OLIVER
Oliver didn’t usually have young men walking around his house in bath towels in the middle of the afternoon, but he’d scheduled a rare daylight scene with Lyle, originally intending for it to lead to an evening at the City Club, where Lyle had all but begged Oliver to take him.
He wasn’t sure why it bothered him that Blake had seen Lyle. He’d assumed Lyle would stay upstairs, but he was less of a shrinking violet than Oliver had realized at first. Normally, that would be a good thing, except that Oliver had begun to feel like their relationship had run its course, and the moments of unpredictability now irritated rather than charmed him.
He found himself frowning confusedly at his reflection as he checked his tie in the hallway mirror. Why did it matter to him so much that Blake had watched Lyle with definite interest? Oliver had chosen Lyle himself; of course, Lyle was nice to look at. Certainly, it had nothing to do with possessive feelings toward Lyle. And Oliver had followed his own rules where Blake was concerned. After a year of managing his reactions to Blake, it had become almost easy. So, why was he staring at the door through which Blake had just left, feeling flustered and disoriented?
Lyle reappeared at the top of the stairs in the suit that Oliver had chosen for him, his grin enormous. “Ready! God, I can’t wait. I’ve been thinking about this all day.” He jogged down the steps toward Oliver, who smiled at him absently, distracted by a new text message notification.
Wilson: Any chance you have plans at City Club this evening? I’m in town unexpectedly and would love to see you for dinner—and, of course, afters.
Oliver’s first reaction was delight. Wilson was a mentor and a friend, and he’d been traveling in Asia over the past two months, so Oliver hadn’t seen him. But, remembering Lyle, he had to think quickly. As much as Oliver looked forward to whatever euphemistic “afters” Wilson had in mind, where Lyle would undoubtedly be useful, a candid and uncensored dinner conversation wouldn’t be possible with a mere acquaintance at the table.
He painted on a wretched frown and looked up at Lyle. “Oh, damn. I’m so sorry, but I’m going to have to cancel our plans.”
Lyle’s face crumpled, which made Oliver feel a moment’s guilt. The City Club was quite exclusive, and Lyle had never gotten a member’s invitation before. Oliver himself was only a member by virtue of his connection to Wilson.
After dropping off a sullen Lyle, Oliver called Emile. He could hardly meet Wilson at the City Club without inviting Emile. While Emile hadn’t known Wilson nearly as long as Oliver had, they were friends, too.
“Oliver!” Emile answered, very evidently mid-laugh. “You should come to dinner! We’ve roasted a chicken.”
“How domestic,” Oliver said dryly—though, in fact, the tangible delight in Emile’s voice made him smile. “Actually, I can’t. I called to invite you…” after the briefest of pauses, he amended, “…the two of you, to City Club with me tonight.”
“Oh, I don’t think we’re up for that tonight. I’ve already gotten into my flannel pants.”
Oliver rubbed the bridge of his nose. “That does sound like a far more scintillating evening than watching a flogging and getting fondled by strangers. Forget I dared to ask.”
He could picture Emile rolling his eyes. Faint irritation, liberally laced with fondness, was apparent in his voice. “My nights of public fornication are over.” He paused while a second voice rose and fell in the background, inaudible, in the background. “That’s… not the same thing,” he hissed, obviously not speaking to Oliver.
“Well, next time, perhaps,” Oliver pressed on. “Enjoy your chicken and your… pants.”
“Not your best quip,” Emile said, but he was laughing anyway. “Good night. Be safe, why don’t you?”
“There’s never any peril to me,” Oliver assured him.
Oliver and Emile had met at the City Club eight long years ago, shortly after Oliver had moved from Denver. They had never been a couple, exactly, but they had played and slept together for a few months, in an arrangement which Oliver had hastily terminated when he’d struggled more and more with the necessary feelings that accompanied having sex with a friend. When they’d officially called it off, it had been a relief, and they’d been friends ever since.
Oliver had had his doubts last year when Emile had confessed to being hung up on an eighteen-year-old freshman in his literature class, and he still worried that Emile wasn’t getting what he needed, having more or less vanished from the scene and showing no signs of returning any time soon. But, if his attitude on the phone hadn’t been enough to reassure Oliver, they did still make time for lunch or drinks regularly. And when they did, Emile had a ridiculous, noticeable glow whenever he talked about his erstwhile student.
Jason—who went by Jay, but Oliver abhorred nicknames —was a pleasant enough young man. His sunny energy had grated on Oliver more at first than it did now. When Jason and Emile were actually together, it was a little ridiculous. Oliver was perfectly comfortable with public displays of fornication, but watching two people gaze at each other adoringly challenged Oliver’s infamous composure.
Mostly, Oliver was happy for Emile. And possibly the slightest bit envious.
Anyway, Emile declining the invitation worked out. These days, an invitation to an Emile was an invitation to Jason, and Oliver would prefer seeing Wilson and Nathan without a relative stranger in the mix. There was something different about a group that was solely composed of old friends who hadn’t seen one another in a long while. Besides, Jason hadn’t been to the City Club yet, and if he came along the night would somehow turn into a sex club 101 session. Oliver was sure of it.
It took an hour to drive into the city, but it was an easy journey, all four-lane highway and blue skies deepening to black. Oliver’s Audi sedan was nothing showy, but it was very pleasant to drive.
The club’s exterior was understated. From the street, it was only a handsome building like so many others in the old industrial section of town. The surrounding blocks were dotted with upscale restaurants and boutique hotels, so the valet parking at the curb and secure entrance hardly raised any eyebrows. Everyone filing in looked perfectly respectable, even if they wore a disproportionate number of long coats. Though, by now, most of the locals had to know what went on inside.
Oliver never dressed up for these nights out, or at least, he didn’t dress any differently than he would have if he were only visiting a four-star restaurant—which the club happened to include on the main level. He handed his keys to the stout woman at the valet station and went inside to find Wilson waiting for him by the coat check.
“Hello, dear boy,” Wilson said, his Southern accent lilting and his voice as warm and faintly paternal as always, though Oliver thought calling someone a “boy” when they were in their mid-thirties was a stretch.
“Sir,” Oliver replied, receiving Wilson’s kiss on the cheek with a smile. The man’s face was semi-ageless, his skin perfectly pearly, his hair silver and steel, still thick and wavy at his temples. He was a few inches taller even than Oliver’s 6’1”, and he smelled faintly of violet. His suit was periwinkle, but he looked dapper rather than ridiculous.
Oliver looked past Wilson and then over his own shoulder, surprised when he caught no glimpse of Wilson’s partner. “Where’s Nathan?”
“Oh, he’s on loan.”
Oliver’s brows rose. “Again?”
“Still.”
He blinked. “How long is the term, exactly?”
“A year in total, so four more months. Shall we see if our table’s ready? I was running ahead of schedule and already checked us in. I hope that’s all right.”
Frowning, Oliver followed the towering, elegant figure of his old friend toward the dining room. The hostess recognized them; Oliver thought her name was Rochelle. She had a sleek, blond ponytail and a careful smile.
“Mr. Bell, your table is ready. If you’ll follow me?” They fell into step behind her, weaving through the busy room; it was always a full house on the weekends. As soon as they were seated at one of Wilson’s usual tables and Wilson had asked for a bottle of burgundy, Oliver shook his napkin into his lap and leaned forward. “A year, Wilson? Are you mad? Why deny yourself?”
Wilson gave Oliver one of his ever-patient smiles. “That is a curious question, coming from you. You never see the same face for more than a fortnight.”
“Well, if that’s what you’d prefer, I’d recommend not having a partner.”
“I thought I’d taught you better than to try to impose your own tastes on others’ preferences, my boy.”
Oliver pursed his lips. “I suppose you did.” In his defense, Wilson and Nathan’s shenanigans were too unique to fit into any established category of kink—rather, what they engaged in was something entirely of their own invention. Oliver hoped Nathan was as satisfied with the arrangement as Wilson appeared to be.
The hostess was already back with their wine, so they didn’t have to wait for their server. Wilson thanked her graciously, then took a deep drink from the glass she poured for him. It left his mouth stained red, attractively vampiric in his pale face.
“I heard from our friend Chuck you’ve donned a judge’s robes. I hadn’t pictured you as a public servant.”
The characterization surprised Oliver. He laughed. “Is that how you think of it? I’ve always thought judges inspired esteem, not pity.”
“Perhaps a bit of both.” Wilson steepled his fingers. “Do you have ambitions in that vein?”
Oliver shook his head, still smiling. He tried his wine, which he found sour no matter how much it cost. “Not in this court. It’s a short-term appointment. Just a favor for a friend.”
“Ah, I see. That makes sense. You’ve always seemed to thrive in your firm.”
Thinking back a beat in their conversation, Oliver frowned again. “Why were you speaking to Chuck? You know you can just call my cell phone if you don’t reach me at the office. In fact, there’s never a reason to call the office at all.”
“Settle down,” Wilson said kindly, and with a knowing look. “I didn’t call the firm. I wasn’t speaking to Chuck about legal matters. You, my boy, are my one and only legal counsel, I assure you.”
Oliver relaxed marginally. “Good.” He tried his wine again, and found that he was a little more numb to it now and could appreciate a few of its more subtle, pleasant notes. “You saw him out and about, then?” he guessed. Though he didn’t know Chuck to wander far from home, most people came to the city from time to time to partake in the cultural pursuits unavailable in Canton—the symphony, the theater, better-than-average restaurants, et cetera.
“The club,” Wilson said, nodding, but then he widened his eyes, briefly pulling an expression of mock astonishment that should have been too silly to be funny, but had Oliver laughing again, nonetheless. “Not this club, of course. I saw him on the golf course. He seized the opportunity to join my game, and remind me that he’s sent me three letters about this ‘retainer’ poppycock.”
“Ah.” Oliver smiled. The firm was trying to transition to a retainer model, where clients paid an annual fee that ensured the firm would handle whatever legal matter might arise. Wilson, who had enjoyed that assurance in the past without having to pay for it, had been patiently refusing to entertain the request.
“I assume he didn’t convince you.”
“I don’t do business at the club,” Wilson said gravely. “Not this one, and not that one.” He sipped from his tumbler of gin and grimaced. “I hadn’t seen him in a few years. He looks atrocious.”
Oliver could hardly argue with that. “Well, he’s getting older.” He shrugged, turning the stem of his glass slowly between his thumb and forefinger.
Wilson’s smile turned pained. “He’s a year younger than I am, my boy. Careful what you say.”
Abashed, Oliver chuckled. “Well, what is it they say? ‘It’s not the years, it’s the miles.’”
“Do they?” Wilson looked off-put. “Good gracious.” Before Oliver could feel awkward for putting his foot in his mouth, which he obviously had, Wilson winked at him and lowered his voice. “Do you want to share someone tonight?”
Relieved as well as interested, Oliver grinned. “Always.” It had been a while since they’d done more than take turns with Nathan, which Oliver enjoyed, but finding a third who didn’t belong to Wilson was always more fun.
Wilson returned his grin with a serene smile, but there was a sparkle in his eyes that betrayed his own interest. “I saw Kimberly down by the bar in the Tree Room.”
Oliver perked up even further at that. “Kimberly M.?”
“Kimberly C.,” Wilson corrected him, and took Oliver’s faint grimace for the answer that it was. “What about Thomas, that new boy?”
“Oh, yes,” Oliver agreed. “Though, he’s been around two years. Hardly new.”
Wilson smiled, adjusting his jacket as he rose from his chair. “Everything is relative.”
Oliver laughed and finished his drink. “That it is.” Most of the faces around the club were familiar, people Oliver had been seeing around the scene since his own beginnings a decade ago. If he’d ever be able to find what he was really looking for in this city—hell, in a thousand-mile radius—he would have by now. The sad reality of it made him tired.
But he’d have fun tonight. He pushed back his chair. “We’re giving up the table, then?” Oliver asked.
“Oh,” Wilson said carelessly, “I don’t think we’ll be long. I’m sure they don’t mind holding it for us.” He dropped his napkin on the table. “Come along, my boy. Let’s see if we can entice young Thomas.”
Though Wilson’s back was as straight as ever, and his stride just as graceful, Oliver couldn’t help feeling a pang as he trailed after him through the restaurant. It was true that he looked nowhere near the age of Chuck, who had obviously lived a life of excess and treated his body with disregard. Wilson, on the other hand, was fastidious with himself. But though Wilson did likely have many more healthy years left in comparison to Chuck, he was growing older all the same.
And so was Oliver.
It was a reminder, Oliver thought as they stepped into the elevator and entered the code that permitted members to take it down, rather than up, that he should cherish every moment of the present. He always made a habit of doing what pleased him. But tonight in particular, he intended to savor the evening.
There was a nagging memory tugging at him from earlier in the day, and a little burst of electricity seeming to linger in the fore and middle fingers of his right hand, which he’d been unconsciously rubbing lightly against his thumb. He paused before they stepped off the elevator, reaching for the details that matched the sensation.
He’d been standing just behind Blake, handing him Cujo’s pills, and his fingertips had touched Blake’s smooth, warm palm.
For more than a year, Oliver had compartmentalized successfully. The flare of undeniable heat he’d felt the day they’d met had stayed pent up and walled off. After that, though they’d touched in passing, it hadn’t been anything of consequence. Today had been different—their eyes had locked, both of them jumping at the brief sense of physical connection. Because that’s what it had been: a connection. Not something that only Oliver had felt. He knew the difference, and the truth had been written all over Blake’s face.
At the time, he’d pushed aside the moment. These things happened… but when they happened with someone you relied upon to maintain the order in your life, as he did with Blake, you did not act upon them.
But now he knew his defenses had been breached. That moment of connection had been an arrow into the fortress, and it was only a matter of time before the gates fell.