Dirty Secrets Social Club

by Jo Adler

  “What are you trying to say, Adam?” Her voice shudders with emotion. “That I’m a bad mother? That it’s my fault your nephew can’t cope with being gay?”

  In the years since Liam came out to my sister and the rest of our family, Gillian has struggled to accept that her brother and son are so much alike yet so different.

  It took me a couple of years to become comfortable in my own skin, but I’m now unapologetic about who I am and who I love. Unfortunately, Liam uses drugs and alcohol to numb the pain and shame that he feels after being bullied and rejected throughout his younger years.

  “Maybe if you dated men your age, Liam wouldn’t have the fairy tale in his head that a rich daddy is going to rescue him from all of his mistakes.”

  And maybe if his mother wasn’t such a judgmental bitch, his self-esteem wouldn’t be less than zero.

  “What are you thinking about?” Gillian asks.

  I dismiss the voice in my head and force a smile. “Are you back on that rant again?”

  She sneers. “What rant?”

  “That an age difference greater than six months is somehow a deal breaker for love and romance.”

  “Love and romance?” Her voice blazes with contempt. “Hooking up with boys that are barely legal is not love and—”

  “I’m not here for your lectures, sis. If you want to discuss Liam, I’m happy to help. Otherwise, I’ll take off and leave you alone with your hypercritical hysteria.”

  She heaves a sigh.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” I add. “Not to mention a little melodramatic.”

  “Well, what are we going to do?” The familiar strain of panic threads through her voice. “Living with you didn’t work out. His father doesn’t want anything to do with him. And I can’t handle the roller coaster of dodgy guys that he brings home.”

  “Blake’s not that dodgy,” I say. “After all, he was Devon’s boyfriend for a while.”

  She laughs. “How long did that last? Like, thirty seconds or something?”

  “No, but it was a short one. Not that Devon has a great track record for longevity in the relationship department.”

  Gillian picks up her cup, drains the last of the coffee and then hits me with a question that I’ve been thinking about myself since the previous night.

  “Do you think Liam could be dangerous?” she asks. “To himself or anyone else?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Is there more than one way to take the word dangerous?” she says sharply. “I’m asking if you think Liam would try to physically harm someone.”

  I smile. “Someone?” I say. “Or me?”

  “Well, you are someone, so that’s a silly question. We need to assess the situation based on what you know about the boy.”

  “The boy?” I shake my head. “The boy is your son. He’s also a young man. I mean, Liam’s twenty-five, Gillian. He’s not a schoolyard punk throwing stones at the other kids. He’s simply trying to manipulate the situation with whatever pitiful leverage he thinks he controls.”

  “Pitiful leverage?” She frowns. “What do you mean?”

  I tap my chest with one hand. “This thing,” I say. “My so-called broken heart. He thinks that I’m more vulnerable to his bullshit because my relationship ended.”

  She shakes her head, frowning faintly. “I don’t follow. What are you talking about?”

  “Guilt,” I say. “He wants to borrow money. Or use my place at the beach. And when I refuse to give in, he drags out the old horse and pony act that used to work. The one that always made me give in to his demands.”

  “I know that one,” she says quietly.

  We’ve had the same conversation so often that we eventually loop back to the beginning, but I don’t have time this morning. I had a teary call from a client who hates the new marble countertops in her kitchen, so I need to get to work and figure out a solution that can be implemented quickly.

  “I should head to the office,” I tell my sister. “There are a couple of fires that I need to put out before noon.”

  Gillian holds up one finger. “Slow down there, cowboy,” she says with a smile. “Tell me about the guy that you met last week. I heard you had a very nice time with someone new.”

  The question comes out of left field, leaving me momentarily speechless.

  Gillian adds an exaggerated wink to the silly grin. “Don’t be coy, Adam. Liam’s friend Blake told him all about your little dalliance in the elevator.”

  It takes me a couple of seconds to connect the dots. But as soon as I realize what she’s talking about, my pulse shoots skyward.

  “What the fuck?” I hiss. “Liam actually told you about that?”

  She makes a face. “Like I haven’t heard it all before, sweetie. I’m probably just a little jealous at how much action you get at your age.”

  I wince at the jab. “At my age? You’re fucking older than me, sis.”

  “I know that,” she says. “And I still like a nice roll in the hay every now and then, but I’m not humping everything that moves.”

  “Is that what you think I do? Hump everything that moves?”

  She shakes her head. “That’s the way Liam always makes it sound, but my concern isn’t with how much sex you have. I just want you to be happy, baby brother.”

  “I’m happy,” I say. “And I certainly don’t need a lecture about my sex life.”

  “But don’t you see?” Gillian asks. “My only concern is that you don’t have balance in that part of your life.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Between sex and love,” she says. “I know that you can get laid every minute of every day, okay? You’re a handsome, well-built guy with those sexy tattoo things on your arms and that smoldering glint in your eye. But it’s not all about sex. Sometimes you need a little love and snuggling, maybe a quiet night at home with popcorn and a movie.”

  “Who’s to say that I don’t have all of those things?” I smile. “I might be snuggling a lot more than I’m shagging.”

  She leers at me. “Bullshit. Liam told me about the sex toys and endless supply of condoms in your bedside tables.”

  “Holy shit!” I feel my face going red. “Did that little shit snoop in my bedroom?”

  “He still has a key,” she says. “That’s another reason I was asking if you thought he could be dangerous. I don’t trust that Blake guy.”

  I mutter under my breath and pull out my phone. Then I send a quick text to Charlotte: Need to change locks on Barrow Street ASAP.

  “What was that?” asks my sister.

  I shake my head, get up and give her a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “Nothing,” I say. “You just reminded me of something that I need to take care of sooner rather than later.”

  “Well, I hope it’ll be okay,” she says.

  “It will be,” I reply. “One way or another, it’s going to be fine.”

  20

  ▬ ☼ ▬

  NICK

  Why the hell are the handcuffs so tight? They were originally too loose, sliding up my arms until they nearly reached my elbows whenever Adam put me on all fours on the edge of the bed.

  But now they’re pinching my wrists as he rolls me onto my back.

  “Hold still, boy,” he growls. “Let me get you comfortable again.”

  How did he know?

  “The only discomfort that I want you to feel is from my hand against your ass,” he adds, watching as I sink into the mattress. When I look over his shoulder, I see thin curtains fluttering in the breeze and a streetlight burning on the corner below. I squint to make out the sign: Barrow Street. I smile to myself, remembering the tattoo artist passing along the clue about how I could find Adam.

  “Do you want to feel my hand again?” comes the husky voice from behind me.

  As instructed, I haven’t said a word. I’ve been moaning and grunting, but not one intelligible utterance has slipped from my lips. With each thrust of Adam’s hips, steady and powerful a
nd relentless, I’ve kept my teeth clenched and resisted the temptation to call out his name. Instead, I’ve held back all of my thoughts and emotions.

  Even so, I know that when he does give me the signal, when he tells me it’s okay to talk again, I’ll start by thanking him.

  “Thank you for understanding what I need,” I’ll say. “For giving me the opportunity to share this with you and please you and feel every inch of your cock as it—”

  Before I finish the thought, a voice calls out.

  “Nick!”

  Who is that?

  I roll my head to the side, glancing over my shoulder again when a thunderous pounding comes from the hallway.

  What the fuck is going on?

  I glance back a second time, looking up at Adam, but he’s wearing a mask made from glossy black keycards. I can’t see his eyes. I can’t tell if it’s even him because the sleeve tattoos are gone and the room is spinning and I feel someone clawing at my shoulder and—

  I lurch awake and Oliver is standing over the bed in the apartment on Fifth Avenue.

  “You sleep like the fucking dead, babe,” he says in a snarky tone. “I heard you moaning all the way in the kitchen.”

  I push against the mattress until I’m propped up on the mound of pillows.

  “What time is it?”

  He scoffs. “It’s wake up and stop dry humping the bed time.”

  Oliver points at my crotch. My cock is so hard it’s holding up the fleece blanket and heavy cotton sheet.

  “That thing needs some desperate attention,” he says with a wink. “I should give you a bit of privacy so you can rub one out.”

  “Seriously,” I say. “What time is it?”

  He looks at his watch. “Two o’clock.”

  I’m instantly confused by his response.

  “In the morning?” I reach for my phone on the bedside table. “What are you—”

  “No, princess,” he answers. “Two in the afternoon. And there’s someone at the door for you.”

  The additional information adds to my bewilderment. Who knows that I’m staying at Don and Bradley’s place? Why would they come to the door without calling? I stare at Oliver for a few seconds before he answers the second question as if he’s reading my mind.

  “She sent you about a million texts,” he says. “At least, that’s what she claims.”

  “Who is it?” I ask. “Did you get a name?”

  “Lady Remington,” he jokes. “You better get some clothes on and get your ass out to the living room.”

  “I don’t know anybody with that name,” I say, still groggy from sleep.

  Oliver hoists his eyebrows, plants both hands on his hips and sashays out of the room like a drag queen leaving the stage at the end of her number.

  “Sounds like she knows you,” he calls before disappearing into the hallway.

  Before I try to guess who came to see me, I jump out of bed, slip into Bradley’s white terrycloth robe and hurry out of the room.

  When I come around the corner into the foyer a few seconds later, I see my friend Richard. He’s leaning against the wall near the front door, grinning like The Chesire Cat and drumming his fingers against one thigh.

  “Hey, Richie.” My voice sounds muzzy and faraway. “What are you doing here?”

  His hand goes into the messenger bag hanging from his left shoulder. “I learned something after I saw you the other night.” He pulls an envelope from the bag, thrusting it toward me with a fleeting smile. “I think it’ll make you happy.”

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Open it and find out,” he says.

  I press the envelope between my fingers. “Why didn’t you call or text?”

  He scowls melodramatically. “I did, you little fucker. But you must’ve changed your number or something.”

  “Oh, shit! I did. I’m so sorry.”

  “Open it.” He points at the envelope. “I want to see your face when you read what’s inside.”

  Oliver drifts in from the kitchen. “Did he open it yet?”

  Richard laughs. “No, he’s taking his sweet time.”

  “Hurry the fuck up!” Oliver demands.

  “Do you know what it is?” I ask.

  “Maybe yes,” he says, “and maybe you bet your ass.”

  I ignore his flippant reply and open the envelope. There’s a folded sheet of pale blue paper inside. I quickly pull it out, drop the envelope on the console table and then unfold the piece of paper.

  “Isn’t that just the best?” Oliver says before I get a peek at the message. “It’s like Richard is some kind of magical matchmaker or something.”

  I don’t understand the comment until I look down at the sheet of paper. I lift it slightly and squint at what’s printed in the center of the page in crisp, black lettering:

  Adam Coleman

  88 Barrow Street

  212-555-1009

  Oliver starts clapping his hands and doing his infamous happy dance around the entryway.

  “Well?” he says. “Isn’t it just the best?”

  I look over at Richard. “Is this really his address and phone number?”

  Richard beams proudly. “Sherlock Holmes,” he says with a slight curtsey. “At your service and at your call.”

  “But how did you—”

  “That’s not important,” he interrupts. “But what is important is for you to either call that hunky daddy right this second or get your ass out the door and over to Barrow and Hudson as soon as possible.”

  I look at Adam’s name, address and phone number again.

  “I don’t get it,” I say. “How did you pull this off?”

  Richard rolls his shoulders. “It was a piece of cake,” he says. “I went home, told Tate and Alec about running into you and asked if they knew anyone who fit the description.”

  “Which was?” Oliver asks. “How did Nick describe his new daddy?”

  My face flares crimson. “He’s not my new anything,” I say firmly.

  “Whatever,” Oliver replies, giving me a smirk before turning back to Richard. “How’d you get the scoop?”

  “It really was that simple,” he says. “I went home, told Tate and Alec about Nick’s night at Dirty Secrets and they instantly recognized the description of Adam.”

  “You’re being serious?” I feel butterflies pinwheel in my stomach. “They knew Adam based on the sleeve tattoos alone?”

  Richard laughs. “Unfortunately, no,” he says. “Do you know how many hot men in this city have ink on their arms?”

  “Sometimes I think it’s every other one,” Oliver says. “Especially downtown after ten o’clock when the weather’s nice.”

  “Anyway,” Richard says. “Tate and Alec know Adam from when they shared a summer house on Fire Island. They all moved to the city about the same time, back when they were in their twenties. So they’ve been friends now for, like, twenty years or whatever.”

  “But there are literally millions of men in town,” I say. “It seems so incredible that your husbands would know Adam from twenty years ago.”

  “Oh, they’re all still friends,” Richard says. “They also know the guy that owns Dirty Secrets, and he told them that Adam helped with interior design and a few architectural renovations for the club. In fact, Adam went to Greece with the other couple last summer.”

  “Just Adam?” I ask.

  Richard gives me a look. “Don’t go there, big guy. You both have a past. Last year, if you may recall, you and Taylor went to Costa Rica with Lowell and his boyfriend.”

  “Excellent point!” Oliver says cheerfully. “The past is the past. And who gives a fuck about what you can’t change, right?”

  “Amen to that!” Richard cheers.

  “The important thing is the present and future,” continues Oliver. “The choices we make today will influence who we are tomorrow.”

  I can’t help but groan. “Thank you, Dr. Phil. That’s so sweet of you to share your wisdom.”
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  “Oh, fuck you,” Oliver says playfully. “You know that I’m right.”

  Richard comes over and wraps me in a tight bear hug.

  “We all know that you’re right,” he says after lowering his arms and stepping back. “No other path. No other way.”

  “Are you quoting Rent?” I smile. “That’s one of my favorite shows of all time.”

  “Me, too,” Richard tells me. “But I was actually quoting my Nana Prescott. She was always tottering around the kitchen saying that when she cooked. ‘No other path. No other way.’ The first time I saw the show, I nearly fell out of my chair.”

  “Well, I’m gonna fall out of something,” Oliver says, “if somebody doesn’t get in the shower and go see if Adam Coleman is home and waiting with open arms.”

  I look at the sheet of paper again. “Maybe I should text him first,” I suggest. “That might be better.”

  Oliver shakes his head, smiling wryly. “It’s not. But if that’s the best you can do, go for it! The important thing is—”

  “Remember Nana Prescott,” Richard says. “‘No day but today.’”

  21

  ▬ ☼ ▬

  NICK

  I’m sitting in the office at the pizzeria, bouncing my gaze back and forth from the piece of paper with Adam’s number to the phone on the desk. In the past half hour, I’ve declined Dede’s offers for a bottle of beer, shots of vodka or a slice of my favorite pizza. I’m feeling too nervous to pickup the phone, too worried that I’ll sound like a desperate stalker and too numb to think about the possibility that Adam might simply reject my overture and tell me to get lost. I went to Dirty Secrets with Oliver last week on a lark. It was meant to be a few hours of fun, not a life altering experience with the hottest man I’ve ever met. When I didn’t know how to contact Adam, I was freaking out. Now that I have his number, I’m nearly catatonic with anxiety and fear.

  “Just do it,” Dede whispers, coming back into the room with a cup of coffee. “If you get his voicemail, leave a short, funny message. If he answers, take a deep breath and be yourself.”