7. Fischer

7

FISCHER

D ivorce is one of those things you never stop paying for. Especially when you let your ex keep a key to the apartment after she moves out. I stare at the fresh, jagged hole in my living room wall and shake my head. Item number twenty-three to do tomorrow—call a locksmith.

In Nicole's defense, she left a note.

Sorry about the wall. Send me the bill!

Needing an ally in my misery, I text Matthew. There's no better way to say I'm home than by acting like we've been seeing each other every day for the last year—even though we've only kept in touch through emails.

She ripped the flat screen out of the stud.

I pocket my phone and take a look around the rest of the apartment to see if there's any other damage that needs repairing.

But it looks like she just wanted the TV. I have a feeling this is the clumsy work of Hunter, the young cameraman she's currently seeing. Matthew pings me back with a text.

Matty

In this economy? I'm not surprised.

I laugh. I should go downstairs and see him. I'm eager to lay eyes on him and make sure he's doing as well as his emails make it sound, but I don't want to disturb him while he's working.

Meanwhile, I reacquaint myself with the classic six Nicole and I bought shortly after we got married—our effort at creating a perfect home for our unplanned family of three. It's awfully quiet these days.

We officially separated two years ago when our son was four. She'd wanted to see other people, and I was off in a war zone for another four-month assignment.

When the divorce was finalized this past November, it was a wake-up call. Divorce, like war, puts a lot of things in perspective. Seeing families torn apart by death, famine, inequality and worse had me rearranging my value system. There I was—forty-one years old, alone, an absentee dad whose work had taken over my life. It was past time to come home and find a healthier balance.

Now that I'm finally here, my brain, as usual, is a junkyard of unexamined emotions, some with sharper edges than others.

I run a hand through my hair and open my phone to a grocery delivery app. The phone rings shortly after I place my order, and I stare at the incoming caller.

I contemplate sending the call to voicemail, but wind up answering on the fourth ring. "Hey, Dick," I say to my father.

I'm not being an asshole. It's actually his name. He's old. Born back in the days where Dick was an okay thing to call someone.

"Hey, Son ," he says pointedly. "Just checking in."

"Did Matty call you?"

"We were texting. It came up. You need a drywall guy?"

"I can find one."

"Are you still planning to hire an assistant?" he asks.

"It's on the to-do list."

"Why couldn't she just get a new TV?" Dick is as baffled as I am.

"She doesn't like learning new technology," I say.

"I'm seventy-four years old. Even I can figure out these smart TVs these days."

"Well, I'll have you over when I'm setting up the new one, then."

"When are you seeing Vaughn?" he asks, which, I suspect, is the real reason he's calling.

"This weekend. And before you ask, I have plans with him, so you two will have to wait your turn."

"We understand. We understand. I'm glad you'll get a chance to reconnect with him."

I try not to laugh. Reconnect? More like re-introduce. I'll be lucky if my own son recognizes me when my face isn't boxed into a phone screen.

"But if you want to stop by for dinner…"

I sigh. Loudly.

"Backing off," he says. "What about I change the subject? You feeling good about being behind an anchor desk?"

After nine years of being an international correspondent, I'll now be anchoring a show—in prime time, no less. Given the expense of divorce and the ever-rising cost of living in Manhattan, it was an offer I couldn't refuse, especially with the physical state my previous position left me in.

I was doing great for a while, but over the last year, arthritis has set in on my injured side, and my mobility has suffered accordingly. I'm now forced to walk with a cane, which made it increasingly difficult to work in the field.

Still, my reasons for coming home aren't strictly related to my leg. I want to settle into the next phase of my life—be the father my son deserves, even if I couldn't be the husband my wife wanted.

Travel, trauma, and guilt have defined the last several years of my life. While I can't claim a soldier's experience—I haven't fought or killed anyone—I've witnessed tragedies I'll never be able to erase from my memories. My deepest hope is that offloading what I've learned about the world helps. The only way I know to do that is through writing—through work. Whether it's with an extensively researched article, an opinion piece, or the book I'm nearly done with, getting my feelings out of my head and into words feels like all I can do to piece myself back together, even if it can't change the world.

Now, with a voice in prime time news, I'll be able to reach more people.

"I'm looking forward to the job itself. Being recognized more often…not sure how I feel about that." I'm an extremely private person, and I'm already recognized more often than I like. I'm not an A-list celebrity by any means, but in this town, my left-leaning network is popular. Having groceries delivered is one way I can maintain some privacy, but like Dick reminded me, having an assistant to help me manage my social media and run errands would give me the time and space to work on my writing on the days I can't see Vaughn.

"I hope you're still able to take some time for yourself."

"Believe me, I plan to do that, too," I tell him, and he does not need to know the details.

"You'll let us know if you need anything? We're always here if you need help with Vaughn."

"I got it," I tell Dick, trying not to snap with annoyance. I get that my return to town is going to severely cut into their time with their grandson since they've been acting as my parental proxy while I've been away, but they'll need to lower their expectations, at least for the time being.

"And we'd love to have you for dinner soon," Dick adds, as if he's just remembering he hasn't seen me in months.

I offer him a non-committal hum. "Maybe Matty and I can come out sometime. Once I touch base with him, I'll see when he's free."

"You're welcome to come alone, you know?"

I don't like going alone. As the adopted one, I find Dick and Donna's singular attention awkward. I know they care about me. Love me, even. But it's complicated. I was their only son for thirteen years, and they adopted me as an infant, but I was a major asshole once the twins were born, burning bridges left and right. My long-suffering adopted parents have since been like a two-person bridge building crew while I stand on my side and watch them in curiosity without lifting a finger to help, unable to understand the point of all their effort.

These weekly check ins, which I guess will be on the phone now that I'm home, are all the attention I need. "I'll check my calendar."

Dick chuckles. "I'll let you go, then. I'm sure you have a lot of work to do getting settled in."

I do, or at least—I can find some. I let him end the call.

Matty hasn't texted me again, and I assume he's busy.

Since Nicole and I separated, my brother became my closest friend again, even after all the time away and the ways our lives have grown apart, but my old college roommate Gibson is the only option to distract me tonight since Matthew's working.

Gibson Hayes owns The Eastmoor where I live and was the one who gave me and Nicole the heads up when the apartment became available. When he isn't out making million dollar real estate deals in New York, he's managing another asset of his—a club only a privileged few know about.

I freshen up before heading out. It's nine-thirty when I leave the building to make my way a few blocks up, which means I'll finally see Matty.

I'm nervously looking forward to it. Like I told him in probably eighty percent of my emails—I miss him.

He glances up with a practiced smile when I leave the vestibule and make the right turn into the lobby, but his expression immediately changes into a look I don't know if I can describe. Part confusion, part relief, part…fondness?

He stands, and I give myself a second to take him in.

He looks great, but I don't know why I'm surprised. His dark, wavy hair is tamed away from his face, giving him an air of professionalism. But his stormy blue eyes speak to his untamed spirit. His rose gold skin glows with radiant youth, and I can't help my growing smile. "Hey, Matty."

His responding grin lights up his too handsome face. "Come here," he says, engulfing me in a hug I gladly return.

My heart jolts, like an engine roaring to life. He's solid and warm and real . The heat of his chest against mine grounds me in a sense of home. I immediately feel welcome and wanted. The two things Dick tried to convey and what I've longed for most. The way I feel about my brother is complicated, but being with him is the easiest thing in the world.

"So fucking good to see you," I tell him.

He squeezes me tighter. "You, too."

My eyes close, and I rearrange my grip, noting the contours of his back beneath his suit.

"You smell like you have big plans," he says.

"Is it too much?" I ask.

"I didn't say that."

"You look great," I tell him.

"So do you."

We're still hugging, and I'm not sure he got that good of a look at me, but I'll take the compliment. Eventually, we separate slightly, and he assesses me like he's studying me for a portrait. "Welcome home," he says.

My grin flickers again. "Thanks."

"We should find some time to catch up."

"I'd be offended if we didn't," I say.

His hands fall to my upper arms, and I mimic the movement, reluctant to let go of him. To say I'm starved for his touch would be a severe understatement.

"Where are you headed?" he asks

"Up the block. Gibson's," I say, making it sound like I'm going to visit a friend. "You gonna be around in the morning?"

He drops my arms and takes a small step away, averting his gaze. "No, I'm off in half an hour, but I have plans. Free this weekend, though."

"I have Vaughn."

He nods. "That's okay. Unless you want him all to yourself, which I completely understand."

"No!" I say, probably too quickly. I only didn't think Matthew wouldn't want my six-year old bouncing off the walls if he'd rather be hanging out with an adult. "Please, by all means. Hang out with us for as long as you can take it."

He grins. "Yeah. Sure. I look forward to it."

"Good." I nod, managing a tight smile. While we're by no means distant, we'll likely never be as close as we were when I was recovering from my injury. I'll now have to make do with a sliver of him when I once had his complete attention. But, of course, while my life withered and died in the years I was away, his went on. I refuse to get sentimental about it. It is what it is. "Next time I'll come out to your place," I tell him.

"No—you're not allowed. I just started a new project, and I don't want you to see it before it's done."

I lift an eyebrow. "I'm intrigued."

"That's the idea. Anyway, I'm sure we can find some time next week when we're both free. Do a boys' night or whatever."

"Well. You know where I live."

He grins. "Doorman joke. Love it."

"It's great to see you," I tell him.

He nods. "I'm glad you're home."

"Same here."

He walks me to the door without another word and gives me a pat on the back as I leave the Eastmoor.

Two blocks up, I give my name to another doorman who uses a special key card to call an elevator up to The Penthouse.

"The Penthouse" is a bit of a euphemism. It's the informal name for a club with no real name.

The elevator doors slide open on a velvet-walled foyer. An ebony-skinned Black woman in a white satin corset, fishnet hose, and thigh high leather boots with stiletto heels greets me. Her eyes glitter like jewels over high cheekbones and a plush, red mouth. She's giving naughty bride tonight. I like it. With a sly smile, she opens a door to her right. "Good evening, Mr. Elliot," she says with a full appraisal of me.

"Stella," I say with a nod.

She takes a glance at my cane—and I catch the flicker of concern. Not quite pity, but it's enough to remind me I've changed since the last time I was here. "Enjoy your night," she says softly.

I enter The Penthouse.

My old friend Gibson is an interesting man. He's been married since college graduation to his high school sweetheart, Marianne. They have no children, and he's never once disparaged her or his marriage—not to me anyway. But then…there's this .

Possibly the most elite sex club in Manhattan. The dues are exorbitant, the members range from moguls and publishers to politicians and fashion designers. The employees are the highest paid escorts in the city.

Gibson is sinfully wealthy and highly connected. He owns several properties on the Upper East Side and even more on Wall Street.

In college, he majored in finance and aced his coursework. In his free time, however, he and Marianne sought out kinky people and places. Their adventures in town were my favorite bedtime stories. But in the handful of times I've come to his club over the last two years, I've never seen Marianne here.

Along the velvet-draped back wall, I spot my old friend sitting in an armchair like a king keeping watch over his kingdom. While I know the wall behind him must be lined with windows, no outside light filters in during club hours. It could be ten a.m. or ten p.m.

He stands with a smile when he sees me. Gibson is a white man of eastern European descent. He's dark-haired, dark-eyed, and fair-skinned. He's also six-four and built. At six feet, I'm not short, but I've always felt puny around Gibson. I get a hearty handshake and a clap on the back. It's then that I notice his pet.

This is a new development.

A petite redhead wearing an outfit comprised solely of leather straps showcasing all her private areas, kneels next to his armchair with her hands folded on her bare knees. She glances up at me like a mischievous kitten, and I have to drag my attention back to the matter at hand.

"Welcome home," Gibson says.

"Thanks. It's good to be back. Good crowd tonight," I say.

He gives my face a friendly pat before stepping away. "What are you in the mood for?"

I shrug, not sure yet. "How's Marianne?"

"Beautiful. Brilliant."

"Indulgent."

"I have no idea what you mean. Join me a minute. Take in the revelry."

Revelry, debauchery… Semantics.

I sit in the adjacent chair as he reclaims his seat. His hand moves to stroke his redhead submissive's hair. She's between us now, and she leans into his touch like a needy cat.

A drink is delivered to me by a young, beautiful Asian man in a shoulder harness and a leather jock. He has the face of an angel—flawless, pale skin, large dark eyes, and a jawline that could cut glass. But the rest of him is even more distracting. Every body here begs a second glance, and this man's is no exception. He's scarred with rope burns on his arms, thighs, and back. My cock gives an uncomfortable twitch, but I chalk it up to the charged sexual atmosphere rather than this one specimen in particular, pretty as he is.

It's been a decade since I've been with a man, and I didn't like the person I was then. With effort, I avert my gaze from the server's bare, sculpted ass and turn toward the main attraction.

The focal point of the club is a sunken area in the center. Rectangular in shape, the size of a small swimming pool, it's ringed with three, wide steps that form a sort of arena—an amphitheater. It's all ancient times in here. Caligula would approve.

A huge, custom-made leather cushion creates the floor of the "pit." At the moment, a middle-aged man is receiving a flogging from a masked Dom in latex pants. Directly in my line of sight, a woman I know quite well is splayed on the steps. Her red dress is hiked up to reveal parted legs and a bare pussy, which she's masturbating sensually. I stare at her a moment—she hasn't noticed me—her focus clearly on the flogging.

Several other couples and groups are also gathered around to watch the show which will change as the night goes on. Someone will eventually start fucking either in the pit or on the steps, and then, likely an orgy will ensue. Every night I've ever been here ends in an orgy.

Gibson is the Dionysus of the Upper East Side. I've never understood what he gets out of it since I've never known him to participate. The pet is the closest thing I've ever seen to him showing a particular proclivity—but I know better than to ask. He's notoriously tight-lipped about his own preferences. All I know is he loves his wife, and he appreciates kink.

I'm not one to judge. The last few times I've been to town since Nicole and I separated, I've spent more evenings here than not, gorging myself on sin and sex—just like old times. I'm not proud of it, but it is what it is. Loneliness is a a special kind of torture, and being touched—even by someone being paid to do it, goes a long way to keeping me sane.

"Nicole took the TV for some reason," I tell Gibson as I scan the room again.

"Ah. Well, I have a few shows you could watch…"

"Ripped it right out of the stud."

"Are you still looking to hire an assistant? I may know someone."

When your entire existence is basically a favor someone did for you, you might get a complex about asking for favors, taking handouts, or receiving gifts of any kind. So, I doubt I'll take Gibson up on his offer, but I can't deny I'll need an extra set of hands and another twelve hours in my day with this new anchor job and a son to make up for lost time with.

"Are they good at social media and picking up dry cleaning?"

He grins. "Of course. Among other things. Would you like me to send him over, or will you want to interview him first?"

"I'll let you know."

The woman in red orgasms with a sharp cry, and the man being flogged seems to like it, a shudder overtaking him before his load hits the mat. He's been watching her, too, which has me wondering if they came here together. The Dom moves around him, allowing the sub to kiss his feet.

The woman in red lives in my building, and last I knew, she was still a close friend of my ex. I watch as she scans the other couples on the amphitheater seats. The same waiter I'd checked out passes her, and she takes a glass of champagne from his tray.

Gibson goes on, "You sound tense. And you look like you need to get your dick sucked."

I glare at him. "Did you want to watch?"

"Would you mind?"

"I think I might."

His grin is wicked. "You should try a public scene one of these days. Loosen up some. It would be good for you."

I snort. "I enjoy my privacy."

"It's always the same old thing with you, and you're more than you think you are."

There's too much to unpack in that statement. "Who's the most efficient?" I ask him instead. I'd like to get off, but I don't want to be here all night.

Gibson looks down at his companion. "Pet, who gives the best head?"

"Emilia, sir," she says softly.

I sigh. It's not that I don't trust "Pet's" judgment, but I've never gotten a good blow job from a woman. I gave Nicole three chances. After that, I never let her mouth near my cock again.

Gibson seems troubled by her answer, too. "I expected you to say yourself."

"But my mouth is so tiny," she pouts. "So tight."

Gibson grins at me.

"How's her pussy?" I ask instead.

"Pet…answer my friend's question."

"It's small. Everyone says I feel like a virgin," she says softly.

Gibson lifts her chin, turning her to look up at him. "You wouldn't lie to Daddy, would you?"

Eyes wide and innocent, she shakes her head.

Daddy . The more you know…

At any rate, they've succeeded in making me want to fuck her. But before I can take them up on the implied offer, red chiffon floods my field of vision. "Hello, you."

I look up and meet my downstairs neighbor's heavily lined green eyes. "Raven," I say. "It's been awhile." It would be impolite to acknowledge that she's in this place. We all signed our fortunes away on our membership contracts. Confidentiality at any cost is the primary rule of the club.

"Would you like to catch up?" she asks, pale cheeks flushed and eyes bright. She looks like she's ready for anything tonight—exactly what I'm in the mood for.

Gibson and I share a look, and I give her a nod.

Standing, I take hold of my cane and let Ravenna Gallo lead the way to a private room off the main floor.