Hidden Seams

by Alessandra Torre

  I close my eyes. God, he was so good. The way my body came to life under his touch—I’ve never come so hard before. Everything tonight—the raw way he fucked me, the reckless chemistry that sparked between us, the stretch of my body around his cock. He had panted out my name, roared when he came, and been ready to go again.

  It was a mistake, one that didn’t make any sense, an act that occurred between the two worst people possible.

  But I don’t regret it. More than that, I want it again.

  * * *

  I open my eyes, and it’s still dark. Which can’t be right, since I feel awake. I sit up, trying to find a bit of light in the room. Patting the top of the covers, I find my phone, waking up the display and cursing when I see the time. 9:42 am.

  “No, no, no, no, no.” I unlock it and open my alarm clock app, cursing when I see the alarm. My drunk fingers had set it for five o’clock PM, not AM.

  “Shit!” I roll off the bed and fumble for the curtains, the room too big, and I have to move across half a football field just to find the velvet curtains. I pull them open and groan when I see the bright sun illuminating a beach already full of families and bikinis, a volleyball floating from one group to another, everyone oblivious to the fact that it’s got to be fifty degrees outside.

  I should be sitting on the steps of his attorney’s office right now, a muffin and coffee in hand, my flirtation skills prepped and ready for the mailman. I drop the curtains and rush back, snagging my jeans off the floor and hopping into them, one leg in, then the other, my shirt yanked on inside out. It doesn’t matter. God, what if he walks in? Knocks on the door? What if he is downstairs, waiting for me to wake up? I rapidly think of excuses. A sick grandmother. Urgent doctor’s appointment. Forgotten… urgh. My brain twists sideways, sticks its tongue out at me, and gives me nothing. I throw my jacket on, work my arms through the straps of my backpack, and shove my feet into my boots. I yank the laces into a knot and quietly turn the handle and pull open the bedroom door.

  The hall is quiet and empty, the door closed on the other end of the hall. I leave the door ajar and quietly move down the hall and to the top of the staircase, my boots squeaking a little as I take the stairs. I hear a voice coming from the direction of the dining room and I crouch down, half-crawling down the final few stairs. Reaching the bottom, I stay ducked over and run, my thighs cramping as I make it across the great room. Almost there. My back aches and I don’t look toward the living room, my eyes on the giant double front doors. Fifteen feet. Ten.

  “Going somewhere?” The bored drawl has me freezing, one foot in front of the other, my hands gripping my backpack straps in an attempt to keep it from bouncing. I am still hunched over and have to choose between falling over or straightening. I decide to straighten, and brush the hair out of my eyes in as casual a manner as I can manage.

  “Oh. Hello. Good morning.” I smile, and manage to look everywhere in the room but at him. From just the peripheral, I can see a bare chest. White pants of some sort. He lifts one hand and I dart my eyes to him, prepared for battle.

  It’s not a weapon, or phone, or Priority envelope. Instead, I see a coffee cup. A large ceramic mug, not delicate or gold-leafed, a logo of some sort on its side. He’s getting more butch by the minute. Next thing I know, he’ll be wearing trucker hats and spitting tobacco. “Nice mug,” I smirk, despite my best attempt to behave.

  “You didn’t answer my question.” He steps closer, the mug lifting to his lips, and I watch as he studies me, his eyes sharp and intelligent as they peer over the top of the mug. Such beautiful eyes. Perfect brows. A messy claw of hair that—even now—looks photoshoot-ready. I flush and look at the door. “Going somewhere?”

  “I forgot.” I tug at the straps of my backpack and pull them tight. “My grandmother’s sick. I have an appointment to take her to, ah, the podiatrist.” My lies run together in a spectacular fail.

  His mouth curves from behind the mug and he lowers the cup. I try not to look at his chest, the defined cuts of muscle that flex with each movement. “That sounds serious. Is this sick podiatrist appointment here or in Detroit?”

  He doesn’t believe me. I can hear it in the sarcastic lilt of the question. I don’t blame him. If he didn’t sniff out that lie, he’s an idiot. A painfully beautiful, sexual freak of nature, idiot. I shift my weight from one foot to the other and ignore the question. “Thank you for giving me a place to stay.” I extend my hand in the most businesslike way possible. It is a carefully calculated move, designed to entertain and distract him.

  It works. He glances down at the hand and his lips tighten, an attempt to contain his amusement. I leave it dangling, and he finally transfers his coffee to his free hand and reaches forward, his palm meeting mine, a stiff shake occurring. When I try to pull back, he holds the contact, lifting my hand to his mouth and placing a kiss on the knuckles.

  A smooth move from a gay guy. As smooth as the way his eyes hold mine, the heat in them a reminder of last night. I let my hand drop and edge closer to the door. “Thanks again,” I call out, waving at him in the animated way of the mentally unhinged.

  “Do you need a ride?” He is barefoot, his feet tan against the white floor.

  I step forward and wrap my hand around the door handle. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

  He shrugs. “So … this is goodbye.”

  He must think me a huge slut. One who hopped into his Rolls Royce, drank all his vodka, and then stripped naked and bounced around his cock. He’s probably surprised I’m not asking him for payment. “Yes.” The grip of my shoe catches on the lip of the door stop and I half-trip, catching myself on the frame. “Okay. Bye.”

  “Bye.” He crosses his hands over his chest and his biceps pop in a way that probably makes all the gay boys drool. But not me. Nope. I’m leaving, and quickly, so I can get to Manhattan, rescue my stupid letter and then scamper back to Detroit, this entire ridiculous trip, and this tongue-twistingly sexy man, all forgotten. Back to normal life. Back to my search for a normal, non-famous, non-gay, father.

  I step onto the front porch and pull the door closed.

  Chapter 23

  MARCO

  This woman is a walking disaster. I watch her duck out of the gate and stop at the curb, glancing left and right along the busy road. She got hit by my car, less than twelve hours ago, and now she’s playing Frogger for no good reason than to get away from me. I smile at the thought.

  Maybe I’ve lost my touch. The prior woman I fucked was singing my name in tongues before I pulled my cock out of her. This one… this one is odd. Crawling down the staircase and sprinting for the door like she had a Faberge egg hidden in her bra. Hell, maybe she had.

  I move to the kitchen, and look out the window, watching as she practically runs down the sidewalk, her attention on her phone, her backpack bouncing. Bouncing.

  Her ass bent over before me, the jostle of curves as I drive myself into her, her back rigid, head lifting, my hand fisting in her hair. I lean forward and feel the swing and bounce of her breasts.

  I slide my hand down my stomach, under the loose drawstring of my pants, and grip my cock. She’d been incredible. So sexy and confident. She’d laughed in the midst of it, grinned up at me when she’d rolled over. I’d worked my hips, used my fingers and flashed her my own smile when I’d fucked her laughter into a groan, and then a cry of pleasure.

  That same woman is now cutting across four lanes of traffic and hopping a ditch. Literally sprinting through the roadside gutters of Spring Lake to avoid accepting a ride from me. Maybe she’s mental. That would be my luck.

  Actually… I remind myself, that would be my luck. I’d wanted a no-strings-attached night of fun. I should be thanking God that she was sprinting out of my life without so much as asking for my number. I take a long sip of coffee, watch her backpack disappear into a crowd of beachgoers, and wonder if I’ll ever see her again.

  Setting the cup down, I pick up the house phone and press the button for the sta
ff.

  “Good morning, sir.” A voice I don’t recognize speaks crisply into the phone. “How may I serve you?”

  “I’d like breakfast in twenty minutes. Vanilla creme French toast and a green juice. I’ll eat on the porch.”

  “Certainly. Is there anything else we may do to assist you?”

  “No.” I hang up the phone and grab an apple from a bowl on the counter, taking a bite from it as I walk into the great room. The dining room is still a mess, shards of china and glass scattered across the floor. I think of the look in her eyes when I’d walked toward her. The playful lilt in her voice that had turned husky.

  I like seeing the mess. It’s rare to see things out of order and imperfect. I also know that any of our staff would die before leaving a room in this manner. The mess is proof positive that they obeyed me and stayed out of the house.

  “Sir,” Edward speaks from behind me. “Will you be dining alone?”

  I turn, and his eyes widen as he takes in the mess. “I’m so sorry, sir. We didn’t realize—”

  I cut him off with a wave of my hand. “It’s fine. I lost my temper last night. Just… thinking about everything.”

  He buys the excuse, his features softening. “Certainly, sir. I myself am struggling without Mr. Horace.”

  I feel a moment of guilt, a stab of emotion that reminds me that my best friend has died. How quickly I forgot that. She’d fainted in my arms and my sensibilities, my responsibilities, my grief … it had all dissolved.

  “Yes,” I answer his earlier question, my eyes moving back over the wreckage, struggling to replace the image of her, her chest heaving, eyes on fire. “I’m eating alone.”

  * * *

  My lie, from the very beginning, never extended to my parents. It didn’t need to. They have a strict aversion to the internet, gossip magazines, and anything invented after the 1960s. They live in a community in the middle of Nevada, drink filtered rainwater, and weave fucking baskets in their spare time. Literally. Fucking baskets. They sell them on the side of the road, out of the back of an El Camino. Their community is all about rediscovering nature, letting go of physical possessions, and talking to the stars. They speak to me every other week or so from a payphone that squats in the middle of their commune. Any day now, some phone company will come to their senses, yank that payphone out of the ground, and I’ll have to track them down and force a cell phone down their throats.

  I scroll down to the number, execute the call, and put it on speakerphone. It rings, and I cut a neat wedge of French toast and whipped cream, lifting the bite to my mouth. It rings, and I sip my juice, take a wedge of strawberry, and enjoy the view. It rings, and I settle back in the chair, kicking my feet up onto the opposite chair, and push the sunglasses back on my head, getting some sun on my face.

  “Yallo.” A man speaks, his voice languid and smooth, as if he has taken his sweet time in getting to the phone.

  “May I speak to Marilyn or Keith please?” There is movement beside me, and I watch as a chaise lounge is carried onto the deck, an ice bucket set beside it, a towel draped and pillow fluffed. It’s almost annoying, the constant attention to my movements, the continual effort at anticipating my slightest needs. Almost annoying. I consider moving but don’t. I wait, listen to the man sigh, and force myself to remain patient.

  Phone calls to my parents are a continual effort in patience. The first hurdle, the one I am slowly crawling over now, is the simple act of getting them to the phone. Chances are that they are in the midst of meditation. Or cooking. Or gathering basket materials. Or doing a celebration of the sun or some other ridiculous act.

  “I’m not quite sure where they’re at right now.” Each word was an unintelligent drawl, the vowels dragging along and bumping into each other, like crowds moving through a turnstile.

  “Could you look for them?” I clamp my teeth down in an effort to not scream the words. “It’s important.”

  “You must be their son.” A sloth would speak the words quicker than he does.

  “Yes. And it’s important. Please.” God, the next time my parents go off the deep end, I hope they choose a cult that’s a little more efficient.

  “Okay, okay. Keep your tits on.” There is the bump of something against the receiver, and I imagine it being set on top of the booth, the mouthpiece black from use and covered in the germs of a hundred hippie wannabes.

  I reach forward and grab my drink. Swirling the juice enough for the contents to mix, I lift the glass to my mouth and finish the contents, wincing at the bite of the ginger.

  “Hot towel?” I jump at the voice and turn. Edward extends a silver tong, a rolled white towel gripped in its clutches.

  I curse and hold out my hand. “I’m going to put a bell on you.”

  “Brilliant idea, sir.” His features remain slack, and I smile despite myself, dropping the towel back on his tray.

  “Marco?” My mother’s voice comes through the line and I lift a finger to my mouth, gesturing Edward to be quiet. I point to the house and he retreats, his feet quick across the deck, the glide of the sliding door following his exit.

  “Good morning, Mother.” I stretch, placing my hands behind my head and linking my fingers.

  “What’s wrong? Kermit said that it was important.”

  “That’s a joke, right? His name isn’t Kermit. Please tell me you aren’t sharing space with a man named Kermit.”

  “Our names don’t define us, Marco. They’re just labels, placed on us for societal recognition.”

  I snort in response. She used to work at a bank. She wore pantyhose, and hairspray, and snuck me lollipops from the drive-thru. She ate TV dinners at lunch and read trashy novels before bed. Now, she sleeps in a hammock slung between two trees and has a pet rat. A pet RAT.

  I hear my father in the background and wait for her to speak to him, her attention diverted for longer than necessary. “Mom.”

  She ignores me, speaking to him, and I hear the words ‘cactus’ and ‘cleanse.’ I glance at the beach and wonder if I should stay another night. It’s peaceful here. Private. I close my eyes and I can almost hear the chant of Vince’s name from Manhattan. “MOM.”

  “Yes?”

  “Vince passed away.”

  “Oh dear.” She repeats the news to my father, and I hear his voice, suddenly close to the receiver.

  “We are energy, Marco. Vince is with you right now. He’s in the air, he’s on the breeze. Inhale, and he will be inside of you.”

  “Jesus Christ, Dad.” I grimace. “You’re not helping.”

  “He was such a dear friend of yours,” Mom chimes in, and her words have that ethereal, spacey tone she’s adopted in the last few years. A dear friend of mine. She doesn’t know it, but she is right. “When is the funeral? We’ll come.”

  “No.” My father speaks before I do. “We can’t fly with the new moon.”

  Thank God for the new moon.

  “Well, maybe it won’t be during the new moon.” She hushes him. “Marco, when’s the funeral?”

  “It was yesterday.”

  “Oh drat.” She sighs. “But your father is right. We wouldn’t have been able to fly during the new moon. And tonight, we’ve got a celebration planned.”

  There is a beep, and I glance at my phone, my attorney’s name displayed on the screen.

  “I’ve got another call coming in. I was just calling to tell you about Vince.”

  There is a chorus of rushed goodbyes, and I switch lines and answer the other call.

  * * *

  “You’re kidding me.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and listen to the deep tones of John Montreal, Vince’s private attorney for the last two decades. “A daughter?”

  “That’s what this letter says. This isn’t a huge surprise. People come out of the woodwork when there is an estate of this size.”

  “But she’s not legitimate, right?”

  “Come on, Marco.” The man chuckles. “You know Vince better than anyone. Ever see
n him with a woman?”

  No. Vince had a wandering eye that lingered over every man he saw. But women—unless they were being fitted for one of his designs, they were invisible to him. The idea that he would have sex, an encounter that had the ill fortune to produce a child—impossible. “Who’s the girl?”

  “We’re running a background check on her now. She says her mother and him met at a LiveAid concert in 1985.”

  A LiveAid concert in 1985? That produces a bit of concern. Vince went to LiveAid in 1985. I’ve heard his stories. Drugs everywhere. Sex everywhere. In that environment, the thought that his dick could have gotten generous and slipped itself into a woman … I feel a pain in my chest and find my way to the lounge chair, settling in and leaning back. I shield my eyes from the glare and gesture for one of the attendants to pull the umbrella forward.

  “So … she’s sat on this information until now? 1985 … she’s what? Thirty-one? She waited thirty-one years, until five days after his death, and now she wants to be paid?”

  “According to this letter, she was adopted. Didn’t find her birth mother until six or seven years ago. Never knew the name of her father, just had a photo of him. With Vince being in the press so much in the last few days, she recognized him. It’s flimsy at best. As far as any of us know, Vince wasn’t even at LiveAid in 1985, and him resembling a thirty-two-year-old photo… doesn’t really matter.”

  But he was at LiveAid, a fact I decide to, for now, sit on. God, I would kill for a look at that photo. Adopted. Something niggles at my brain and I look out on the water, trying to chase down the thought.

  Avery, her back straightening, features stiffening. Her admission of being adopted, of being in New York to find her father. She had mentioned something about her mother … finding her. I close my eyes and try to remember the conversation, one I had only been half tuned into. Not that it matters. New York is a city with a billion people, a million adoptees, missing fathers, and discovered mothers. I think of her sprint out the front door, tripping over the stoop, desperate to get away. The tension in me builds.