The Spindle's Curse: A modern mm romance inspired by Sleeping Beauty (Ever After Book 1)

by TL Gehr

  His whole body seems to relax, as if he’s finally accepted that I’m actually going to go with him. “I’m sorry I didn’t give you more notice.”

  “You know, for a nice guy you really do apologize a lot?”

  “I’m sorry?” his eyes twinkle with humor.

  I fold my arms and lean casually against his desk. “It’s fine about the notice. It’s not like I have wild Friday night plans.”

  His gaze drops. “The truth is, it’s taken me this long to work up the courage to ask. I nearly came here three times tonight alone before I lost my nerve. I realize it’s a strange thing to ask of someone you hardly know… especially when I wasn’t sure…”

  The coquettish look he gives me floods right through my stomach and into my groin. His question about the girlfriend. Was he planning to ask me then?

  “I don’t have a girlfriend,” I say. “Boyfriend, in fact. I don’t have a boyfriend right now.”

  He closes his eyes and breathes out. A smile plays about his lips. I suppose asking a straight guy to do something like this would be way more awkward, but that reaction gives me a little glimmer of hope. It’s like I’m seeing a mirror of my own relief earlier.

  Brian’s gay and Brian is also, most definitely, single.

  16

  Brian

  Despite Philip’s assurances about the dress code, I spend Friday morning treating myself to some more clothes without holes in them. I may only be a fake boyfriend, but I don’t want to embarrass him.

  I take Cynthia along for a second opinion, which I realize is a mistake the second she starts calling it a date. She pretends she can’t hear me every time I tell her it’s a fake date.

  Instead of hitting the department store, she steers me to a thrift shop.

  “He said it’s a Fashion Week after party? Well you can’t very well go in something off the rack.”

  “The clothing here is on racks too.”

  “Yes, but the clothing here is vintage, dear.”

  She makes me try on something with leopard print—urgh—and then coos over a metallic damask jacket which I refuse to buy.

  “You look so spiffy. Don’t you want to make a statement?”

  “No. I definitely do not want to make a statement.”

  Finally, I try on a short-sleeved collared shirt in a subtle maroon houndstooth. I like that it has a collar. It feels like Philip’s date should wear something with a collar. Cynthia isn’t sure about it, but when she sees it with the leather jacket she says, “Yes, darling. Yes. You’re comfortable?”

  I check myself in the narrow mirror. The lighting isn’t great, which softens the hard edges of my cheekbones and makes my skin look less luminescent. I was going to make a comment about being a vampire, but I don’t actually look like walking death in this. I look… not bad. Like someone who might be in a band.

  Should I tell people that to make Philip look good? What should I play? Maybe bass guitar. Although, I’ll be in trouble if anyone who can actually play guitar happens to strike up a conversation with me.

  Cynthia straightens the collar and I catch a whiff of perfume. “You look fabulous. He’s going to fall in love with you.”

  “Please don’t say things like that.” My heart can’t take it.

  I’m expecting a text with the address and I’ve already planned to call a cab rather than try to navigate the subway system. Too much could go wrong. Instead, Philip messages, telling me a driver will pick me up at about 9:15 (traffic dependent).

  I should have expected that, considering this is a man who bought a restaurant under a historic monument just as a cover for sneaking around behind his parents’ backs. Still, I’m glad I bought a new shirt.

  I make sure that I’m showered and shaved with plenty of time to spare, so I’m already waiting on the sidewalk when the Merc rolls up.

  We wind our way through traffic, across the Queensboro Bridge and into what must be Queens. I steal glances at Philip. He’s wearing a dark blazer and a shirt in that aqua color that looks so good on him. Probably for the ex’s benefit. He must know it suits him. A ball of nerves is winding itself tighter and tighter in my stomach.

  “What should I tell your friends about myself?”

  He was staring out the window at the city and he turns to me with a quizzical expression. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, do you want me to make up some shit about how I’m the long-lost prince of a forgotten kingdom or something? To make the ex jealous?”

  Philip smiles again and shakes his head. “No, just be yourself, Brian.” His eyes flick down to my chest. “I like the shirt.”

  We roll up beside a skyscraper that looks like an office block. Has Philip been pranked? This looks like somewhere one might come to file a tax return, not attend a party. Then I see the bouncers standing guard at the building’s door.

  Philip presses his lips together. He looks like a cat who’s about to be bathed. He clearly does not want to be here.

  I touch his arm. “Wanna call the whole thing off?”

  He shakes his head. A gaggle of women in high heels arrive at the entrance. One of the bouncers checks them off a list.

  “It will be fine,” Philip says, and he opens the door.

  I’m not the skinniest person in the room for once.

  Around us, stick-thin models parade their latest looks while cameras flash. The space itself is a symphony of black and gold. Black tiles, black ceiling with exposed pipes. Gold chandelier spilling golden light onto the golden people. Black bar, black wrought-iron door, window screens carved from black wood that compliment the dark, thrumming bass. I was expecting fairyland and I ended up in the underworld.

  Philip pauses just inside of the entrance and takes a breath so deep that his shoulders shift. This is not his scene. Even I can tell that. Why is he doing this to himself?

  “My friends should be somewhere back there.” He jerks his chin towards the shadowy dancefloor where svelte shapes are grinding against each other, then his arm slips around me and he rests his palm at the base of my spine. Pleasure flushes right up to my neck. I wish I wasn’t wearing my jacket so I could feel the warmth of his touch. I wish I wasn’t wearing anything at all. No, wait. I’ve had that nightmare before—walking into a party only to discover I’ve forgotten to put on clothing. It wasn’t as fun as it sounds.

  Instead of leading me onto the dancefloor, Philip takes me past it to where clusters of people are milling and talking, watching the dancers. There, in one of the clusters, is the girl from the park. Jones. She’s wearing a green silk jumpsuit and a gold necklace. There are three others with her. Two men (one tall in a black suit, one with out-of-control curls in a purple jacket) and a woman (in a figure-hugging black dress and a string of pearls). These are Philip’s friends and the wealth comes off them in waves.

  “Well, would you look at that?” The tall man is the first to spot us and he speaks with a German accent. “Philip actually brought his mystery man to meet us.”

  The others turn to look. Jones’s mouth falls open. “I don’t fucking believe it. It’s the Central Park short shit.”

  My heart rattles in my chest. The music is still pumping, but everything in the room seems to fade away except for her. She saw me that day. She saw me yelling at Philip.

  “Her term, not mine,” Philip says quickly.

  “You’re dating the short shit?” Jones demands. “When? How?”

  “How did you even recognize him? I thought you missed the scene.”

  “I missed the scene. I saw him walking away from it. I didn’t think that would actually be relevant. How the hell did this happen?”

  I want to melt into the dark shadows of this place and disappear. I can’t think of a single reasonable explanation.

  “Funny story.” Philip’s hand is still on my spine, and his voice is calm and smooth. “He showed up at one of my father’s restaurants.” First rule of lying: stay as close to the truth as possible. “I happened to be there at the time
. We made our apologies and one thing led to another.”

  Jones shakes her head. “You told us about him that same night.”

  “What are the chances, right?” I put in, because it’s starting to feel like I need to say something, and I slide my own arm around Philip’s waist. “Love at first sight. Well, second sight, I guess. Must have been fate.”

  First rule of lying: stay as close to the truth as possible.

  “And as you’ll recall,” Philip adds, “I didn’t tell you about him.”

  I realize the flaw in his story then. If he wants to use me as a cover for his classes, then it’s not going to work if our relationship is that new, but I guess that ship’s sailed.

  The curly-haired guy in the purple jacket steps forward and holds out his hand. “I’m Triston. These Neanderthals are Gunther,” he points to the tall one, “Tabitha,” the one with the pearls, “and you’ve met Jones.”

  I reluctantly take my hand from Philip’s waist to shake at the same time as Philip says, “and this is Brian.”

  “You’re really not that short,” Triston says. “Jones made you sound like a poisoned dwarf.”

  Jones lets out air between her lips. “I did not.”

  “You did. You were laughing your head off at Philip being put in his place by a tiny man with a big attitude.”

  “To be fair,” Tabitha says, “most people are tiny compared to Philip.”

  I definitely feel tiny right now. As if sensing my discomfort, Philip pulls me close. “And you all wondered why I didn’t want to introduce him to you.”

  “Oh, please. You make us sound horrible, we’re not that awful, are we?” Tabitha has an incredibly posh British accent. “I do apologize, Brian. We didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  “Yes, we meant to make Philip uncomfortable,” Gunther says.

  “Well, you’ve succeeded.” Philip is still holding me tight. He smells really good. I want to close my eyes and enjoy the feeling of his arm around me while the friends continue to banter with each other. At least until Philip dips his head and says, “Let’s go get some drinks,” his breath hot against my ear.

  As we move towards the bar he says, “I’m so sorry about that. I didn’t know she saw you at Central Park.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve been called worse.”

  “They’re really not so bad.”

  I glance back at them. They’re deep in conversation. Jones is watching us, but she looks away as soon as I catch her gaze. They’re definitely talking about me. If they’re not so bad, why can’t he be honest with them?

  Philip rests an elbow on the bar while we wait for the barman to get to us. I admire his skill. He doesn’t even look at where the drink bottles are, just grabs for them and pours. He’s so slick. I’ll never be that good.

  I realize Philip is watching me with one of his complicated expressions. He ducks his chin and says in a low voice, “I could organize an introduction if you like? After the party. I can probably get his number from Chase.”

  What’s he talking about? “Who—” and then my brain catches up “What? His? You think… no. God no.” Wow, some date, checking out the barman after like five minutes. The knot of anxiety in my stomach pulls even tighter. “No. I was watching him work, Philip.”

  “I’m not offended. You’re here as a favor—”

  “—and I’m a rubbish barman.” My heart is thundering. I want to say more, but something’s caught Philip’s eye and he’s distracted. I spin to see what he’s looking at.

  A small crowd has gathered around a man who looks like a Ken doll. He is dark-haired, in flashy jacket with a white, perfect smile.

  My pounding heart plummets. This is the ex. I know it instantly and without a doubt.

  He poses for a picture. Then he sees us and the camera smile transforms into a smolder.

  This is the ex. He still wants Philip. I know this, too, instantly and without a doubt.

  17

  Brian

  The ex saunters over to us, ignoring the other guys (and girls) trying to get his attention as he crosses the room.

  “Philip, you came.” Even his voice is sexy as fuck. He sounds a little surprised, but it doesn’t reflect on his face. His entire attention is focused on Philip. He’s so intense I feel like I can’t breathe.

  “This is Brian,” Philip says. He doesn’t touch me, and doesn’t use the word boyfriend. Why would he? It’s clear, now that I see the type of guy he’s into, how absolutely ridiculous my secret desires are. I never had a chance with him. I’m here to make this guy jealous. I’m just a tool in their lover’s spat. Later they’ll fuck and laugh about how Philip got some pleb to play along.

  No, he isn’t like that. He asked me here because he wanted my help, not because he was playing mind games.

  I’m not a tool, I’m armor.

  I offer my hand to this dark Adonis. “I don’t believe I got your name?”

  The corner of his mouth hooks upwards in amusement that doesn’t travel to his eyes. “Chase. Chase Shaw.”

  “Is that supposed to be like Bond, James Bond?”

  His eyebrow twitches. “Where did you find this one, Philip?”

  Philip’s mouth is thin, but I’m relieved to see the dimple. He’s amused, but trying not to show it. I didn’t think my quip was all that good.

  “Central Park,” I answer. “You can ask Jones to tell you the story, apparently she enjoys relaying it.”

  Chase tilts his head and his emerald eyes bore into mine, though there’s the ghost of humor around his mouth. “I wasn’t aware that Philip was seeing anyone.”

  Even this statement, which should be rude, sounds seductive. I wish I had a drink so I had an excuse to slide out from his stare. It doesn’t help that he’s taller than me. He’s probably around the same height as Philip. I really am a short shit next to them.

  “I prefer not to broadcast what I do in my personal time,” Philip says.

  “Tempora mutantur,” Chase says, moving his focus back onto the object of his desire.

  Is that freakin Latin? Who the hell speaks Latin?

  “Et nos mutamur in illis,” Philip responds, meeting Chase’s gaze.

  Philip. Philip speaks Latin.

  Even though they’ve perfectly excluded me by using this ancient, dead language, they have another whole conversation with their eyes. I’m about to excuse myself when Philip’s hand slides into mine.

  It’s clammy.

  I whisper mental gratitude to deities I don’t even believe in, because if it hadn’t been for that small signal that he was uncomfortable, I might have given up completely and called a cab to go home.

  Instead, I squeeze his hand. A little assurance that I’m here, even if I can do jack shit for him.

  Chase’s gaze drops to our interlocked fingers and Philip turns from him. Spell broken. “Do you want to hit the dancefloor?”

  Nope. Not at all. Not even a little bit.

  “Yeah.” Because fuck Chase.

  Philip holds my hand all the tighter as we walk away. He is incredibly good at lying. He doesn’t only use his words, he uses his body too. The cool confidence that he was exuding at the bar was just another lie. That probably should turn me off, but instead it just intrigues me. What has he been through that made him learn to lie so well? I can’t help but admire the skill, and be honored that he’s shared so many truths with me.

  “So, are you going to translate?” I ask.

  “Sorry, that was incredibly rude of me. Times change, we change with them. Roughly.” Now he sounds more himself.

  “What’s his deal?”

  “That’s just the way he is. Everything’s a power play.”

  “Hence your need for a date. Do you know how to dance?”

  We’ve reached the dancefloor and I feel silly for asking because of course he probably knows a hundred types of dances. Even those ones they do in old movies with all the hand movements.

  “Because I don’t,” I add.

>   We stand opposite each other, the cacophony of the music and Chase’s guests crashes around us.

  “Um,” Philip puts a hand on my hip. “You just sort of go with the rhythm.”

  He moves his torso from side-to-side in time to the music, but he’s a little stilted and I’m not sure what to do with my limbs. I step closer. It’s dark enough that no one will notice what I do, so long as I stay close to him. Probably.

  Philip’s chin is at my forehead. His hand snakes around to the small of my back. “How come you don’t know how to dance? Did you never go out in… I’m sorry I don’t even know where you’re from.”

  “New Paltz. I went out.”

  Now he’s bending his knees in time to the music. I follow his lead, then realize I have a hand against his chest and am relieved for the dark so no one can see me blushing. I keep it there because he hasn’t complained and I get to feel his muscles. I see other people are moving their hips, so I try that.

  “Mmm now you’re getting the hang of it,” Philip says. That little hum of approval slips across my skin like a caress.

  His hand slides back to my hip, and then his other hand lands on my other hip. He’s holding my hips. My fingers tighten on his shirt and I force myself to let go of him. Conversation. We should have it.

  “Why haven’t you told your friends about The Spindle?”

  He drops his head forward so he can speak into my ear, treating me to a whiff of his aftershave. “Because they’d be there all the time.”

  “And it wouldn’t be yours anymore?”

  “Yes. Yes, exactly.”

  His neck is right there. I can practically feel the warmth of it against my mouth. I could kiss it so easily. I start to salivate thinking about it. I’m supposed to be his boyfriend, right? Maybe I should just go for it. Start necking him right here on the dancefloor?

  My cock twitches encouragement and my heart shudders.

  No, no, that’s a terrible idea. I can see it now, him pulling away and asking “what are you doing?” and being totally creeped out and horrified.