Page 9

He had no desire to be at Wayon Bonard’s campaign fundraiser, but he found himself there nevertheless, swept along in a kind of helpless lassitude. Laurel’s insides felt all jumbled up, his thoughts still raw. He made nice and shook hands through clenched teeth, hoping nothing showed on his face. A panoply of society folks passed by, squeezing his sweaty palm and clapping him on the shoulder. His mom was there, and her friend Meredith, not quite included in everything but lurking on the periphery. There were former classmates and team members with insincere promises to catch up. There was the congressional candidate himself, a stout man with veiny jowls and a nose like an overripe strawberry, who pumped Laurel’s hand with unnecessary vigor and said he hoped he could count on his vote. (He very much could not.) There was Howie Bonard, working his way through the crowd with his salesman’s smile. Laurel had managed for most of the night to be everywhere that he wasn’t. He couldn’t stand to speak to him tonight, or ever. There was the matriarch of the family, Lavinia Bonard, and the church ladies, Sarah Ann Copeland, Mary Devereux, and Birdie Callaway, all fussing over him, asking if they could expect him next Sunday and regaling him with stories of how adorable he had been as a child. Laurel didn’t really remember that version of himself; he remembered performing, remembered jumping through hoops and checking boxes. A trained dog, a dressage horse, executing a routine, while inside his head, he was miles away.

He was miles away now, wandering through the room in a fog. In addition to their country estate, the Bonards had multiple properties in town. This was one of them, an Italianate villa on the corner of Third and Main, one of the largest antebellum buildings still standing in downtown Bonard, with a spiral staircase, an elaborate garden, and a fully staged carriage house in back. It was on the national register of historic places, and tours were given every weekend. Laurel’s sixth-grade class had been subjected to several field trips here as part of an American History unit, hearing what he would learn later was a very skewed version of events. Of course, now it was considered a little more gauche to openly celebrate one’s racist ancestors, but the Bonards had kept up all the family portraits and Civil War memorabilia. Unlike Denise’s house, which hammered visitors over the head with a confusing collection of beauty pageant paraphernalia and dubious antiques, the Bonard House whispered silkily of money and power. People whose names should probably be scrubbed from the history books stared down from the walls. Sofas that had seated presidents and dignitaries were laid out as casually as if they’d been from Walmart. All of the wood paneling in the main ballroom, Laurel knew (again, from the sixth-grade field trips), was from a forest that no longer existed, and was irreplaceable.

Someone had given him a cup of sherry punch, but he’d hardly touched it. The liquid was warm, the cut-glass vessel digging into his skin. Laurel knew if he allowed himself to drink tonight, it would be a disaster, because he could feel a familiar restlessness in his head, a sort of panic at the back of his brain. It had been stupid to come. Chip wasn’t here, quietly refusing to show his support, and neither was Melody, for obvious reasons. There were dozens of people who wanted to talk to him, but no one Laurel wanted to talk to.

No one, that was, except Casey, who Denise had brought along as her date. It had only been a few days since the trip to Abernathy farms, and they hadn’t spoken. Laurel wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say, just that he wanted—craved—Casey’s attention. But Casey, across the room, seemed to be looking everywhere except at him.

He looked immaculate, as always, in a pastel suit and a shirt that had some kind of pattern on it, subtle enough to be fun but not tacky. Laurel wondered how long Casey spent putting together his outfits. ( Let’s talk about what costumes you’re wearing, Laurel .) There was something a little bit otherworldly about him, something that drew one’s gaze, and Laurel didn’t seem to be the only one who thought so. The church ladies had descended upon Casey, evidently finding him to be a source of fascination, or else trying to save his soul. Birdie Callaway was squeezing his arm, her cheeks rosy, an expression of dire importance on her face.

Of course, it was all an act. The colorful suits, the bowtie, the hair. The indulgent smile as he pretended to listen to what Birdie was saying. Whatever thoughts were actually going on behind Casey’s eyes were his alone.

Laurel turned away, looking for some fresh air.

Even though night had fallen, walking out onto the veranda felt like being submerged, the hot air enfolding him in a blanket of lethargy. The garden stretched out before him, brick-lined paths illuminated by in-ground lights, the vague suggestion of orderly lines and boxy shrubs competing with palmettos and flowering vines. By day, Laurel knew (again, from the field trips), it was a tame, manicured, English-style garden, with stone benches and mossy cherubs and a three-tiered marble fountain. In the dark, it seemed wilder and more lush, its shapes less distinct. Out in the distance, he saw lighting bugs, little lighter-flicks above the hedgerows. The night was busy with the sound of insects and trickling water, and the smell of jasmine was heavy on the air, along with other plants that Casey probably would have known the name of.

He had hoped that no one else would brave the heat, and he’d be alone, but the sound of the door opening and closing at his back made Laurel’s shoulders tense up. Praying that it was just someone else who wanted some privacy, he didn’t turn, but the voice, when it came, made his stomach flush with cold and his jaw clench, molars grinding together.

“Well, well, the prodigal son returns. Le baronet , bonjour .” Laurel turned to see Howie Bonard standing behind him, a glass in his hand, his full head of dark hair shining under the porch lights. Fifty-something and he still hadn’t been struck by male pattern baldness, or even many grays. There was truly no justice in his world. His All-American boyish good looks hadn’t faded, though his skin was leathery from years of sun. He’d gotten new veneers at some point, and Laurel noticed with a twinge of pleasure that they were too large for his mouth. “I heard you were back in town. I was hoping we’d run into each other.”

I wasn’t . Laurel didn’t know if he could do it. In his head he saw Melody lying on the floor, face puffy from crying. Why had he come here? Because his mom had told him to? Why had he even come home in the first place? He had the absurd urge to run off into the garden, hide behind a hedgerow. Climb a magnolia tree.

Instead, helplessly, he let his hand be shaken by Howie Bonard, stomach simmering.

“How was Europe?” Howie’s smile was sharp, his pupils ringed in white. He’d been drinking. Or something else.

“Wonderful,” Laurel muttered.

“I’ll bet. Girls, galas, and fox hunting? Discotheques?” Howie Bonard’s arm was around his shoulder before Laurel could react, enfolding him in a bubble of mint and bourbon and overly-strong cologne. “Red Light districts? What did you get up to over there?”

Laurel held himself perfectly still. The hairs on his arms and legs were standing up. “Not much. Drinking port with my dad. Enjoying the weather.”

“Oh, come on. Didn’t you have any fun? No femmes dangereuses ? It’s a lawless land over there, I’ll tell you.” Howie Bonard poked him in the chest with one finger, the liquid in his glass nearly spilling. “A man can find all sorts of entertainment.”

“I really didn’t get up to much.”

“So modest. With a pedigree like yours, I’m sure you were drowning in European pussy.”

Laurel felt disgust rise in the back of his throat. “And what about you? How have you been?” he asked, trying to free himself. Bonard’s arm felt heavy and boneless around his shoulders, and the back of his neck was getting clammy.

“It has been trying , my boy. Absolutely trying.” Bonard poked him in the chest again. “With the campaign and all, I have to be on my best behavior. Not that I’m ever not,” he added, with a sloppy wink. “You know that little trouble I had with the law was bullshit. I mean, I don’t even like cocaine. I’m just partial to the smell of it.”

He laughed. God, those teeth were like fence slats.

Laurel creased his face into what he thought was a smile. “Sure. Of course.”

“But you know what they say. You are the company you keep. So I have to be a good boy until Wayon gets elected. Speaking of the company you keep…” Howie grinned even wider, his face a carnival mask in the darkness. “I heard you’ve been spending time with Melody again. Heard she showed up uninvited to a party, made a big scene. What is it about these crazy women, Laurel? They get their talons into us and just don’t let go.”

Laurel had the vague sensation of needing to throw up, just like he had every time his mom had made him sing in front of an audience. He could feel the pulse fluttering in his temple like a moth, an ache starting up behind his eyes. “She’s my friend,” he said weakly. “She’s only ever been my friend.” And Howie was the one texting her. Tormenting her. Not letting her go after all these years.

“Oh, come on. No one’s ever just friends with a girl like that. You and that Mexican lawyer kid have been panting after her for years.”

Chip’s family was Colombian-American, but Howie Bonard had apparently never met a microaggression he didn’t like. “I need—” Some air. A drink. To scream. Something red-hot and unformed was scrabbling its way up his throat, and Laurel was worried he was about to do something stupid.

“Unless you’ve switched teams,” Howie said slyly. “I heard you were hanging out with that party planner, too.”

“Why are you so fucking interested in my sex life, Howie?” Laurel hissed, finally wrenching himself out from under Bonard’s arm.

Bonard held up a hand. “Woah, just making friendly conversation, son.”

“I’m not your son. Or your friend.” Laurel’s fist was too tight around the punch glass, and he set it down on a railing, afraid he would throw it otherwise. “Neither is Melody. Stay away from her. Stop texting her.”

“I think you should calm down.” Bonard’s eyes were flat, reptilian. He took a slow sip of his drink. Behind him, Laurel could see people moving back and forth in the windows, hear the sounds of music and conversation. He knew everyone in there, but he had never felt more alone.

He swallowed. Turning away, Laurel fled down the steps and into the garden.

*

Casey was still here. Okay, maybe he had freaked out a little after the moment in the car, sat trembling under the cold spray of the shower, a catalog of Laurel’s expressions playing through his head, his red face and the tortured little gasps he’d made and the long, taut line of his throat. The candy-sweet taste of his lips. Maybe those same lips had visited him once or twice in his dreams since then. But Casey was still in control. He had a high tolerance for uncomfortable situations, and he could tolerate this one for as long as it took to get paid. Like Jamie had said, Casey wasn’t going to fall for Laurel. He didn’t even like him as a person, didn’t like his undeserved optimism and his annoying exuberance and how damn nosy he was. How he just seemed to assume things would go his way. How he thought he was the smartest person in the room, and how he made Casey’s self-control want to jump out a window. There was really nothing appealing about him at all, besides his trust fund—

And his pretty eyes, Casey’s brain whispered, and how amazing his ass looked tonight, in that pair of slacks—

The trust fund. Which was, again, the only reason Casey was sticking around. He was in this for the money. He told himself it would be worth it. He told himself that the sizzling, anxious sense of anticipation he felt in his palms, in his lower belly, was because of the one hundred and fifty thousand dollars and not because Laurel was here in the room with him.

It was going to be a long night.

He shouldn’t have let Denise drag him along to this event. Casey was an expert at performing, and he was used to being trotted out and shown off; his dad had used him as a prop in various sob stories before Casey had even been able to talk. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have minded being here, fielding probing questions and getting his arm squeezed, playing the gay bff to a bunch of achingly sweet ladies who he was fairly sure all expected that he was going to Hell. Being a source of fascination and mild horror. In its own way, it was interesting. People told you all sorts of things when they considered you a novelty. It was just that he was tired . He’d felt Laurel’s eyes on him all night, and keeping up the party planner persona was hard when his mind was back in the Land Rover, in that little pocket of urgency and heat.

Luckily, right now he didn’t have to do much more than smile and nod. Birdie Callaway, who had apparently been hitting the sherry punch pretty hard, had gotten on a tangent about how women hadn’t even been allowed to wear pants in some of the clubs in Charleston, back when she was young.

“But of course now everyone wears whatever they want. Boys are going around wearing skirts, and the girls are out in the tiniest little tops, I mean, just showing everything , without a thought for the effect they have on people. How is anyone supposed to get anything done when all these young women have their stomachs out like that, I ask you?”

Casey was half-tempted to reassure Birdie that it was totally fine if women’s midriff was making her have some previously-undiscovered feelings, but he just smiled sympathetically, holding his tongue.

At last, she fluttered back off to the punch bowl, and Casey was able to make his exit, slinking out the back door and onto the veranda. He needed to get away. Not just from the ladies, but from Laurel, who had been staring at him from across the room like a starving puppy. Although now he was nowhere to be seen. Good. Casey really didn’t want to talk to him about what had happened in the car. He didn’t even want to make eye contact, because then he would want to kiss him again. Which was annoying and not smart.

There was a light on in the carriage house, a little square of orange in the humid night, and he set off toward it, thinking maybe it would provide some shelter from the midges and mosquitoes. To tell the truth, he was kind of curious about what a carriage house actually was. Casey had always liked exploring other people’s homes, gaining impressions of their personalities from how they lived and decorated. It was one of the only perks of working in the service industry.

As he got closer, he could see that it was actually a collection of buildings: an English-style cottage, incongruously cozy for the punishing summer heat; a covered area that did actually house two carriages, shiny and free of dust or leaves, though they obviously hadn’t been used in decades; and a long line of stables. The door to the cottage was locked, but he peeked inside. This was where the light had come from. The room was illuminated, and it was full of furniture from an earlier time, a modest table setting laid out and logs on the hearth, as if the groundskeeper would be back at any time. This must be what “fully staged” meant (Casey had checked the Bonard House’s Wikipedia page before coming here). So strange, to cling to the past so much that they’d installed a little snapshot of it on the grounds of their estate. Casey had never had much use for the past, his own or anyone else’s.

He wandered into the stables, feet nearly silent on the cobbled floor. It was dark and muggy in here, the symmetrical lines of the stalls stretching off into obscurity. The air smelled like jasmine and magnolia blossoms from the garden, the faint, dusty scent of old hay and a ghostly whiff of sickly-sweet ammonia from long-ago horses. Shadows pooled across the floor, and Casey felt an uncomfortable tingle between his shoulder blades, not liking how little visibility there was, how anything could be moving around out there in the dark—

Shock jolted through him and he heard himself let out a curse as he realized that something was moving, one of the shadows was elongating and standing up, and Casey fumbled for his phone, heart pounding—

And he cursed again, for different reasons. Because it was Laurel. Laurel had turned on the flashlight on his own phone, and was standing there in the bright white beam, his face washed out and a little blotchy, freckles stark against his pale skin. He looked like he might have been crying, and Casey nearly turned and ran back out into the garden, because he wanted exactly nothing to do with that. He licked his lips, not sure what to say. His heart still hadn’t slowed down, and he felt a corresponding pulse start up in his groin, a shiver work its way through his thighs, as he took in Laurel’s messy hair, the cords standing out in his neck, the way his sweaty shirt had molded itself to his chest.

“Oh good,” Laurel said. “You’re here.”

“I didn’t mean t—” Casey started to say, but Laurel had surged forward out of the darkness, and his hand was on Casey’s chest and his tongue was in Casey’s mouth, and from far away, Casey heard the clatter of Laurel’s phone dropping to the ground as the flashlight beam swung wildly around the room before going out entirely, and they were kissing up against the door of one of the stalls, kissing in the dark with the smells of flowers and hay and old leather all around them, uneven wood paneling digging into Casey’s shoulder blades through his jacket, stars bursting behind his eyes.

Laurel kissed with desperation, with a kind of panicked hunger, and Casey felt himself sink into the kiss with the heady, luxurious pleasure of giving in to a craving. Slowly, almost lazily, he ran his hands over Laurel’s body, appreciating the lines of him. The night air was like molasses, sticking to their bodies, and Laurel was trembling under his touch like a nervous animal, muscles fluttering in his lower back. He made an amazing little sound when Casey squeezed his ass, so Casey dug his fingers in, pulling him closer, making Laurel fall against him. Laurel had a great ass, round and plump, with adorable little twin dimples in his lower back. He had strong thighs, too, and even though Casey was slightly taller, he felt wonderfully small and delicate with Laurel’s weight on him, pinned here against the wood in this pocket of darkness and heat. He ground his hips against Laurel’s, face buried in his hair, breathing in the familiar scent of him. Laurel groaned, nuzzling and mouthing at his neck, sucking on his earlobe until the hairs on his nape stood on end.

When Laurel’s shaky fingers began to undo Casey’s belt buckle, he heard himself say, not at all convincingly, “It’s a bad idea.” But really, he couldn’t get himself to give a shit. Something at this rich people party had put Laurel in a state, and Casey was just along for the ride. This had been in the cards for them since they’d kissed in the car, or maybe even since Laurel had winked at him in Denise’s kitchen, and it was hot out and Casey was too tired to resist.

“I don’t care,” Laurel muttered against his shoulder. “Please, I just want—I want—”

Casey meant to shrug, but all the nonchalance dropped out of him as Laurel fell to his knees. It looked a little painful; cobblestones were bad for your kneecaps, and he heard Laurel let out a muffled curse against his leg.

“Are you okay? You’re so dramatic. You could have just—”

“Shut up. Please .” Laurel was undoing his pants, and Casey felt the warm air enveloping his bare legs, felt Laurel’s hot breath stir the hairs on his lower belly. He could barely see Laurel’s face, but he could tell he was looking up at him. The light caught in his eyes sent a silver-bright thrill rippling through Casey, from his scalp to his belly to the soles of his feet. He let out a breath, reaching down to caress Laurel’s cheek as Laurel bent his head, kissing his way along Casey’s hip bone, his abdomen, soft, lavish kisses that got wetter and more eager the lower he went. His thumb was rubbing circles on Casey’s thigh, and the brush of his hair against Casey’s skin felt electric, almost painful, setting his teeth on edge. His cock leapt against Laurel’s lips, and Laurel smiled, kissing the tip of it. Casey babbled to keep from gasping, his voice sounding strange and waterlogged to his own ears.

“You know, I like the pleading. And I like you quiet like this, it’s—”

Oh, God, he couldn’t stop himself from gasping after all, because Laurel sank his teeth into the meat of Casey’s inner thigh. Shock and pleasure arced through him, his hand scrabbling across the wood behind them, his mouth falling open. Laurel’s grip on his leg had turned forceful, holding him in place, and Casey gasped again as Laurel took his cock fully into his mouth. He was sucking him deeper even before Casey was fully hard, his mouth velvet and lush as the darkness around them. Casey let his head fall back, his eyes half-closed, the smell of jasmine in his sinuses, on his tongue. Laurel’s hair was rough between his fingers. His other hand had wrapped itself around one of the posts behind him, his palm sweaty, his equilibrium gone. He felt almost drunk on it, on him , his thoughts swaying like branches in the wind, his body liquid. He could hear the chittering of insects in the garden and the slick, fevered sound of Laurel’s lips sliding around him, and every time his cock hit the back of Laurel’s throat, his brain burst into dazzling shards of glass. It had been like this before, too, this raw and uninhibited, Laurel throwing himself into their encounter with luxurious abandon. Casey almost admired it, the way he got lost to the ungovernable strength of his wants.

“I guess—I guess I did miss you after all,” he admitted. Here in the darkness, it felt safe to say it. Casey’s legs were shaking, his skin stinging where Laurel had bitten him, stinging everywhere, red-hot and unbearably sensitive. “I guess I did think about you a little. I guess I—oh, fuck—” and he was coming with a garbled sound, as Laurel groaned and took him even deeper, his nails digging into Casey’s hip, his sweaty forehead flush against his stomach.

Casey was still leaning against the wall, trying to remember how to use his arms and legs, when Laurel pulled away. He heard him laugh softly, shuffling around in the dark.

“I think I broke my phone.”

I think you broke me , Casey didn’t say. He collected himself, pulling up his pants and finding his own phone. Laurel’s eyes were dilated in the light from the screen, his eyelashes damp and stuck together. He was still on his hands and knees, and Casey reached down, handing him his pocket square. “Here.”

“What’s this for?”

“If you—want to wipe your mouth. Or your face. You’re sweaty.”

“So are you,” Laurel said, but he dragged the fabric over his face and neck before giving it back. Casey wasn’t sure if he wanted to fling the handkerchief away or never wash it. “Of course you’d have a pocket square. What’s that color, anyway, is it pink?”

“Can’t you tell?”

“Well, no. Asshole. I’m a little bit colorblind.” Laurel scratched his cheek. “Probably why I run headfirst toward red flags.”

Casey let out a surprised puff of laughter. Shit, why did he have to be funny, on top of everything else? “I—how many times have you told that joke?”

“To you? Only once.” Laurel smiled. His eyes were shining, teeth slick and bright, and Casey’s heart thudded against his ribs. “Did you drive here with my mom?”

“I did.”

“Make up an excuse. Come home with me.”