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Laurel sat down on the faded couch. Casey had the bizarre urge to offer him something to drink, but that was stupid. He would not cater to the person threatening to expose him. If that was even what Laurel was doing. Casey could practically see the thoughts ticking away in his brain as he took in the apartment: the used furniture, the bare walls, the embarrassing pile of empty Lean Cuisine boxes and Diet Coke cans in the recycling bin next to the sink. A characterless place, and an impermanent one. Casey had never intended for anyone else to be in here.

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” Laurel said.

Casey pressed his lips together, studying a spot on the wall.

“It’s interesting to see where you live. And to see you out of that suit and bow tie. It was a little much, don’t you think?”

Suddenly too aware of the thin cotton of his t-shirt and the sweatpants he was wearing, Casey crossed his arms. “Oh, fuck off. Are you going to tell Denise about me, or not?”

Laurel smiled luxuriantly, leaning back. “There it is, that refreshing honesty I missed so much.”

Casey didn’t reply. His fingers played over the corner of the kitchen counter. There were no other chairs in the apartment besides the sofa, and he wasn’t about to sit down next to Laurel, who had apparently made himself at home, stretching his legs out, feet making a divot in the carpet. He looked expectant, like he was waiting for Casey to say something. To apologize, maybe, or beg for mercy.

That wasn’t going to happen. Casey had nothing to feel guilty about. He had done his time as a contributing member of society, after all. He’d worked since he was legally able to, dropping out of school to support his grandma. His grades had been shit, anyway. His early twenties had been a patchwork of seasonal jobs, temp jobs, retail and food service and catering. His longest position had been as a hotel front desk clerk, but he’d had to disappear after the manager had found out that someone was selling guests’ credit card information online. (Only the really rich ones. Or the ones who were assholes to the staff. Unsurprisingly, the Venn diagram between the two groups had been basically a circle.)

That was the thing. When you’d grown up outside of the system, it was easy to start slipping, just a little. Easy to disregard the rules. Casey’s dad was a dirtbag, a hypocrite, and an addict, but he’d taught him a few valuable lessons. Why stay on the straight and narrow, when it was impossible to get anywhere that way?

Besides, it wasn’t as if Denise didn’t have money to spare. He wasn’t hurting anyone vulnerable, wasn’t defrauding the elderly or stealing from the poor. (Or from cats and dogs. He had made sure the two thousand dollars actually made it to the humane society.) Honestly, he was doing her a favor, teaching her to be less gullible. Knocking her down a peg.

“So, what happens now?” he asked, not really intending to listen. Whatever Laurel had to say didn’t matter. Casey could be packed and in the car in about fifteen minutes, and the state line was only an hour away.

“You’ll have to go through with the ball.”

“You’re not going to tell your mom?” Casey felt a little dizzy. Laurel had surprised him once again, and he didn’t like it.

“Not if you can still make this thing happen, no. I don’t see any reason to.”

“It’s too late. I haven’t done any work, and putting it all together in two and a half months would be impossible.” That was ridiculous. Why did Laurel even want him to go through with the party? He should hate him, after what Casey had said in the carriage. He should be delighted about getting to expose him. Instead, he was almost being—generous? It felt wrong, and Casey’s equilibrium was off. He needed something to do with his hands, or he was going to start picking at the edge of the counter, where the formica had begun to chip away. He opened the fridge, getting himself a drink. The can was glacier-cold, and he could feel the carbonation pinging against his palms through the aluminum, fizzling around just like his insides.

“Well, I could help.” Laurel sat up, pulling out his phone. “I’ve never planned a party before, but I do have connections in town. And money.”

“Look,” Casey said cautiously. Inside his head, he was screaming, Get out of my apartment . The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up, his body tense with the need to run. “I guess I’m grateful to you for not turning me in, but I don’t understand—”

“You don’t need to. Regardless, you have a vested interest in making this work. Or you should. Otherwise, I tell my mom that you’ve been pocketing all the money she’s given you for the ball.”

There it was, the catch, the teeth behind Laurel’s generosity. Casey crossed his arms. “I can cash out my accounts and be out of town before you even have the chance.”

“Can you?” Laurel gave him an assessing look. His pupils were dilated, eyes looking nearly black in the low light in the apartment, and Casey could see the pulse pounding in his neck. He remembered what it had felt like under his tongue, the naked rawness of it. “I wrote down your license plate number, by the way.”

Casey crushed the Diet Coke can in his fist. His stomach felt too full; he had chugged the soda, and now it was sitting there in his gut like a balloon. He wanted to throw up, or scream, pressure building in his throat and pushing against the back of his teeth. What he really wanted was to jump into traffic, because if someone like Laurel could outsmart him, then there was obviously no hope for him as a human being. He should never have had an online presence to begin with, should have known it was a ticking time bomb to have his face on the internet. God, his own stupidity was pounding in his head, so loud that he hardly heard Laurel say, “It’s not that bad, Casey. I can sweeten the deal, you know.”

“There is no deal,” Casey said through gritted teeth. “And nothing about this is sweet, and I am not going to fuck you again, if that’s what you’re offering—”

“I’m not, but I like the way you’re thinking,” Laurel said.

Casey bit down on the inside of his cheek, hard.

“How much were you going to make off of the ball?” Laurel asked. “A rough estimate.”

“A hundred and twenty thousand.”

“Okay.” Laurel swiped at his phone, checking something on the screen. “I can pay you. A hundred and twenty thousand to make sure the ball goes off without a hitch, plus whatever you’ve already gotten from my mom. It can’t be that hard to actually pull off, right? You already did the dog wedding, so it’s not like you’ve never done a successful event. And I can help you.”

Laurel didn’t understand. It was a classic bait-and-switch, like Casey’s dad had taught him. Deliver on something small, then float something bigger. There was no way he could actually pull together the Halloween ball, and the thought of trying made him feel sick. The weight of it dug into his shoulders, like someone had grabbed him there. All the hours of planning that he hadn’t done, all the moving parts and maddening little details. “No. The dog wedding was manageable, small. I can’t pull an event this big together in this amount of time.”

Laurel shrugged. “A hundred fifty thousand?”

It was obscene, the ease with which he said it, and Casey wanted to knock the phone out of his hand.

He could still get out of here. Agree to whatever Laurel said, just to get him out of the apartment. The license plate thing didn’t matter, not really. Those were easy enough to switch out. Hell, he could just buy another used car with the money he had siphoned off Denise.

And chip away more of his nest egg. Casey hated the thought of it. He wanted to get out of this life eventually (God, what a cliche, but it was true), and he’d been intentionally saving up, living as frugally as he could. Hoping to eventually be comfortable enough to open his own business. A hundred and fifty thousand dollars would make a big difference. A world of difference.

He allowed himself to think about it for a second. His own little flower shop, somewhere with actual seasons, somewhere with no hurricanes. A big city, where people weren’t always prying into each other’s business and where he could be whoever he wanted.

But at the cost of having to work with Laurel? It couldn’t be worth it.

Casey made one last bid for sanity—or mercy. “You don’t understand how much work this is going to be. How stressful—”

“Nothing a bunch of money can’t fix, right?” Laurel stretched, lacing his fingers behind his head. “I’m actually kind of looking forward to it.”

“I’m not.” He sighed, trying to look like he was actually considering it. Cracked his neck, ran a hand through his hair. “But fine. A hundred and fifty thousand, and you help put everything together.” Now leave.

Laurel didn’t make any move to get up. Casey fiddled with his Coke can, breaking off the tab. He could feel Laurel’s gaze boring into him.

“I hope you mean it,” Laurel said finally.

Casey flinched. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Because you’ve lied about everything else?” There was an easy, nonthreatening smile on Laurel’s face, but his pupils were still dilated, his eyes shining. “I’d hate to have to give your description to the police. Oh, or to get in touch with that lady in Calabasas. I bet she’d love to get her money back. How long do you think you can keep this up, Casey? I mean, if someone like me can figure out what you’re up to, it’s only a matter of time before you get caught for real.”

Casey’s stomach dropped, and he almost threw the Coke can across the room. God damn it, why did Laurel have to be smart? And why did he have to be right ?

“I’m good at disappearing,” he said, through gritted teeth. If only he’d controlled himself in Vegas. If only he hadn’t let himself fall under Laurel’s spell, fall into bed with him, give in to that weird charm of his that was both infuriating and addictive. The smell of Laurel’s hair was in his nose, suddenly, the taste of his skin in Casey’s mouth, and Casey remembered how Laurel had trembled and gasped beneath his hands.

That version of him was nowhere to be found. If anyone was in control now, it was Laurel. And he seemed to know it. “In this day and age? No one can really disappear. And you’ve left a digital trail miles long, sweetheart.”

“I really, really, fucking hate you,” Casey sighed.

“Well, I didn’t exactly expect you to like me,” Laurel said, with a crooked smile. “Not after this. But we can come to an understanding, can’t we?”

Casey said nothing, glaring at him, but his silence seemed to be answer enough.

“Good.” Laurel stood, pushing off from the couch and crossing the room. “Let’s shake on it. And then we’re going to sit down and you’re going to pay all those deposits, while I watch.” He made it sound almost deviant, a kind of sly promise in his voice, and Casey felt something tingle between his shoulder blades as he held his hand out robotically for Laurel to shake.

“Just so you know,” he hissed, “this is a business arrangement. Nothing more.”

“Of course.” Laurel smiled, holding onto Casey’s hand for just a second too long. His gaze trailed over Casey’s lips and down his neck, over his bare throat. “I’m glad we’re finally being honest with each other.”

*

Laurel had doomed them by saying it couldn’t actually be that hard; he saw that now. His back ached from leaning over the kitchen table, and his head was so full of linens and glassware and baby’s breath that he was sure his dreams that night would look like a Martha Stewart magazine written by a lunatic. If he ever got to sleep at all. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but the white-hot slats of sunlight coming in through the blinds had faded long ago, giving way to darkness. He was trying not to shiver; Casey kept it colder than a meat locker in here. His mouth was dry, and his eyes felt parched as styrofoam peanuts from hours of looking at Casey’s laptop screen.

God, parties were monstrous, and now he wanted to apologize for every single one he’d been to. There was so much to do , and Casey had been letting it all sit, since he hadn’t been planning to actually deliver on any of it. Laurel’s stomach let out a very loud growl, and he ran a hand over his face self-consciously.

“Should we at least order food, or something?” he asked.

“Knock yourself out,” Casey said. “You’re financing this whole thing.”

“You’re not hungry?” Laurel stood and stretched, feeling his lower back pop.

“Not really. Getting blackmailed has kind of taken away my appetite.” Casey glared at him across the table. There was a raw spot on his bottom lip from where he’d been chewing at it.

“It’s not blackmail.” Was it? Laurel’s heart sank, even though he had no reason to feel bad. He changed the subject. “You’ll see. It’ll be the event of the year. We just need to figure out the, uh, chafing dishes.”

“We’re not doing chafing dishes. A buffet would be too declass é .”

“Why did you make me look at them, then, if we’re not—” Casey’s expression said it all. He was taking a perverse pleasure in overloading Laurel with all these extraneous details. Probably hoping it would scare him away. But it wouldn’t. Laurel leaned back against the kitchen counter, massaging his neck. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. I get it, event planning is a lot of work, and this is probably my cosmic punishment for ruining my twelfth birthday party when I was a kid.” Casey looked like he couldn’t be less interested in what had happened, but Laurel blundered on, just for something to talk about, just so that the word blackmail didn’t keep knocking around in his brain. “My birthday is right near Christmas, so mom thought it would be fun if I did, like, a solo caroling performance. Fun for whom, I’m not sure. Anyway, my voice kept cracking during Silver Bells , and I had a whole meltdown. Ran offstage, knocked the cake over, hid in a kitchen cabinet. They were searching for me for hours.”

“How traumatic,” Casey said, with infinite boredom.

“Oh yeah. Years of therapy.”

Casey sighed. “Can we get back to it?”

Laurel tilted his head, trying on a smile. “You don’t find me amusing, I guess.”

Casey mirrored the expression mockingly, no warmth in his eyes. “Be funnier.”

What would it be like to actually make him laugh? What did Casey even laugh about? Tricking people out of their money, probably. And he’d never laugh in front of Laurel unless he was laughing at him, because he really did hate him. He must, to have targeted Denise like this. “What was it?” Laurel asked casually, though he felt anything but. “What did I do to make you dislike me so badly? What was it that made you seek out my mom as your victim?”

“You really think I did this because of you?” Casey gave him a blank look. “I didn’t even know your name. I forgot about you.”

Laurel’s heart pounded against his ribs. To be despised was one thing, but to be forgotten? Unbearable. He could feel the tension in his neck as he said, “No you didn’t. This is all—”

“Some big plot against you?” Casey shrugged. “Sorry, but it’s not. I was headed further south, actually. Trying to distance myself from the pirate party fallout. I stopped in town for the spring flower festival. Got to talking with Denise. She said she had always wanted to throw a big annual event like that one, and I saw an opportunity.”

“And you never once made the connection?”

Casey grimaced. “Like I said, I wasn’t thinking about you. There was no connection to make. And the only full-size picture your mom has up is that—”

“Creepy portrait with the haunted eyes? I know.”

“It doesn’t look like you.”

“Thanks for saying that.”

Casey brushed a strand of hair out of his face, saying nothing. Laurel’s eyes tracked his fingers involuntarily. The smell of his scalp, herbal and sweaty and somehow sweet, filled Laurel’s nose. The taste of his mouth, the feeling of his nails digging into Laurel’s hips. How could he have forgotten ? Laurel hadn’t; Casey had been a phantom floating in the forefront of his brain for the last three months. It wasn’t fair that Casey could just discard that night, when it had sunk its hooks into Laurel so irrevocably.

“Can I,” he cleared his throat. “Can I have a glass of water, or something?”

“You invited yourself into my apartment. I think you can help yourself.”

“I guess I can.” Laurel busied himself in the cabinet, noting the lack of dishes: a few chipped coffee mugs—not even fun ones with art or lettering on them, but just solid colors—and a place setting for one. He felt Casey’s cold gaze on his back. “I didn’t really think about it, but it’s an interesting quandary of manners, isn’t it. When is it appropriate to barge into someone’s home but not appropriate to help oneself to a drink? Are the two always aligned? And if not…”

“I give up.” Casey snapped the laptop shut. “Tell Denise. Turn me in. Anything to keep from working with you. I can’t stand hearing you talk for another second.”

“I mean. You could stop me from talking. You have ways.” Laurel smiled at him over the rim of the glass. He felt a little feverish, his equilibrium off, his stomach tight and his ears ringing the way they had when he’d climbed the great pyramid or touched the Eiffel Tower for the first time.

“I told you I’m not going to fuck you again.”

“Your fingers are trembling.” They were; Laurel could see them jittering against the tabletop. Casey clenched his hand into a fist.

“Too much caffeine.”

“Sure.” He thought about kissing Casey’s knuckles, about uncurling his hand and sucking his index and middle finger into his mouth the way he had before. The salt of Casey’s skin and the pressure against his tongue, Casey’s breath stirring the tiny hairs on the back of his neck. There you go. Get them ready for me .

“You’re bright red,” Casey said, snapping him back to the present.

Laurel looked away, taking a sip of water. It was lukewarm, and did nothing to soothe the heat throbbing in his face.

“I think that’s the only thing I like about you.” Casey tilted his head. He didn’t rise from where was, leaning over the table. He didn’t approach Laurel, or touch him. He didn’t need to. His gaze was like sugar syrup all over his body, sticky and intimate. “How reactive your skin is. It makes it easy to guess what you’re thinking.”

“All I’m thinking is—” That I’m doing this for the wrong reasons. That I shouldn’t be here. That I’ll make sure you don’t forget me this time. Laurel cleared his throat. “That I should get home and get some sleep. We have an early morning tomorrow.”

“Right.” Casey stood fully, stretching. His T-shirt rode up, showing the tan hollow of his belly. Laurel noticed, and Casey noticed him noticing. He kept eye contact as he said, “Well, sleep tight.”

“You’re not going to run off during the night, are you?”

“I thought about it.” Casey kept looking at him. He still hadn’t blinked, and Laurel felt an atavistic little shiver, as if he were being held in the eyeline of a leopard, or some other big cat. “But no. A hundred and fifty thousand, remember? You’d better be good for it.”

“I’m good for a lot of things. You’ll see.”