically bouncing on the pads of his feet. Like a kid about to tell a secret, Casey thought. He thought about closing the door in his face.

Instead, he said nothing, watching him.

“It’s funny,” Laurel continued. “They still haven’t gotten the deposit for the ball. And you know, they were kind enough to get me in touch with the caterers and the florist, and the mixologist and the Halloween novelty store that you’re apparently getting props from, and wouldn’t you know it—none of them have seen a speck of money, either.”

Casey’s fingers went cold, and he felt dizzy for a second, spots of light dancing before his eyes. He gripped the edge of the door, stomach roiling. How fragile this whole thing had been. People will believe anything. Except when they don’t.

“Now admittedly, I am not a party planner. But it seems to me that you need to actually pay the people you’re enlisting to put together the event. Usually in advance.”

Casey cleared his throat. “Of course I’m going to—”

“And—” Laurel put up a hand, preventing Casey from saying anything. “I did some research on you. I’m guessing most of the nice, rich older ladies you work with don’t know how to do a reverse image search, but I do. Some of those red carpet photos from your Instagram also popped up on the social media of a certain Z-list celebrity in Calabasas. You’d cropped her out, but the source was the same. She’d cropped you out too. Understandably, since her pirate-themed 60th birthday bash fell apart after you skipped town with all of the money.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you? It was covered in Page Six. I can see why you wanted to move across the country, Casey Bright. Or Cal Dennis, or whatever your name is.”

Casey guessed he should be horrified. Instead, he almost felt like he’d taken a shot of liquor, a soothing, liquid sense of relief seeping through his veins. He sighed. “It was a stupid theme for a birthday party, anyway. Pirates.”

“There’s not going to be a Halloween ball, is there?” Laurel asked.

Casey stepped away from the door. “You should probably come in.”