by Jo Adler
There’s only one problem with my plan. Without his last name and phone number, how do I find the hottest daddy on the planet in a city filled with nearly nine million people?
15
▬ ☼ ▬
ADAM
“That’s the problem when you date younger men,” Charlotte says. “They have different values. While you realize that time is precious and fleeting, they’re busy posting selfies to Instagram or tweeting about their last trip to Burning Man.”
Devon looks up from the menu. “Who’s burning?”
Although dinner at Nobu was ostensibly to discuss plans for another friend’s upcoming fiftieth birthday party, I suspected that Charlotte and Devon were even more interested in staging an intervention for my poor aching heart. They’d both asked how I was doing much more often than usual in the past few days. Since I’d only experienced their hovering behavior a few times before, I picked up on the warning signs when Charlotte stopped by my office around noon with the last-minute idea to have dinner with Devon. “I think he’s going through a rough patch,” she’d said, using almost the exact same excuse that Devon had employed when he’d called earlier in the day. “Maybe we three should have dinner together and help our good friend through it.”
I drink some wine and watch as Devon scowls at Charlotte before repeating his question.
“So?” he demands. “Are you going to tell me who got burned?”
“Never mind, gramps,” Charlotte says sweetly. “It’s something that my ex-boyfriend did.”
“Are you talking about the guy who wasn’t old enough to vote?” I ask with a wink. “Or the one who asked you to his high school prom?”
She glares at me with the ferocity of a blast furnace. “You’re such a twat, Adam. Can I help it if young men are attracted to my voluptuous figure, sparkling personality and—”
“And the penthouse on Central Park from your first divorce?” Devon quips.
Charlotte reaches across the table and swats his wrist. “Zip it, shorty. I earned every last dime of that settlement. I put up with more shit during that brief marriage than you’ll ever see in your life.”
Devon winced. “Please don’t mention excrement, okay? We’re getting ready to have a lovely dinner together and figure out how we’re going to surprise Landon next month.”
“Tell him small penises are in style this season,” Charlotte suggests. “It’ll fucking make his tiny pecker hard for days.”
I laugh at the expression on her face. “How did you happen to catch a glimpse of Landon’s junk?” I ask. “Did you guys sleep together before he came out?”
“Bite your tongue!” Charlotte chirps. “I knew he was gay the second that we met during freshman year orientation at Berkeley. There was no way I would’ve slept with him, even when he was still pretending to be straight.”
“Because of his tiny cock?” Devon’s grin is spiteful. “Not that I’m speaking from personal experience.”
Charlotte clears her throat delicately. “Can we talk about something less infantile?”
“Says the woman who robs cradles when she needs a date,” Devon says in his bitchiest tone.
“Says the man,” replies Charlotte, “who kicks over the cradle with his fucking stiletto to get the diaper-clad munchkin inside.”
I hold up my hands, one toward her and the other facing Devon. “Let’s be civil, please. We need to figure out what we’re going to do about Landon’s party.”
“Actually, my dear,” Charlotte begins, “let’s talk about you first.”
I laugh. “I knew it! You two are so patently obvious when you try to pull this stuff.”
Devon leans back in his chair. “Pull what stuff?”
“This cloak and dagger routine,” I answer. “If you want to talk about why I haven’t heard from Nick and how that makes me feel, just fucking come right out and ask.”
They exchange a cheeky giggle. Then Charlotte announces that she checked with a private investigator named Grant Hudson to see if he could find Nick. She thought the request fit nicely between her professional role as my assistant and her personal connection as one of my best friends.
“But guess what?” she says after a long pause. “Someone else had already asked him to do the same thing.”
Devon’s eyes swivel from Charlotte to me and then back again. “Anyone we know?”
She nods.
“Anyone sitting at this table?” Devon adds.
“Uh-huh,” she answers, pointing at me. “Mr. Coleman had Grant track down the hot, young Nicholas Hardy a couple of months ago.”
“How did you even know about Nick back then?” asks Devon.
I shake my head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Devon laughs. “Oh, but we do! Especially because of the way you’re blushing right now. Is this a rare regret for our dear Mr. Coleman?”
I heave a sigh. Then I tell them to change the subject.
“Not until you give us a few little tidbits of information,” Devon says.
I drink some wine, hoping that they’ll get bored waiting. But they’re among the most patient people in the world, so I finally admit to taking Nick’s picture when I saw him at Shake Shack and passing it along to Grant Hudson.
“What’s the big deal anyway?” I ask. “Charlotte did the same thing when her sister was hot and heavy for somebody that commuted on the same train from Scarsdale?”
Charlotte nods. “That’s right. And it worked! Grant found Harrison after about two weeks of digging. And now he and my sister are the parents of a sweet baby girl.”
“Oh, give me a break.” Devon groans loudly. “That really happened? I thought you made it up to give somebody else at the office hope when her hot Bumble date ghosted her.”
“Afraid not,” Charlotte said, shaking her head. “Grant’s a really dogged detective. He didn’t have much at all to work with, but he found Harrison.” She pauses. “And he also found Nick.”
Devon’s head spins around. “Is that true, Adam?”
“Yes, but I decided not to—”
“And you didn’t tell me?” Devon’s lower lip quivers. “When was this?”
I shrug. “I didn’t tell you because I was mortified that I did it in the first place. I never called Nick. Hell, I never even looked at the file that Grant gave me.”
“Wait a sec,” Devon grumbles. “You paid the guy to find Nick, but don’t know what he uncovered?”
“Not exactly,” I reply. “He told me that the file included Nick’s phone number, address, the three places where he works part-time, the name of his gym and a few other things.”
Devon glares at me from behind his wine glass. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“Nope.” I smile. “And you may not understand why I shredded the file, but I—”
“Oh, fuck that,” Devon snarls. “I’m more interested in how the detective found the kid. I mean, how many millions of people live here?”
Charlotte squares her shoulders. “I actually just Googled that again yesterday, and the answer—”
“That was rhetorical, hon,” Devon interrupts. “I’m more interested in how the guy found Nick.”
“Facial recognition software,” she says. “And social media.”
Devon scowls. “So you were in on it, too?” he asks. “Why didn’t anybody let me know?”
“That’s not what I mean,” she says. “I know how Grant works because of the cases he handles for the company and what he did to help my sister.”
I reach over and put one hand on Devon’s arm. “Relax, buddy. I gave Grant a copy of the picture that I took of Nick. He then used some software to find him online.”
Devon considers the explanation. Then he says, “So it’s like you used a real life Sherlock Holmes to find Nick, but then you got cold feet?” He gives us a big grin. “And then my club put you in touch with him anyway?”
“That’s right,” I say. “I just wish that I’d been smart enough to ask for his numbe
r that night.”
“Live and learn,” Devon says with a smirk. “Either that or hire the hunky detective again.”
I drink some more wine and listen as they debate which Sherlock Holmes they would rather sleep with: Benedict Cumberbatch, Jonny Lee Miller, Robert Downey Jr. or Basil Rathbone. The game comes to a screeching halt when Devon confesses that he’s never heard of Rathbone, detests Downey and hasn’t seen either Cumberbatch or Miller in the role.
“They’re all quite good,” Charlotte says. “I highly recommend adding all of their Sherlock versions to your queue.”
Devon makes a face. “The only queue that I care about these days is the line of young men hoping to get into Dirty Secrets,” he says. “Once word started to spread, I’ve had some very attractive gentlemen callers knocking on the door.”
Charlotte giggles. “Is that code for taking it up the bum?”
“You should know,” Devon says, hoisting both eyebrows.
“Okay, okay,” I say quickly. “Let’s not get into a pissing contest, children.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Charlotte says. “After all, Little Boy Devon here is the one who likes that sort of kink.”
“Oh, screw you, Char. I’m not ashamed of the things that I like. That’s part of the reason that I turned my uncle’s townhouse into a private club for daddies and boys. It gives my friends and I a chance to explore whatever floats our boats.”
She smiles. “Like watersports and young men in diapers and puppy play?”
Devon shrugs. “Well, anyway,” he says, shifting in his chair to face me more directly. “What are we going to do about you?”
“I don’t really know,” I say. “But it better not involve watersports, diapers or leather puppy masks.”
“I’m talking about Nick,” he replies. “You’ve been acting like it doesn’t bother you that he hasn’t called yet. But Char and I both know that it’s weighing heavily on your head and heart.”
“That’s right,” Charlotte says. “We can both tell that this one is different.”
I smile. “This one? You make it sound like there have been dozens and dozens of boys since Brent turned and ran.”
Devon shakes his head. “Not true at all. There may have been a handful of hookups, but this one is different. This one touched your heart.”
Even though he’s right, I scowl and deny it’s true. I change the subject and ask if Landon’s actually turning fifty this year, but Charlotte and Devon aren’t going to let me off the hook so easily. They keep peppering me with questions about Nick, trying to see if I’ll remember something that he said during our time together at Dirty Secrets that might help me find the handsome boy in the harlequin mask without the help of a private detective.
“No,” I say when they finish. “I’ve been over and over everything he told me that night. And I’m kicking myself every second of the day because I realize that I was so overwhelmed with the passion and warmth I felt with Nick that I forgot to ask basic things.
“Like his phone number,” Charlotte says with a frown.
“And his fucking last name,” Devon adds. “That boy must have either a sweet ass, a huge cock or both to make you forget the essential things when you want to see someone again.”
“Like his phone number,” Charlotte repeats. “And email address and Instagram account and his—”
“Okay, I get it!” I say so she’ll stop. “I fucked up. But I’m not giving up. I’ll try other ways to find him that don’t involve a private detective.”
16
▬ ☼ ▬
NICK
On the way home later that night, I run into my friend Richard outside of Crunch Fitness on Twenty-Third Street in Chelsea. We hooked up a few days after I first arrived in New York, but it was a disaster from the first kiss in the back of a cab to the dismal finale a couple of hours later on his kitchen floor. I always attributed my lukewarm performance to my nerves and his fondness for singing opera arias while having sex. Although we never staged a follow-up tryst, Richard and I kept in touch nonetheless. He settled down a few months later with a wealthy older couple, serving as the regenerative catalyst for their longtime union.
“Well, if it isn’t Richie Rich,” I say, sneaking up behind him and covering his eyes. “Guess who?”
He does a quick pivot, shrugs off my hands and then acts like he’s going to deliver a roundhouse punch.
“Fucker!” he shouts. “You gotta be careful, man. That’s a good way to get yourself killed these days.”
“Ah, you’re too much of a kitty cat,” I tease. “You may talk tough and look like a fucking brick house, but I know the real you is all squishy and soft and tender on the inside.”
He leans closer and kisses my cheek. “Maybe yes,” he says. “And maybe no. You never got your cock up my ass, so you have no idea what it’s like beneath my ruggedly handsome exterior.”
“Still so very humble though,” I say. “Good to see that some things never change.”
He laughs. “To quote the late, great Nina Simone, ‘Everything must change. Nothing remains the same.’”
“Well, aren’t you a deep thinker,” I say. “What’s going on?”
“On my way home,” Richard answers. “My two husbands are expecting me for dinner.”
I check the time on my phone. “Isn’t it kind of late for you guys?” I ask. “Isn’t Olive Garden’s early bird service usually finished by now?”
“Very funny, asshole. Tate and Alec both had doctor appointments this afternoon, so our schedule is running a little later than usual.”
“How are they?” I ask. “Did Alec finish chemo okay?”
I regret the question when I see the light leave Richard’s pale green eyes.
“Alec is doing great,” he says. “But we don’t need to talk about that shit. What’s up with you?”
I look down at the sidewalk. “Not much.”
I lift my gaze when he clears his throat. Something crosses his face, an expression of hope and frustration and sorrow.
“I’m working on a new painting that’s going really well,” I tell him. “You three will have to come to the gallery opening when it happens.”
“Still working ten million jobs?” He shifts his backpack from one shoulder to the other. “Tate would still love to have you work in the office if you want to get into a more stable groove.”
Tate runs his family’s moving company near their house about an hour north of the city. While a regular salary and benefits would be amazing, the reverse commute and long hours would make it nearly impossible to paint during my most creative time of the day or meet with galleries to discuss my portfolio.
“I’m working three part-time gigs,” I say. “And I really appreciate the offer, but I need to keep focused on my art.”
“And how’s Cara?” he asks. “Are you guys still sharing that place on the Lower East Side?”
“Somehow she thought it made better sense for her boyfriend to live there once they got married,” I report with an exaggerated frown. “At the moment, I’m house-sitting for those two guys from back home that I introduced you to at Industry a couple of months ago.”
His eyes light up. “Oh, the trust fund kid and his chef boyfriend?”
“That’s them,” I say. “They’re on an extended jaunt through Europe for the next few months.”
“How awful for them,” he teases. “Where’s their place?”
“One Fifth,” I say. “Between Waverly and Eighth Street.”
Richard cocks an eyebrow. “Ritzy,” he says. “And what about your love life? I got a text from Oliver. He said that you’re head over heels about somebody named Alan.”
“Adam,” I say. “And it’s not exactly head over heels. I just met him last week.”
Richard’s head bobs. “I can read between the lines,” he tells me. “I’ve seen that shy, timid expression on your face at least three or four times before. You really like this guy, don’t you?”
“I actually do,” I say. “But I didn’t get his number, so I was—”
“How the fuck did that happen?” Richard blurts. “That’s the first rule of hunting cock, sweetie.”
“Maybe for you,” I say. “But I was wondering if you know anyone by that name that works as an architect and lives in the West Village?”
Richard laughs. “Tell me more.”
“Like what?”
“Age, dick size, the street he lives on.”
I shake my head. “I don’t have an address,” I explain. “And I’d guess he’s around forty or so. Full sleeve tattoos, pretty muscular, square jaw, dimple in his chin.”
Richard’s hands go to his heart and he spins around. “Ooh, la, la,” he says. “He sounds dreamy. How was the sex?”
Oh, fuck. Why is that one of the first questions that people ask when I tell them that I’ve met someone new?
“Well?” Richard tweaks the end of my nose. “Tell me.”
“It was epic,” I reply.
When I don’t unfurl a lengthy description, Richard squawks dismissively. “That’s it? You only have one word to describe fucking your new hot daddy?”
“Oh, no,” I say. “There are thousands of words that describe the other night. I’m just being a bit more discerning these days.”
“You’re a mess, Nick!” He throws back his head and laughs. “Whenever some queen says she’s being discerning, it means the sex was dreadful, the guy was limp as a noodle or all of the above.”
“Maybe it also means they’re being more circumspect about matters of the heart.”
He howls again. “Matters of the cock is probably more like it! Are you forgetting that I’ve known you since you rolled into town? I held your hand and dried your tears after Scotty ended things with a text. I flew to San Francisco to put you back together after Chad dropped you like a hot potato in the middle of your fucking vacation. And I was on the phone with you for days when Taylor pulled that shit a few months ago.”
