Chapter Seventeen

“Your suit is spectacular, Nick,” Roger said. “I told you the Tom Ford was perfect. My God, you look like a million bucks! How did I get so lucky?” Roger’s years in America gave his Oxford English a smattering of Texas slang. Words like “bucks” or “y’all” popped up at random. Nick thought it was endearing, as though Roger were trying to speak to him in his own language.

“Here they are!” Jeanne said. She waved Nick and Roger over to where she was talking with Mina and David Li.

“You know Roger, of course, and this is my assistant, Nicholas Erickson,” Jeanne said. “Not only did he help me set up the display in the courtyard—he and Roger planned the entire menu.”

“A magnificent debut,” Mina said. “I was amazed as the caterers arrived. Brilliant choices!”

The Li’s were effusive in their praise. Nick was floating on air. He and Roger snuck a fist bump behind their backs. They had pulled it off. They had worked a bunch of street chefs into the most fashionable New Year’s Party in Singapore. The food was beautifully arranged and people clustered around Latipah, complimenting her. Roger and Nick stood off to the side, listening. They were joined by Morris and Lena, whom Nick had insisted be on the guest list. Morris was in the shirt Roger had forced him into—and even Nick had to admit the skinny former sailor looked good. Roger brought them all champagne to celebrate.

“You should be proud, Nick,” Lena said quietly while Roger and Morris argued about the shirt. “This is incredible. You are making a nice life for yourself.”

“Thanks,” Nick said. “I’m working hard not to screw it up.”

“I’m proud of you,” she said. “Now let me drag Morris back to the food before he and Roger throw down over that goddamn shirt.”

Roger wrapped an arm around Nick’s waist and signaled a waiter.

“You are not going to believe who is with Jeanne and my mother,” Roger said, handing Nick another glass. Nick turned and saw, with a lurch in his chest, that it was Graves. He was in a blue suit and a dark-gold tie, a combination that suited him to an annoying degree. He seemed to be charming Mrs. Yeung with a story.

“I know you don’t like him, but God, that suit,” Roger said. “Clearly bespoke. Probably has his own tailor. Should we rescue my mother?”

“Let’s not go over there,” Nick said. “I can’t deal with him right now.”

“Who even is he?” Roger said.

“Lord Nelson Graves, Duke of some kinda something, head of Scimitar Shipping,” Nick muttered.

Roger shook his phone in annoyance. “The company has a boring shell page and there is nothing, I mean nothing about him on the internet. How can that be?

“Please, stop,” Nick said. “I’m sure he has people who make sure he stays that way.”

“Well I am going to find him,” Roger said. “He has to be somewhere.”

“This is our night,” Nick said, pushing Roger’s phone down. “Forget it.”

Roger didn’t argue, and the two went out onto the patio instead, breathing in the smell of the night-blooming flowers. There were others there, but it was easy to make their way to the edge, where the stone wall dropped down the hillside in an artificial cliff, above the rocks and crashing waves. Looking down, they could barely see the tide pulling out, leaving little pools and rivulets in the stones far below. The breeze was fresh and the sea smell seemed to go perfectly with the champagne.

They talked aimlessly, enjoying each other’s company, and when Roger took Nick’s hand, he didn’t object. Roger’s face was illuminated by the lamps the Palladium had placed in the garden to show the paths and fountains. His high cheekbones and full mouth reminded Nick of Jeanne in a way, a kind of effortless beauty. The palm trees sounded like waves in the breeze, and the alcohol in Nick’s system was making him feel warm and more than a little amorous. It was a perfect night.

*

According to the hasty investigation Graves had ordered, Roger Yeung was perfect. Nothing interesting there, nothing Graves could sink his teeth into. He was handsome, well off, came from a respectable family. But none of that mattered. What mattered was that he was with Nick, and clearly they were having a good time.

Graves watched without appearing to watch, as Roger Yeung won Nick right out from under his hands. It was enough to make him want to kill everyone in the room. Or himself—he couldn’t decide. Roger was attentive. Roger was kind. Roger brought Nick drinks and food and made him laugh. Nick was looking at Roger Yeung with smiling awe, his cheeks flushed. Graves could barely stand it. He knew Nick had seen him, but other than a polite nod, he had not even come over to say hello. It was intolerable.

Graves was glaring at himself in the mirror of the bathroom, washing his hands and thinking about where he could stash Roger fucking Yeung’s body when Nick came in, still looking over his shoulder with a wide smile. That is my smile; that is my blush. How have I bungled this so badly? Why is this damn boy killing me like this? He was still blinking stupidly as Nick turned and saw him.

Nick’s smile disappeared, something that twisted his heart in his chest and made his knuckles whiten around his cane.

“Hello, Graves, how are you?” he said, always polite.

“I’m well, Nick. How are you?” Graves said automatically. What he wanted to ask, “What can I do to get you to leave that handsome, perfect, whole-bodied young thing waiting for you and come away with me?” stuck in his throat, logjammed behind a host of other questions and demands.

He settled for “Are you having a good time?” and left it at that, clenching his jaw around everything else. He realized he wasn’t breathing and cleared his throat, forcing his hand to relax.

“I am. I’ve never been to something like this, with a—” he said. He stuttered to a halt and Graves forced himself to smile. Never been with a man. Don’t say anything, old boy. You can do this. You’re a gentleman.

“I mean…sorry… I didn’t mean,” Nick was backpedaling and Graves almost felt sorry for him. Almost. The sight of those blue eyes—he felt something like a cramp in his chest.

“It’s fine, Nick. I am happy for you,” he said. He almost meant it.

“Thanks. I mean, I don’t know what this is. He’s nice though,” Nick’s neck was flushing up to his ears now, and Graves had to physically restrain himself. He’s nice and I’m not. Well that’s true enough.

“I’m glad you are enjoying yourself.”

“How is your—what was he? Some kind of prince?” Nick asked. Graves tried not to flinch. That had been an…unfortunate run-in.

“Oh, he wasn’t mine. I mean…” Graves swallowed. “He is on a jet home,” he said. Covered in bruises and barely able to walk. Just the way I want you. “And that was Roger, then?”

“Yes. Well, thanks for not—I thought you would, you know—say something,” Nick was stumbling through his words, and Graves arched a brow at him, pretending not to understand.

“Say something? Like what?”

“Well, I told you I didn’t want a relationship, and now—I mean,” he stammered.

“Have fun with Roger Yeung. I’m sure he is a nice boy,” Graves said. He could feel his patience sliding through his fingers though. Nick’s hopeful smile made him furious.

“But you know where to find me when you are done playing about,” he said. Nick’s shocked face made him wince. Well, there you go. Why don’t you simply punch yourself in the face, Graves, you fool. “And make sure little Roger knows that if he’s unkind to you, or hurts you in any way…”

“You’ll what?” Nick snapped, stepping back. He sneered. “Feed him to your dogs?”

“Something like that,” he said. In for a penny, in for a pound. “But what I do will be nothing to what Jeanne does to him, so you needn’t make that bloody face at me, boy.”

“I’ll make any fucking face I want, Graves,” Nick said, his fists curling at his sides. Graves leaned in and pointed at him, but Nick slapped the finger aside, his face red with anger.

“I’m looking out for you, and you are thinking about taking a swing at me?” Graves barked—the throb in his hip and the ache in his heart had reached a kind of counterrhythm. He swore he could feel the pain alternating with his pulse.

“You’re an asshole, Graves,” Nick said, his lip curling. “You know it would be you out there holding my drink if you weren’t such a dick? Man, fuck you and the horse you rode in on, Nelson Graves.”

Graves snapped his mouth shut on the retort he wanted to say—the things that would likely break what little chance of friendship they had left—and walked out of the bathroom. He was acutely aware that his limp was worse than it had been in days. His neck felt too tight for his collar. He needed air. With a nod to Jeanne, he went all the way to the back of the house, to the private patio by the pool. He threw himself down on a bench and cursed, pulling out a joint to smoke with shaking hands.

Fool. Twice-damned fool. Bloody, bloody fool. You could have kept your mouth shut, and when littler Roger is gone in a week, everything would be fine. But no. Bloody stupid fool.