by Zoey Marcel
He must have left them in his bedroom.
A draft blew over him when the door opened. He whirled around to see Siegfried standing there with his things. Cautiously, he took them from him.
“Thanks.”
The man gave him a stoic smile. “My pleasure.”
He didn’t leave.
Brighton pursed his lips and lifted his eyebrows briefly in an “Alrighty, then” motion.
Awkward.
Impatience became annoyance. “Do you mind?”
Siegfried studied him in silence, running his fingers through his hair.
Brighton ducked and smacked his hand away. “Dude.”
He sucked in a sharp gust of air when Siegfried grabbed his chin roughly and gave him a winnowing look. The butler backed him into the wall and then his mouth was on him. Brighton’s squeal was muted by the man’s tongue roaming in his mouth. When he tried to push him away Siegfried grabbed him by the throat and kept kissing him. Not a suffocating hold, but a possessive warning.
When Brighton tried to knee him in the groin the man crammed his body tighter against him and squeezed his throat harder. The guy wasn’t stopping and he was stronger. It scared him.
The doorbell rang. Saved by the bell, perhaps?
Or not. Siegfried kept tonguing him. Brighton grabbed his hair, but the man pinned both his wrists against the wall.
The doorbell rang again.
Letting go of him, Siegfried stepped back and leered at him for a long, unsettling moment before heading for the door. Brighton threw the bar of soap at his head. The butler halted in his tracks before throwing him a dicey glare. Brighton froze.
A slow smile curved Siegfried’s lips. He eyeballed Brighton all over and adjusted his pants before walking out.
Brighton exhaled, unaware that he’d quit breathing. He felt woozy and lightheaded, overly warm from all the booze. The butler had to be as drunk as he was. He’d never done that to him before.
Then he remembered that he had.
* * * *
The next morning Brighton confronted Mr. Happy Lips alone in the kitchen.
“Good morning, sir,” Siegfried said in a friendly tone. “Did you sleep well?”
“Um, yeah, sure.” Brighton scratched his head. “Listen, I don’t know what came over you last night and I get that you were drunk. We both were, so I’ll let it slide, but if it happens again I’m gonna have to let you go.”
Siegfried scrutinized him curiously. “To what are you referring, sir?”
Brighton blinked a few times. Well, that wasn’t the reaction he expected from him. Maybe an apology, embarrassment, or even an unrepentant demeanor, but this?
“You’re joking, right?”
“I assure you I’m not. You’ll have to elaborate your meaning.”
He blushed, peeking down and squirming. “You know...”
Siegfried cocked his head sideways in the most damned convincing display of innocence he’d ever seen.
“How can you not remember?”
“Remember what?”
“Huh. Okay. Apparently you were drunker than I thought.” Brighton waved him off, pivoting to leave. “Forget it.”
A hand clamped down on his arm, sending his pulse into alarm. He threw a startled look at the bold-as-hell servant, who immediately released him.
“You seem disturbed, Brighton. Is everything all right?”
“I’m fine.” Brighton swam in his blue gaze, trying to read him. “Did you have anything to drink last night?”
“Of course not. I was on the clock. That would hardly be professional of me.”
“Did you walk into the bathroom last night while I was in the tub?”
“No. Did you ring for me?”
He felt shaky, humiliated, and stupid as fuck. It happened. He knew it did. It was all so vivid, so real. Hell, he’d had more to drink than Siegfried had. How could the butler have no memory of kissing him and copping a feel when his alcohol tolerance was supposedly higher than Brighton’s?
“No.” He shook his head, stare faltering beneath Siegfried’s.
“Why did you think I was drinking?”
“It’s just...you’re lying, right?” Brighton lifted his head and looked the other man in the eye. “I mean, how could you have less to drink than me and then not remember doing all that?”
Siegfried’s brows cocked inquisitively. “What is it you think I did?”
Brighton dug his nails into his scalp, averting his eyes. He could be lying, but my God, he looked and sounded like he was telling the truth. There was no dilating of pupils, no blinking a lot, or withdrawing eye contact. No nervous fidgeting to speak of or changing stories. Could Siegfried actually be telling the truth? Had he really just imagined the whole scenario?
It was also possible that the dude just didn’t recall any of it. Either that or he did remember, but was too embarrassed or ashamed to admit to it. Maybe he should just let it go and spare the guy his dignity.
“Tell me, Brighton,” Siegfried said in a low voice. “I won’t repeat it.”
Brighton met his patient gaze. “Last night you gave me a massage.”
“I didn’t, but if I had, I don’t see why that would bother you when I’ve done so before.”
“You made out with me.”
Siegfried raised his eyebrows at this, seeming surprised but not scandalized. “With all due respect, sir, I would never presume to lay hands on my employer’s son. Whatever you think I did to you was either a hallucination or a dream.”
Brighton didn’t know what to think. “It can’t be. It felt so real.”
“Fantasies often do. Fear not. I won’t tell your father you were drunk, or your partners that you had a wet dream about me.”
“I did not! You gave me brandy or whatever the hell it was and then started kissing me.”
Siegfried folded his arms and heaved an impatient sigh. “Do you really think I would give you something your father doesn’t want you to have? You were drunk and passed out on the bathroom floor.”
“Aha!” Brighton pointed at him. “Lies! I woke up in bed this morning.”
“Because I put you there.”
His guts flopped. “What?”
“I picked you up off the floor and then tucked you into bed.” Siegfried shook his head. “Four cans of beer.”
“I only had two.”
“You had four.”
Brighton frowned when he saw the four empty cans on the counter. He’d accuse Siegfried of drinking them to plant false evidence and confuse him, but he knew the butler didn’t like beer.
Cole and his father were too sophisticated for it.
Danielle didn’t like beer, and David only drank it out of bottles.
It could have been one of the servants, but they knew better than to just start boozing it up while working.
Siegfried could have poured two cans down the sink.
Now he was just being paranoid. It didn’t even smell like beer in here.
“Your father would be ashamed of you, Brighton,” Siegfried said quietly.
Guilt crept in. A strange helpless kind of smallness, like he was screaming and no one could hear him.
“It happened,” Brighton whispered. “Grappa, that’s what you gave me.”
“Your father has one bottle of that, if I remember right. Last I checked it was sealed. Shall we have a look?”
He shook his head.
“It bothers me that you think I’m some sort of predator who desires nothing more than to prey on your flesh,” Siegfried told him. “Where do you get these ideas? It’s insulting. And here I was about to dispose of these beer cans to prevent your father from finding out about your drunkenness.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled, not sure what to think.
“And?”
“What?”
Siegfried’s expression changed, seeming almost testy as he leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “When someone wrongs someone else by falsely accusing them it’s custom
ary for the mistaken party to apologize.”
Brighton was stunned. “You want me to apologize to you?”
“You wronged me.”
He rubbed his arm, battling confusion. “Will you just swear to me that none of that ever happened?”
Siegfried didn’t bat an eye. “I promise.”
A heavy silence drifted in.
“Apologize to me, Brighton.”
“I’m sorry,” he said meekly.
Siegfried closed the few feet between them. Placing a hand on his shoulder, he murmured, “I forgive you, little one.”
Brighton’s stomach churned with uneasiness. The man had called him that before multiple times, but he couldn’t remember him ever doing so when they were in the company of others. Siegfried was older than him by a couple of decades. Maybe he didn’t mean anything creepy by it.
“It’s just I feel like this has happened twice before.”
“Twice?”
“I didn’t say anything the first time since I thought I imagined it. I asked you about the second time because I thought it was real.” He jumped in his skin when Siegfried laid a hand on his cheek.
“It never happened, Brighton,” the man said softly. “We already talked about that years ago.”
“Both times felt so real.”
“I’m sure they did. If you feel guilty for having lewd dreams about me when you’re drunk, just drink less. Problem solved.”
Brighton didn’t say anything.
“Now, let me get rid of these.” Siegfried collected the cans and tossed them into a trash bag. “We wouldn’t want you to get in trouble now, would we?”
Brighton shook his head, baffled and defeated. Could he really have imagined all that? Had it been a dream?
Siegfried walked past him, pausing behind him at an angle. “In the future I would advise against drinking in the bath.”
Warm breath feathered over his ear.
“We wouldn’t want you to drown.”
Brighton inhaled sharply and jerked his head in the other man’s direction. Siegfried had said something similar last night, but given that the butler had supposedly found him passed out on the bathroom floor, it could be a mere coincidence.
A small smile tugged at Siegfried’s lips. “Take care, Brighton.”
Brighton pulled his gaze away as the guy walked out. He had to be lying, but man, he looked like he was telling the truth and he wasn’t exactly behaving out of character today.
Brighton scrubbed his hands down his face, looking up in distress. He didn’t know what to do. Part of him felt bad for accusing Siegfried of that, but another part of him thought he might be lying. If he was, he had one hell of a poker face.
* * * *
Brighton walked around all day in a preoccupied haze. He had to know; in some ways already did know.
He sat there a long time, staring down at the cordial glass that held the alcoholic concoction he’d made. For years lemons had inspired erotic thoughts in him. He’d dismissed it.
Earlier when he’d sat up at the bar in Bull’s Ass Saloon, his attention had fallen on a bottle of Everclear that triggered something in him, a memory. He’d asked the bartender, Charlie Huntington, about a recipe for some kind of foreign beverage with lemon in it and possibly Everclear. Charlie had known what drink he was talking about and offered to make it for him. Brighton had asked for the recipe instead so he could make it for himself at home. Charlie had given it to him.
Now Brighton fingered the stem of the glass, hesitating. Did he really want to know?
Finally he brought the sugar-rimmed glass to his nose and inhaled. Images flashed through his head, made stronger by the mixture of fresh lemon zest, sugar, and Everclear. All five of his senses experienced something. Dreams didn’t have a scent, a taste, this much potency.
Hand trembling, he took a swig. He remembered being eighteen and kissing Siegfried, initiating it after drinking beer before pulling away and apologizing. The butler had excused the kiss and said it would be inappropriate since he worked for Brighton’s father. Then after talking about their days, Siegfried had treated him to this alcoholic, lemony concoction.
Brighton took another drink, wondering why his version of it tasted sweeter than the one Siegfried had made for him years ago. Had he added too much sugar? Had it been salt on the rim of his glass when Siegfried made it for him, or something else?
But the high-proof liquor had been more than enough to take him from buzzed to drunk quickly without the aid of narcotics. It had probably been sugar.
Why would the man act professional when Brighton kissed him before remembering himself and then make him a stronger drink and fool around with him?
Anna. That had to be why. When he was eighteen he’d seduced one of their former maids and then his father had fired her. Siegfried probably hadn’t wanted to risk Brighton snitching on him even if he had been the one to initiate it the first time.
Brighton pushed the drink aside after another swallow made him feel guilty. He shouldn’t have kissed the butler back then. He’d been tipsy. He hadn’t meant to lead the guy on.
Rising, he trudged slowly up the stairs, getting weak in the knees the closer he got to Siegfried’s room. He shouldn’t know what kind of underwear the man wore, but he did. He’d never had to do laundry a day in his cushy life, so there was no other way for him to know.
Finding the bedroom vacant, he slipped inside, opening the top dresser drawer. Yep, boxer briefs.
Coincidence.
Please.
A second memory came back and this time he recalled a pair of his own underwear that had gone missing when he was twenty-one. Maybe it had gotten lost in the laundry. That time he’d come home drunk and Siegfried had helped him into bed, then he’d gotten into bed with him. His family had been away that night. They’d been alone together.
He stilled when he saw the boxer briefs his mind seemed convinced that Siegfried had worn that night. Well, of course his brain would inject the stuff his eyes beheld for closure. It meant nothing.
Just because the light blue briefs he’d worn that night had gone missing didn’t mean that Siegfried had stolen them.
He’d lost his straight-boy innocence to Kale at twenty-five, not at twenty-one to Siegfried. He was glad he got that straightened out.
Why the hell wasn’t he leaving and forgetting all about those dreams?
He stared down at Siegfried’s dark blue boxer briefs and hesitated. For some reason he picked them up, reassuring himself that navy wasn’t an unheard-of color for men’s underwear and there were only so many options that it was a mere lucky guess that he knew what kind of underwear the man wore.
Something fell out of the garment when he picked it up. Time stopped when he saw what it was. Light blue briefs identical to his own pair that had gone missing years ago.
He remembered everything. Dreams weren’t that real, didn’t engage all five senses. There were so many emotions and sensations that punched through his shock before everything went cold. He sank to his knees, not knowing what to think or feel.
It was a long time before he got up and left the bedroom. The room eventually became shaded with the effects of an overcast sunset.
The first time he’d slept with Kale an unexpected image of Siegfried had gone through his head. Brighton had felt guilty and dismissed it. Now he knew why. Kale wasn’t his first man.
Brighton didn’t feel anything, wasn’t even sure how he was supposed to feel. He just went numb.
Chapter Seven
On Halloween night Sean Friel went to Leather & Lace. Heath Brodie was a member, so he was able to get him in.
“Are you sure about this?” the cowboy asked him. “What happens if your dad shows up and catches you here?”
“He won’t,” Sean said. “He’s taking my little sister trick-or-treating in Rapid City. He doesn’t work tonight or I wouldn’t be here.”
“Well, that’s good. Your costume is pretty nifty.”
�
��You like that, huh?” He wore a S.W.A.T. uniform for his costume. “I noticed you didn’t exactly stray far from your usual attire.”
Heath grinned. “I never celebrated Halloween as a kid. Dressing up now as an adult would feel weird.”
“I thought you and Carsten always went to that harvest party at the church.”
“We did, but there were guidelines on the costumes.”
“You still could have dressed up as a pumpkin and just told your da you were a pumpkin in the Garden of Eden.”
Heath chuckled. “Most of the pumpkin costumes are jack-o’-lanterns.”
Sean shrugged. “So? Maybe you were a happy pumpkin.”
“You’re fun. Check out that girl’s costume behind the bar.”
He looked to where Heath nodded and grinned. The barmaid was dressed like a teapot. “I love it.”
“It’s pretty creative. Danielle would look adorable in something like that.”
Sean smiled and elbowed his side. “Missing your lady?”
Heath couldn’t hide the smile or the twinkle in his eye. “A little bit, but this is fun. What do you think of the club from what you’ve seen so far?”
“It’s dynamite.”
Sean soaked up the kinky atmosphere. The blue and green lighting gave the club an otherworldly glow in between alternating with red and purple lights that evoked thoughts of carnality and passion.
Music blared all around them, but not so loud that everyone was screaming at each other. Sometimes it was a mixed CD. Other times it was something unique and hip the DJ came up with.
Everywhere he looked there were people in costumes drinking, dancing, or engaging in a BDSM scene together. He loved that there was all manner of sexual combinations: men and women, men and men, women and women, and several ménages. It was a utopia of freedom and acceptance.
It was difficult to believe his da actually worked here. Aiden was so judgmental sometimes. How the hell did he stand being around all this deviance without feeling any kind of Catholic guilt or holy indignation?
“So who’s the other owner my da works with?” Sean asked, leaning into Heath so the guy could hear him better.
Heath looked around before pointing. “See that guy dressed like a 1920s gangster over there?”
