Dirty Secrets Social Club

by Jo Adler

  “Did you ever see him again?” I ask.

  She nods. “The next week. He smiled again and said hello. That went on for a few months until one day, feeling bold and optimistic, I asked him if he’d like to have a drink.”

  “And then?” I ask.

  “Long story short, Danny and I have two kids, we’ve been together for ten years and he’s the absolute love of my life. Do you know the moral of the story?”

  I smile. “That I should carry a purse and ride the subway if I want to meet someone?”

  Charlotte makes a face. “No, but you could probably pull off a cute little clutch tucked under your arm,” she says with a laugh. “What I’m talking about is time and patience. For both of you guys. Adam told me that your ex was a shit. And his was, too. So you’re both very determined to avoid being hurt again, right?”

  I nod.

  “And that’s totally understandable,” she says. “But sometimes we have to take chances to capture the dream. We have to take a leap of faith to find happiness and our forever home. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I think I’m beginning to understand.”

  34

  ▬ ☼ ▬

  ADAM

  “I’ve got some news,” Charlotte says as she walks into my office. “And I wanted to tell you in person so we can discuss any questions that you might have.”

  I feel an instant knot in my stomach. We’ve been waiting to hear back from a particularly finicky client, and there’s a fabric sample portfolio tucked under Charlotte’s arm that I used for their living room sofas.

  “Hang on a sec.” I put down my coffee and open the desk drawer. “If this is about Lauren deciding not to use us for the Southampton project, I want to take a Valium before I hear the official news.”

  Charlotte sits in one of the guest chairs facing the desk. “This isn’t about Mrs. Collins. Besides, she made it clear that we won’t hear back until at least the end of next month. She’s in Costa Rica for a few weeks.”

  “It’s a hard knock life,” I tease, closing the drawer again. “I don’t know why I’m so apprehensive about her, but I get butterflies in my stomach whenever I think about that woman.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Charlotte says. “You’re uneasy because it’s our first project for her. And you’re always that way with self-assured women that remind you of your mother.”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s way too early for your Freudian analysis,” I say, drinking some coffee.

  Charlotte stares at me for a few seconds, as if she’s gathering her thoughts and courage. “Okay, here’s what I needed to tell you,” she announces after clearing her throat. “I went to see Nick at the pizzeria last night.”

  I nearly choke on my coffee. “You what?”

  She raises both hands. “I know, I know,” she says. “I’m meddling. Again. But I feel it’s my duty as your friend and—”

  “Why the fuck would you do that, Char?” I cut in. “I don’t stick my nose in your personal business.”

  She smirks. “Oh, really? What about the time you told Danny that I wanted a pair of Tom Ford slingbacks for my birthday?”

  I laugh cheerfully. “That wasn’t meddling; you wanted those shoes.”

  “Not for almost three thousand dollars, I didn’t.” She sounds indignant. “We were saving up to pay for Lola’s braces.”

  “Oh, c’mon, Char. Your husband is an attorney. I think he can swing a pair of shoes for you and braces for your daughter.”

  “That’s not the point,” she argues. “We want to teach the kids that money doesn’t grow on trees.”

  I smile. “That sounds reasonable. Besides, they already know it comes out of ATMs, not from an orchard somewhere upstate.”

  She dismisses my quip with a wave of one hand. “Anyway, I went to see Nick because I know how stubborn you can be.”

  “How stubborn I can be?” I fill the room with a hearty laugh. “That’s rich coming from the queen of obstinacy. You’re more intractable than any other person I’ve ever known, Char. And while that’s an admirable trait here at the office, I find it a little less attractive when it involves prying into my love life.”

  “Love life?” she huffs. “One hot fuck and dinner isn’t exactly the stuff of romance novels, Adam. And that’s actually another reason I wanted to intervene. I suspect that there’s something special between the two of you. But with his caution and your bullheaded ego, the whole thing could be lost if both of you don’t budge an inch or two toward the center.”

  “I tried talking to him,” I offer. “He wasn’t exactly all that thrilled with the idea of listening to me.”

  Charlotte sighs. “How do you know?”

  I start to reply, but then realize that she’s absolutely correct. Nick definitely wasn’t pleased to see me when I ambushed him outside of the pizzeria. And he barely said two words that afternoon. But I don’t really know him. And he doesn’t know me. So how can I be sure what he was thinking or how he interpreted the conversation unless I ask again.

  “Let me think about that one,” I say.

  Charlotte nods. “There’s another possibility.”

  I stare at her for a few seconds, trying to deduce the meaning of the slight frown on her face.

  “What’s that?” I ask finally. “And if you’re going to suggest couple’s therapy, it’s a little too soon for that approach.”

  She groans. “You can be such a bitch, Adam. If this really is all one big joke to you, then just say so and I’ll stop trying to help.”

  “This is helping?”

  She starts to get up from the chair. “No, hold on. I’m sorry, Char. I guess that I’m a bit more on edge about this whole thing with Nick than I realized.”

  She glares at me while folding her arms across her chest. “You think?”

  I cringe, but keep quiet. Charlotte truly is one of the most intelligent and intuitive people in my life. I’ve listened to her advice before when she was spot on, so I suddenly realize that it might be wise to let her finish sharing whatever sage wisdom she has to offer before I say another word.

  “The other option would be to date men in their forties,” she begins. “I know that might sound radical and objectionable, but maybe the difference in age is part of the problem. If you went out with someone older, the frame of reference would be more similar.”

  “I’m not interested in dating a frame of reference,” I say when she pauses. “I’m looking for a man that I’m attracted to.”

  “Sure,” Charlotte says with a smile. “But maybe you could be attracted to another guy your age.”

  I shake my head and push back from the desk. “I tried that a few times,” I say, getting up from the chair. “Cole was five years older. And Andrew was exactly the same age. Neither of those relationships lasted for more than a few months.”

  She frowns. “Cole and Andrew? I’ve never even heard those names before.”

  “Exactly my point.” I walk to the windows and look down into the street. “They were around the time that I finished at NYU. They’re both great guys, but they didn’t…”

  What? Fulfill me? Give me a purpose? Let me take care of them?

  “The thing is,” I continue, turning around to face Charlotte, “even back then, when I was in my early twenties, I knew that I wasn’t really attracted to guys my age. I couldn’t explain it to other people or probably really understand it myself, but I just knew in my gut that I wanted someone who needed to be cared for, someone that wanted a guiding hand to help him navigate life.”

  “Who doesn’t want that?” she asks.

  “Well, for starters, Cole and Andrew. They were both great guys and we definitely had fun in the sack, but there was an emotional element that I didn’t get from them.”

  “What was that?” she says. “Utter loyalty and adoration? They weren’t puppy dogs that followed you around blindly?”

  There’s a grin on her face, so I know that she’s joking. But the questions hi
t like harsh verdicts on my preferences and passions. For some people, the idea of relationships between older and younger people is impossible to comprehend. For the most part, my friends and family members accept my choices. I still hear the occasional snide remark or veiled judgment now and then, but I’ve learned to ignore them. Since Charlotte has never made any disparaging remarks about my interest in younger guys, I’m confused by her sarcastic aside.

  “Don’t you think that’s a bit harsh?” I ask. “I’m not looking for a pet. I’m looking for a younger guy who wants someone to care for and support him.”

  She sneers. “Does that make you a sugar daddy?”

  “That’s not what I mean, Char. I’m talking about caring for him in all of the ways that don’t involve money.”

  “What about Brent?” She narrows her gaze. “He was younger by twelve years, but that didn’t work out either.”

  Although the sting of Brent’s betrayal has softened considerably since he walked out of our home, it still unleashes a flood of memories and prickly emotions. But I’m learning to push those away and stay focused on the here and now.

  “What Brent did wasn’t about the fact that I was older,” I tell Charlotte. “It was about his inability to be monogamous. I’ve never told you this, but I found a box of love letters in the back of the bedroom closet that he received from someone named Foster.”

  Her face darkens. “From before you two met?”

  I manage to laugh. “From last fall,” I say. “Brent was apparently quite gifted when it came to duplicity and deception. He and Foster had been carrying on an affair for the past two years.”

  Her mouth drops open. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Nope.” I hold up my hand with the three-finger Boy Scout salute. “On my honor. The man that I thought loved me was actually in love with someone else.”

  “But you and Brent were—”

  “A joke,” I cut in. “Once he moved out, not only did I find that box of letters but I also heard from a few people around the city.”

  Charlotte cringes. “Do I even want to know?”

  “Maybe someday,” I reply. “But I don’t feel like getting into it right now. Suffice to say, Brent’s cock was prolific in its wanderings.”

  “Oh, sweetheart.” Her face is a tapestry of pain, compassion and love. “I am so sorry to hear that.”

  I shrug. “Water under the bridge. But it’s also part of how I’m handling this thing with Nick.”

  “Or not handling,” she interjects with a soft laugh. “I understand being afraid of getting hurt again. But if you seriously think there’s a spark of some sort between you and Nick, then I truly feel that you owe it to yourself to try at least once more.”

  “And do what?” I ask. “Beg and plead?”

  Charlotte shakes her head. “How about something a little less complicated,” she suggests. “How about honesty and tolerance?”

  35

  ▬ ☼ ▬

  NICK

  After delivering two vegan ratatouille pizzas to an intoxicated twink wearing a Hello Kitty sweatshirt and fuchsia tights, I head back to Dede’s. When I realize that I’m just a few blocks north of Adam’s house, I turn onto Seventh Avenue and walk slowly toward his street.

  “This is a bad idea,” I mutter under my breath. “If Dede knew what I was doing, she’d probably launch into one of her lectures.”

  Honor your value, she whispers in my head. When we surrender to temptation, the battle is lost.

  I stop and pull out my phone when it vibrates. It’s a text from Oliver: Can I borrow $100? Found a Groupon for facial, microdermabrasion & peel!!!

  The message makes me smile. But when I look up from the phone again there’s a heavyset guy right beside me. He’s inhaling McDonald’s fries painted with a gallon of ketchup as he tries to read Oliver’s text over my shoulder.

  “You laughing at me?” he mutters.

  I shake my head. “No, man. It was a text from—”

  “Because I got a situation and everything,” he interrupts. “There’s nothing funny about when people get addicted to things like French fries.”

  “Can’t argue with you there,” I tell him, getting back on the move.

  I inch my way down the sidewalk, trying to decide if passing by Adam’s house for a glimpse in the front window would be surrendering to temptation. I don’t have to talk to him. Just a peek at his face and those fucking hot sleeve tattoos and his gorgeous ass and that—

  The phone vibrates again. It’s Oliver, but this time he’s actually calling. I let my finger hover over the red Decline icon for a few seconds, but then change my mind and swipe Accept.

  “Hey, babe!” His voice is bouncy and loud. “Did you get my text?”

  “About the facial?” I ask.

  “No, I’m already over that,” he says. “I decided it would be too indulgent. I sent another one about borrowing fifty bucks to get my eyebrows threaded.”

  “I’m sorry. Did you say eyebrows threaded?”

  “I did,” he answers. “And so did you. So is that a yes?”

  “No, sorry. Tips tonight have been really spotty. My MasterCard payment is due next week, so—”

  “This is an emergency, Nick!” He sounds tipsy. “I have a date tomorrow. It’s a hot fifty-year-old investment banker, and I need to be the best version of me that I can possibly be.”

  I take a moment to think. I have four hundred dollars hidden in my backpack. It’s my ultra urgent rainy day fund, so I shouldn’t touch it. But Oliver sounds more adrift than usual. He’s also my best friend. And despite the fact that we’re both going through a rough patch in the Love & Romance Department, I’m feeling incredibly buoyant at the moment. There’s also the possibility that doing a kind thing for Oliver could add a much-needed credit to my karma account.

  “Just this once,” I tell him. “I can give you the cash when I get home later.”

  “What time will that be?” he asks. “We’re also almost out of vermouth, so would it be possible to swing by the store on the way?”

  I smile at the request. Oliver can be a bit much sometimes. As well as a fussy, judgmental princess. But he’s also been by my side through every difficult moment that I’ve endured since we met in high school.

  “You got it,” I tell him. “Fifty dollars and a bottle of vermouth.”

  He snickers. “See, babe?” he mumbles. “I’m a cheap date, so maybe somebody will love me one day.”

  The remark slices through my cheerful mood, but I keep the tone light and bright while we work out the details. I have another three hours on the clock at the pizzeria, so I estimate that I’ll be at the apartment around eleven. Oliver says that’s perfect because he needs to soak for an hour, pluck for an hour and then decide between his Reiss Sutton blazer or Coach leather jacket to wear for his date.

  “Sounds good,” I say. “See you later, mister.”

  When I slide the phone back into my pocket, I look up and discover that I’m at the corner of Hudson and Barrow.

  Fuck! Turn right and walk by Adam’s house? I swivel my gaze and peer into the distance. Or turn left and go back to work?

  I decide to flip a coin, so I reach back into the pocket, come up with a quarter and send it revolving overhead. When it tumbles back into my hand, the edge hits my signet ring and the coin goes rogue. It falls to the sidewalk, pings against my foot and vanishes into the gutter.

  Double fuck! In that case, I’m doing it. If Dede had another delivery, she would’ve already sent me a text.

  I quickly round the corner, cross to the south side of the street when traffic clears and fix my eyes on Adam’s townhouse. The lights are on in the living room and a couple of rooms on the third floor. I imagine that he’s upstairs, getting ready to go out and prowl for a hot guy to bring home and fuck.

  Like he fucked me.

  Like I’d hoped he would fuck me again.

  And again.

  I shake off the somber thoughts. Then I
take a deep breath as my mind fills with ghostlike images of Adam’s glistening cock and his tight abs and the sweet smile on his face when we were cuddled in the bed at Dirty Secrets.

  As I get closer to his house, I notice that the drapes are closed in the living room. I move along until I’m at the bottom of the front steps. Then I look up just as a shadow appears against the fabric.

  “Well, there you are,” I whisper as the silhouette moves back and forth from one side of the room to the other. “Hiding behind the curtain.”

  When a second shadow comes into view, I feel a wave of nausea, imagining that Adam has already found his prize for the night and they’re in the early stages of the flirtation tango. Before I can force my feet to start moving, the front door opens and someone comes out onto the top of the stoop. I’m so startled that I spin around, scramble into the street and crouch between a pickup that’s parked at the curb.

  The man is wearing a black leather jacket, ripped jeans and a ball cap. The hat is pulled so low that his face is entirely in shadow. I hold my breath and wait, hoping that he’ll turn to one side or look up just enough so I can get a glimpse.

  But as I keep my eyes fixed on his head, the light above the front door suddenly switches off and he’s plunged into total darkness.

  “Good to go?” someone calls from inside the house.

  “For the first load, yeah,” replies the man on the stoop. “I had to park down the block, so we’ll need to hustle it and come back for the rest.”

  The other man says something that I can’t make out before he emerges from the foyer. There’s enough light from the nearest streetlamp so I can make out his silhouette against the brick façade. He’s carrying two suitcases and what looks like a small framed painting under one arm. For a split second, I consider getting up from my hiding place to ask if Adam’s inside, but then a chill claws up my back.

  Definitely sketchy, I think. Just keep down.

  I wait until they return, heart pounding and my throat going dry. I lift up slightly when they’re climbing the steps again, watching as they collect two more pieces of art, another suitcase and a large duffel bag. I dip lower behind the truck, trying to decide whether or not I should just get up and dash to the far side of the street. I’m still debating the options a few seconds later when I hear shoes scuffing on the pavement and a voice from over my shoulder.