by Greg Herren
“I didn’t expect to see you here.”
I smiled my thanks to the bartender and turned around to face Remy. He was wearing a seersucker suit over a pale blue shirt and waving a hand fan with Tennessee Williams’s face on it, drops of sweat beading up on his forehead. “Hello,” I replied, wondering how I could politely get away again.
“Remy! There you are.” A very pretty woman slipped her arm through his and pecked at his cheek, not getting any closer than a half inch. “You’re such a bad boy. If I didn’t know better I’d say you were trying to lose me.” Her long chestnut hair was twisted into a French braid draped over her right shoulder. She was slightly taller than me and Remy, wearing what looked like a pale blue satin toga-style dress that matched his shirt perfectly. Diamonds glittered at her ears, on her fingers, and she was wearing a matching pale blue choker around her neck with a pink cameo of a woman’s profile in the front.
Well, this couldn’t get more awkward, I thought, hoping he was her brother but knowing better. I glanced down and saw that the wedding band was now there on his left hand.
I was raised to be polite, and the whole point of manners was, after all, to get people through social awkward situations. “Scotty Bradley,” I said with a smile, holding out my hand to her. “I don’t believe we’ve met?” She didn’t look familiar at all.
“Chloe Valence.” She smiled, her perfectly capped white teeth sparkling in the fading light of late afternoon. Her hand clutched his arm so tightly I could see her knuckles whiten. She clearly saw me as a threat. But she gave me her hand and I bent down to brush my lips against it.
“Enchante,” I said in my most gallant voice.
“And I see you’ve already met my husband.”
“Remy Valence,” His grip was loose, his palm damp with sweat. He started fanning himself more vigorously. “Bradley?” He looked confused.
I smiled at him. “My mother is a Diderot.” I gestured with the hand holding the champagne glass. “My grandparents’ place.”
He looked even more confused—probably wondering if he’d been mistaken and I wasn’t the stripper he’d slept with after all.
People from society families in New Orleans generally don’t make side money stripping in gay bars.
I like to think I was the first to break that glass ceiling.
“Now, honey, come along, there’s someone I want you to meet,” she said, still smiling at me as she tugged at him insistently. “If you’ll excuse us…so lovely to have met you.”
I nodded, watching as she maneuvered him back inside. I didn’t see either of them again that night. After the guests were gone, alone with my sister and grandmother in the drawing room, relaxing and gossiping, I asked them about the Valences.
My grandmother was the one who told me the tawdry tale of Remy, his possessive domineering monster of a mother, and the woman he married to guarantee his inheritance. “She seems nice, but what a life.” Maman clicked her tongue with a sad shake of her head. “She’s from out west somewhere”—to my grandmother, “out west” could mean Baton Rouge—“I think, not anyone, really. She used to work for the Times-Picayune, I think. She has literary aspirations.” She made a face. “I do hope she finds a use for her talents.”
It’s not the life I would have chosen for myself, but who was I to judge Remy Valence?
We all walk a different path.
“Oh, we’re here,” Paige said gratefully as the town car pulled up in front of the Royal Aquitaine. “I’m dying for a cigarette.” She didn’t wait for the driver to open the door.
As I started to slide out, Serena grabbed my arm. “Darling, I need to talk to you about Remy. Don’t forget now.”
Great, I thought as I got out into the cold. Just great.
Chapter Three
Nine of Swords
Suffering, doubt, suspicion
Ah, the Royal Aquitaine Hotel.
It claimed to be the oldest hotel in New Orleans, but so did any number of the other grand ladies of the city. Originally built in the mid-1830s so New Orleans would have a “European-style hotel” to impress foreign visitors and convey the impression that the city was a cosmopolitan mecca on a continent still mostly wilderness. Its name came from being on Royal Street; the hotel had been built above the Café Aquitaine. The café was long gone, but the name lived on. There was no trace of the old café in the hotel’s grand lobby, decorated with the finest white marble and sparkling crystal chandeliers and red velvet armchairs. Independently owned and operated by its founding family, it had finally been sold to one of the big hotel chains during the Truman administration but had kept its historic name rather than tacking on the chain’s name. It took up most of a city block—the property itself would be worth a ridiculous amount of money even without the four-star hotel sitting on it.
I’d tricked there more times than I could possibly remember when I was single.
And, of course, there was that one time I’d found a dead body in one of the rooms.
Wanting to avoid Serena and whatever her questions about Remy Valence might be, I stayed out on the sidewalk in the cold with Paige to keep her company while she smoked while the others went on ahead. The overhead gallery protected us from the rain.
“Ryan wants me to quit before we get married,” Paige said, taking a deep inhale as an older couple dressed to the nines walked past us on their way to the front doors. “You’re not going to out Remy to Serena, are you?”
“I don’t want to, but I’m not a good liar,” I replied, shivering as another blast of cold and damp wind from the river buffeted us. “And it’s not anyone’s business, anyway. I don’t want to be responsible for people talking about Remy’s sexuality on television. You regretted that crack about Chloe, didn’t you?”
“I’m not used to having to watch what I say in my private life.” Paige inhaled, shivering as a blast of cold wind came from the direction of the river. “It’s true—she pretty much did fuck anyone at the paper she thought could get her ahead, but damned if I want to be the one who gets that information out there.”
“And who cares about Remy’s sexuality anyway?”
“Oh, God, you haven’t heard.” She shook her head.
“Heard?”
“You really need to listen more to gossip.” She grinned at me. “There’s been a whole brouhaha about Remy and Chloe’s marriage in front of the cameras.”
“Seriously?” My jaw dropped.
But why would anyone with something to hide go on a reality show? It’s just asking for it, really.
“One of the main storylines is a feud between Margery and Chloe.” She turned her back to the wind and took another drag on the cigarette.
“Really?” That struck me as strange. Margery didn’t seem the type. I figured she was going to serve as the Voice of Reason character, the one who tries to make peace between the other women.
“The story I heard is that Margery told one of the other women she thought Chloe’s book was reductive, poorly written, and borderline racist.”
“Um, wasn’t it?”
Paige held up her forefinger and thumb, about a quarter inch apart. “Little bit. And it’s not like other people haven’t said it. So, Chloe wasn’t thrilled when someone told her what Margery had said. She never could take criticism back at the paper. I guess that hasn’t changed.” Paige exhaled smoke through her nose. “And she was drinking at a party and got pretty nasty with Margery—do you know her?”
I shook my head. “No, never met her.”
“She’s not someone whose bad side you want to be on. That woman can hold a grudge—and she’s got a lot of money.”
“So, what happened?”
Paige shook her head. “Stupid Chloe took a shot at how Margery dresses, and Margery was having none of it. She blew up and said, for the cameras, ‘Oh shut up, everyone in town knows you married a homosexual so he could get his inheritance, and you’re nothing but trailer trash from some backward parish no one of quality has ever com
e from.’”
“Ouch.” Even for the Grande Dames, that was harsh. “I can’t imagine they’d want that to air?”
“You really haven’t been paying attention, have you?”
“No, I wanted to be surprised when I watched the show.” It had been difficult, blocking out all the gossip about the show and what was going on between the cast members during the months of filming. I was proud I’d managed to succeed.
Well, I’d heard some things, but nothing like this.
“Yeah, well, Remy and Chloe got their lawyer to send her a cease-and-desist letter, and also sent one to Eric and the network.” Paige tossed her cigarette out into the gutter. She took my arm and smiled up at me. “As you can imagine, the network is scrambling, trying to do damage control while trying to see if the contract she signed doesn’t have some loophole the Valences could slip through in court, and make the show and the network liable for damages.”
The doorman nodded and held the door open for us.
It was hot inside. I took off my coat and draped it over my arm, feeling sweat forming at my temples and underarms. We took in the Aquitaine’s Christmas décor. The lobby, mostly white marble with some gilt trim, smelled of pine. There were three enormous Christmas trees placed strategically around the lobby, all decorated in white and gold. White lights were wrapped around banisters and railings, winking at us. The mahogany chairs with their red velvet upholstery were placed around white marble top tables with red Christmas candles centered on them, sprigs of holly and pine branches completing the décor. The marble floors were so polished the chandelier lights reflected on their surface.
“Wow,” I said as we went up the short flight of stairs to the mezzanine level and over to the elevator banks. I pushed the up button and fished the room card Sloane had given me out of my coat pocket. “Why can’t they just bleep out Margery saying it, or edit the scene so it’s cut?” I asked while we watched the lights above the elevators move from PH down as the elevator descended. “They bleeped Gillian on Malibu when she brought up that Lori had used a surrogate for her two kids when Lori threatened to sue.” That had been an ugly mess, and Lori’s secret had come out in the tabloids anyway.
It all ended with Lori leaving the show and an out-of-court settlement—with a sealed record and a nondisclosure agreement.
The elevator doors opened. “Chloe doesn’t want to leave the show,” Paige replied. “It’s a big mess. I’m glad I’m not Eric Brewer.”
I stuck the card into the appropriate slot and pressed PH. “Then she’s crazy. This won’t end well for her. She’s going to get fired, and everyone’s going to find out about Remy anyway. It’s not like it’s this huge secret around town, no matter what they think. Everyone knows Remy has men on the side.” I couldn’t be the only man in New Orleans who’d slept with Remy. Someone was bound to come forward and sell the story to a tabloid—or ask for hush money from the Valences.
And at this point, who cared? His mother was dead. Why not just say he was bisexual and Chloe was okay with it and it was nobody else’s fucking business what went on in their marriage?
As Gillian said at the Malibu reunion after Lori left the show, “Why go on a reality show when you have things you want to hide? Everyone is going to find out.”
Paige made that very point as the elevator stopped at the penthouse level and the doors opened. “So, yeah, watch what you say around all these women and around everyone at this party. They may have finished filming the season already, but…they could always go back and reshoot scenes, you know.”
And they haven’t filmed the reunion yet, I thought.
I made a mental note to stop at one drink.
There were four penthouses on the top floor of the Aquitaine. They were basically enormous apartments, complete with kitchens, bedroom suites, and terraces with stunning views. Eric Brewer’s suite was one of the two facing the river. Each suite’s terrace was private; there was a fire exit staircase between the terraces on each side, completely enclosed, so someone standing on one terrace couldn’t see anyone standing on the one next door.
The bodyguard standing in front of the open door to Eric’s suite must have been at least six feet six and weighed over three hundred pounds of solid muscle. He was wearing black pants and one of those tight black T-shirts with Grande Dames of New Orleans written across his gigantic pecs in gold glitter. His shaved scalp gleamed in the light. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes. A wire ran from his ear down his back. I held up the keycard. He didn’t say anything, just waved us inside with a big meaty hand.
I handed my coat to a young woman in a maid’s uniform. The big living room was filled with people, clustered into groups. The enormous windows running along the terrace were covered in condensation. It was stuffy inside, from the crush of people and the hot air coming through the vents. Already feeling a little claustrophobic, I smiled and nodded at people I vaguely recognized as I walked through the crowd to where a full bar had been set up. I recognized the young bartender from somewhere. He was pouring martinis into chilled glasses, garnishing them with olives. Despite my decision to stay sober, a dirty vodka martini with extra olives sounded good to me. As Paige moved off to find Ryan, I looked around for Taylor while I waited for my turn with the bartender.
Well, just one wouldn’t hurt.
“Yes, please, a dirty vodka martini with extra olives?” I asked the bartender when he turned his attention to me. He tossed a cocktail napkin down and went to work. I glanced around the room, looking for Taylor. I finally spotted him near the terrace windows. He was laughing, but I couldn’t see who he was talking to from where I was standing. Which was fine. I didn’t need to hover over him all night. He was twenty-one years old, and Goddess knows, I was doing all kinds of things with very little supervision when I was that age. He was a good kid with a good head on his shoulders and never gave any of his uncles a reason to worry. He was so damned responsible that I wished sometimes he’d sow some wild oats—give us a reason to worry.
An extremely good-looking young man in his late twenties or early thirties walked up to the bar and also ordered a martini. He was taller than me, and handsome. His brown hair was cut short, and he wore tight black jeans and one of those ubiquitous Grande Dames of New Orleans T-shirts. His shoulders were broad, the T-shirt sleeves clung tightly to his big biceps, and his stomach was flat. He had an enormous smile with a mouth full of glowing straight white teeth.
Ah, youth.
His ass was also impressive.
“I gather you’re with the show?” I said, nodding at his shirt as I took my martini from the bartender. “And yes, I have a keen grasp of the obvious.”
He laughed as the bartender shook the martini shaker. He had a great laugh, and gorgeous green eyes. “Brandon Bernard.” He held out a big strong hand for me to shake. His grip was strong and firm, and I felt a slight electrical charge as our skin touched.
Did I mention that he was very good looking?
“Yes, I’m on the production team for the show, assistant producer,” he replied, with a roll of those green eyes. “Which means I’m Eric’s bitch, twenty-four seven. Thank God he’s got his eye on some young twink right now, so I can relax and have some fun.” He took a swig of his martini and pulled the olive out with the little sword, popping it into his mouth. He shifted slightly, standing close enough to me that we were almost touching, so I could smell him.
He smelled good.
And was he—yes, he was flirting with me!
I know it probably sounds a little pathetic that being flirted with by a young man was a little exciting for me. I don’t think of myself as being over forty. I always think of myself as being still twenty-nine, I think because that’s how old I was when I first met Colin and Frank. It always catches me off guard that they’re aren’t thirty-three and forty-four anymore, either.
And then one night in a bar some kid called me Daddy, and it hit me, right between the eyes: I wasn’t the hot young thing in the bars anymore.
But you know what? I’m fine with it.
I still get hit on, guys still flirt with me—but I’ve noticed that I’m becoming more and more invisible to younger guys. I don’t care. I like myself, I like my age…although I wouldn’t mind having some of my old energy back.
Or the ability to bounce back from a night of partying, or from working hard at the gym.
Or getting up on a cold morning without feeling my joints aching.
Okay, maybe I do mind a little.
And having Taylor around also has changed my perspective some. The thought of having sex with anyone in his peer group kind of creeps me out. I know there are older guys who are into younger ones, and vice versa. That’s great, to each their own. But for me, having sex with someone Taylor’s age just doesn’t seem right. I can think they’re cute, maybe sexy, but I don’t see them in a sexual way.
So, being flirted with by this gorgeous younger guy was kind of fun. It wasn’t going anywhere, but it was nice.
“Eric likes twinks?” I sipped my martini. I knew the answer was yes. I’d seen any number of pictures of Eric at clubs or parties or beaches, his arm draped around some kid less than half his age. They also ran shots of him shirtless from weekends—one had even anointed him “hottest guy over fifty.” Eric was good looking enough, I suppose, but he didn’t do anything for me. There was an element of him trying too hard for me to find him sexy. I’m sure when he was younger, he was cute and got away with a lot. Unfortunately, he clearly still thought he was young and cute. He was good looking for a guy in his fifties, and he didn’t look like a guy in his fifties. But he was in his fifties, and he still acted like he was the cutest twink in town on his talk show. He got on my nerves so much I was never able to watch more than five minutes or so.
