by Lisa Henry
“That night when I took your clothes.”
Marquis nodded again. “I just . . . I fell into it, gave everything over to you, and it was like flying. And then when I screwed up again, the cage seemed like the answer to everything. I could have that feeling again, and I was sure I could be good for you if I was wearing a cage to keep me in line. But what was wrong wasn’t that we weren’t using toys, it was that I wasn’t—”
A shape appeared in his peripheral vision, and Marquis cut himself off to look at the waitress.
“All set now?” she asked, looking hopeful.
He couldn’t turn her away again. That would be rude. He flipped open the menu and skimmed, pointing to a sandwich he almost certainly wouldn’t be able to eat, not while he was talking to Navin.
Navin ordered an innocuous tuna on rye—he’d have probably been happier with a masala dosa or anything with a little zip to it, but it was the wrong end of town for that. Once the waitress was gone, he asked, “You weren’t what?”
“Thinking. Listening. Living up to my own expectations. I’ve spent my whole life trying to be some kind of normal and in the process I just learned to disappear. I know you know that feeling.” Marquis sighed and fell silent. He wasn’t sure what else to say, except that he was sorry, and Navin had already made it clear they were beyond apologies.
“I do know.” Navin leaned in and spoke quietly. “Marq, if you’d told me before, about the movies and the cage and all that, it wouldn’t have stopped me from dating you. Not at all. You should know that. No matter who you’re with, you deserve to be honest about yourself.”
“I have a hard time believing that, but I’m trying,” Marquis said with a little effort. His throat was tight with emotion—he’d always thought Navin was wonderful, but it seemed he’d only scratched the surface of that. “I know it hurt you, all those times I was late and it seemed like I’d forgotten about you. But I shouldn’t have tried to make my kink the fix for that. I should have known it wasn’t going to work. I should have dealt with the fact that I let work be what made me feel good instead of putting life in perspective.”
“I could have just showed up and taken you home.” Navin reached across the table again. His fingers were warm against the back of Marquis’s hand. “I didn’t feel like I deserved to, but I should have. Dev’s right, I should be grateful that you work so hard. It’s a good thing, and I know you love your job. I didn’t have the confidence to frame it that way, that it meant you’d work that hard for us, to take care of us, if we were together.”
Marquis turned his hand over to cup Navin’s fingers in his palm. He wanted so much more contact than that, but he’d take what he could get. It had been so long since he’d had even this to connect him to Navin.
“I love my job. I can’t stop wanting to do well at it. But I want—wanted—to do well with you too.”
“You don’t have to do well with me.” Navin shook his head vigorously. Marquis loved it when his curls got a little unruly. “Not like that. We had to do well together, and we didn’t. Neither of us actually dealt with our problems—you getting lost in your work because it’s what makes you feel normal, me feeling like I don’t matter and never trying to fix it myself. We can do better.”
“Well, whoever you do better with is going to be very lucky.” It stung a little as Marquis said it, but he wanted Navin to be happy, even if it wasn’t with him. “I’m sorry you ever felt you didn’t matter because of anything I did. You’re fantastic. I’ve been crazy about you since you laughed yourself sick that time I tried your favorite vindaloo.”
That got a chuckle out of Navin. “That was what did it? I mean, it was some spicy vindaloo, but I didn’t think it caused brain damage.”
“You’ve never seen yourself really laugh.” It got Marquis in the chest every time, the toss of Navin’s hair, the gleam in his eyes, the flash of his white teeth, and the sound of his laughter. It was too rare. “I think I started falling in love with you then.”
“Marq.” Navin’s eyebrows shot up. “That was months ago.”
“What was I supposed to say? ‘Sorry I was late again tonight, I think I’m in love with you’?” Now that Marquis said it out loud, he could have done worse than admitting how he felt about Navin under such ridiculous circumstances, but only because the route he’d taken had ended their relationship. “I should have, but I kept fucking up and I was going to lose you and I didn’t deserve to say it anyway.”
“You’re a bad judge of what you deserve . . . said the pot to the kettle.” Navin’s mouth twisted wryly. “You say whoever I do better with is going to be lucky. Marq, I don’t want to do better with someone else. I want to do better with you. For you.”
“Really?” Marquis wasn’t sure he was awake right now except that he hadn’t even dared to dream about Navin taking him back. “I want that too, Navin.”
“All of you. Even the parts you keep trying to hide.” Navin closed his hand on Marquis’s and brought it to his mouth. His kiss was soft against Marquis’s knuckles. “I like those parts. If you want to share them with me again.”
“And if I screw up and I’m late?” No, Marquis wasn’t going to act like things were all better now. Not this time. “I mean: when I screw up and I’m late?”
“If I really want you, I’ll come and get you.” Navin’s grin was the wicked one that made Marquis hot under the collar and below the belt. “Just don’t be late to Dev’s birthday party, okay?”
“I promise.” Marquis was sure he could do that much. Navin deserved it and so did he. “I can’t wait to meet the family.”
Navin checked his watch. Dev and Sunita would be here in half an hour, and there was no sign of Marquis. Navin peered up and down the sidewalk in both directions, as though he could see Marquis coming through the thick willow trees that lined the edge of the golf club parking lot. After a fruitless moment of searching, he took out his phone to text Marquis.
Are you on the way? He breathed slowly, forcing himself to calm down. Marquis would be here.
“Navi?”
Navin spun around to face his mother, feeling all of seven years old again. Guiltily, he put the phone away.
“What are you doing out here? Are you smoking? Just when I think Amrit might stop.” She straightened his tie with a quick jerk, then patted his cheek. She always went easier on him than the other two. “I thought maybe I could be done smelling that terrible stench on my children.”
“Not smoking, Mummy.” Navin held up his clammy hands to show her. “Just. I’m waiting on Marquis.” Waiting while his stomach tried to digest itself with anxiety. He knew Marquis was going to show up. He did. Just . . . this was a big deal.
“This is your boyfriend?” Mummy crossed her arms under her bosom and peered up at him with laser-beam intensity. “The one you never let us see? Are you ashamed of your family, Navin?”
“No, Mummy.” That was the last thing Navin was feeling. “You know he works very hard. He’s an architect and he has a lot of important clients. But he’ll be here.” Navin was proud of Marquis, of the work he did. He just hoped Marquis actually decided to show up tonight. No, not hoped. Marquis would show up—or Navin would go get him.
Mummy narrowed her eyes and searched Navin’s face a moment longer. “Architect,” she said thoughtfully. “And hardworking, puts his job first. I like him.” She dismissed Navin with a wave and turned to go with a swirl of purple sari silk. “Tell me when he gets here.”
“Yes, Mummy.”
Rather than letting worry consume him—he was working on that—Navin strode toward the parking lot, intent on collecting Marquis even if that meant hopping in the car and driving to Marquis’s office, making himself late for the party in the process. At least they’d be late together. On cue, his phone vibrated in his pocket.
Just got off the freeway. At that intersection with the long light. Sorry, didn’t want to text while I was moving.
Thanks. Marquis was almost here, then. And don’t wor
ry. You getting here safely is most important.
Navin exhaled as his stomach settled. It was a long walk to the parking lot, and knowing Marquis was coming, Navin let himself enjoy it. The idea that he’d almost missed out on the chance to introduce Marquis to his family made his throat tight. “Almost” was the most important word there. He and Marquis had managed not to lose each other.
As he rounded the corner of the path surrounded by trees, headlights flickered through the branches. By the time he reached the parking lot, the lights had stopped. Marquis’s head and shoulders appeared over the tops of the cars between them, the glow from the decorative streetlamps overhead making the satin lapels of his tuxedo gleam.
Marquis turned and caught sight of Navin almost immediately. A smile curled Marquis’s lips. He was so handsome.
Navin had been smitten with him from the beginning—shallowly at first, of course. But he couldn’t help himself. Everything about Marquis made his heart skip a beat. Navin headed across the lot to meet him, trying his best to maintain a little reserve. He managed not to run, but barely.
Navin caught up with Marquis in the shadows at the base of the footpath. Marquis looked as though he was about to apologize reflexively, so Navin just took Marquis’s face in his hands and kissed him hard. Whatever Marquis was going to say got lost in kissing Navin in return.
“I’m on time?” Marquis asked when Navin kissed away from his mouth.
“You are, just. I was heading out to get you, if necessary.” Navin nipped Marquis’s ear sharply, and Marquis’s breath caught.
“I’m sorry. I should have been early this time, just so you wouldn’t have any stress.” Marquis nuzzled Navin’s throat, up under his jaw, offering apologetic little licks and kisses. “Can I make it up to you?”
“I think you should give me your phone.” Navin extended his hand.
“Yes, sir.” Marquis stepped back to get his phone out of his jacket, then offered it to Navin. “I did bring you a present as well. Sort of a present.”
“A present for me? It’s not my birthday.” Navin took the phone and slid it away next to his own.
“I know.” Marquis held out a small black velvet case. “It’s not really a present if I’m giving you what’s already yours.”
Navin opened it up to find that familiar gold chain inside—the one he’d returned to Marquis—with a new key on it: a small silver one that looked almost ornamental. For a moment, he wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“Is that . . .”
Marquis took one of Navin’s hands and pressed it to the front of his tuxedo pants. The outline of a cage was familiar, yet different. Even through the fine wool, Navin could tell this one was metal.
“. . . for me?”
“For you, Navin.” Marquis’s voice was rough with emotion. “Not as a solution. Just because I want you to have it. And me.” He let go of Navin’s hand to take the case from him. “May I help you put it on, sir?”
“I accept, and you may.” Navin gave him a kiss on the mouth before he turned to let Marquis put the chain around his neck and fasten it in back. “You’re wearing a real lock right now?”
“For a special occasion, yes, sir.” Marquis kissed the nape of his neck. “But even if I’m not, you can consider that the master key—to any lock I wear, to any rules you make for me. I trust you to keep it.”
“I promise to take my responsibilities seriously,” Navin said as Marquis carefully tucked the chain away under his shirt. Once it was settled, Navin turned and pulled Marquis close to kiss him again.
“And I will be on time when it’s vital. Sir.” Marquis nuzzled submissively under Navin’s ear and murmured, “I have to say, though, you coming and getting me has some appeal.”
“Oh?” Navin couldn’t stifle his delighted smile. “Talk.”
“It’s just hot.” Marquis drew away enough to give him a cheeky grin. “The idea of you coming to my job and taking me in hand. I would be very sorry I inconvenienced you. I could make it up to you in the car. And at home.”
“You’ve found a way to turn being late into getting laid,” Navin pointed out through his laughter. He kissed Marquis anyway. “You’re lucky I love you.”
“I am.” Marquis kissed him back, tender and pleading.
“Maybe you can be late on Friday,” Navin offered. He stroked Marquis’s cheek and traced Marquis’s lower lip with his thumb. “For old times’ sake.”
“It’d be my pleasure.” Marquis turned his head and brushed a whisper kiss over Navin’s palm. “Where to now?”
“We go inside. Otherwise I’m going to end up doing you in the bushes.” Navin checked his watch. It was hard to think of a reason that would be a bad idea. Except . . . “Dev should be here anytime now. Sunita doesn’t let him leave Mummy waiting. And then you behave yourself.” He looked Marquis over, then straightened his collar and tie—their kisses had left him in disarray. “And I get to show you off.”
Marquis hummed, a fresh smile dawning. “I’ll do whatever you want. Sir.”
We’d like to thank Advil, Tylenol, and our long-suffering partners for helping us through the lengthy process of writing and revising and rewriting and editing and . . . finishing this book.
Dedicated to everyone working on taking that next big step. Don’t linger. Leap.
The list didn’t change. Jon could see the whiteboard through the porch windows: bullet points written out in Alistair’s stupidly pretty cursive, black and stark and beautiful. Those rules governed the basics of his behavior, from eating to meds to when he should be in bed at night. Thanks to Alistair’s frequent absences for filming and promotion lately, Jon just about had those suckers memorized.
Usually he liked following them. For the most part they did exactly what Alistair had meant them to: they gave Jon a routine, a series of things to do that kept his day from devolving into a chaotic mess of introspection and lost time. Seeing them whenever he glanced in the kitchen prompted him to remember that Alistair wrote them out as a reminder of what they had, and to give him a way to obey even when they weren’t together. Usually they helped.
Today was not one of those times. Right now the rules felt more like a list of chores for a naughty child than guidance for a willing lover, and he was tempted—he was so, so tempted—to fuck off and ignore them. Just this once. As long as he followed the ones that required communication, Alistair would never know. How could he, when he was darting from press event to award ceremony to celebrity interview, so busy promoting Blessed Father that Jon hadn’t seen him for more than three days at a time since December?
But it wasn’t fair to think like that. Jon could have gone with Alistair on plenty of the trips. In fact, he was in demand for interviews himself, mostly because he never gave them and he had a reputation for difficulty that made every producer and publicist that much more determined to be the one to get him. He could see the article now: Playboy son of two renowned artists, Jon Jones had a wicked Cinderella story that saw him fall all the way to the bottom before he clawed his way back up to the top, battling through illness and addiction to critical triumph, thanks in part to Alistair Fraser’s influence.
The public wanted to see evidence of his gratitude. They wanted to wallow in his remorse. More than one paparazzo had gone out of their way to get into Jon’s face when he and Al were out together, snapping pictures and shouting questions. Screw them. Jon wasn’t an actor; he was the one writing the script. The only person who got to lay their expectations on him was Al, and he wasn’t here to enforce them in person because tonight was the Oscars. If there was one event Al had to be at this year, it was the Oscars. He was a nominee, after all.
But then, so was Jon.
Jon sighed as he finished his cigarette, out on the porch, of course, because neither of them wanted the smell of smoke in the house. He’d just earned an extra five swats for indulging, but he didn’t care; he needed the nicotine. He felt twitchy, too tight in his skin. He ground the butt into the ashtray and
stood up slowly, pleased that he’d gotten away with no nausea this time. Nausea was the one side effect he couldn’t shake of the HIV meds, even with seven years’ practice. The lasting consequences from years of sleepless nights and heavy drinking probably didn’t help the situation, but food and cigarettes, formerly two of his favorite things, were now constant struggles in the disputed territory that was his body.
Jon headed back inside, locked the sliding glass door, and then lowered the blinds. Their house was two hours north of Los Angeles in a quiet, wooded area with few close neighbors, but he didn’t like to take chances with their privacy. There had been too many embarrassing photographic “revelations” over the years to get complacent just because Al was gone. He walked over to the whiteboard and put another check under the Vices column. Frankly, he’d argued vices should be changed to “indulgences” and mostly forgiven, because didn’t everyone deserve to indulge every now and then? Alistair hadn’t bought it though.
He glanced at the grandfather clock on the far wall. It was an enormous, ridiculous thing, with a clanging chime that never failed to wake him up when he didn’t have Alistair home to exhaust him, but Al loved the damn thing. Nearly four o’clock. Plenty of time to take the dog for a walk before the show started. Just because he wasn’t attending the Oscars didn’t mean he didn’t want to watch them, especially since his movie was up for four awards.
“Brutus!” The heavy-bodied black lab darted up from where he’d been napping on his bed and trotted over. “Walk time, dog o’ war.” He patted Brutus on the head and smiled. He still wasn’t quite over Alistair’s insistence on naming the dog Brutus. Alistair was an utter Shakespeare nerd.
