31. Gibson

31

GIBSON

T here are very few reasons I would willingly prevent Christian from unzipping my pants, but Fischer is one of them.

When I see his contact lighting up my phone screen, I immediately reach for it, even as Christian kisses my neck and rubs his hand over my crotch in full view of the entire club.

Marianne is bound to find out about us after tonight, but I can’t bring myself to care. I can’t say no to him.

But Fischer wouldn’t call after eleven p.m. for no reason, so I answer the phone. “Hey, what’s up?” I ask.

“She’s suing for full custody,” he says, sounding furious. “Accusing me of abuse. Abuse! ”

I move Christian’s hand off my lap as I sit up straight and strain to hear my old friend’s voice over the club’s music. “Nicole? Why?”

“I don’t fucking know.”

“I’ll make some calls,” I tell him. “I’m on my way over.”

A few days ago, Matthew Cannon—Fischer’s brother by adoption—the one I saw making love to him in the room a hundred feet away— took a sudden leave of absence. I’d thought nothing of it since I don’t make the schedule, but I wonder if this is related.

“What’s going on?” Christian asks as I pull up my text thread with Marianne.

The Upper East Side is a small world, and while Fischer’s ex Nicole no longer lives here, she did for long enough that someone might know what’s happening. And if anyone can find that person, it’s my wife who knows and loves Fischer as much as I do.

I tap out a text to her explaining the situation and asking her to find out what she can.

To my surprise, she responds quickly. She must be between “appointments.” Her message is quick and to the point. I’m on it. Talk soon.

“I’m sorry,” I tell Christian, who’s still waiting for an answer. “I have to go. My friend needs help.”

“Which friend?” he asks, a bit sharply, like the drinks he’s consumed suddenly evaporated from his bloodstream.

“Fischer. Elliot. You don’t know him. He was my college roommate.”

“Fischer Elliot the news anchor? Of course I know him.”

“You watch cable news?”

“Yeah.”

“When?” I ask, sucked back into Christian’s vortex just like that.

“Like all the time,” he says. “You guys are just friends?”

“Why would you ask that when I just told you?”

“Because he’s really good looking.”

Is he, now?

“He’s straight?” Christian asks.

I grin. “Are you jealous?”

“No,” he says too fast.

“Okay. So, you’ll let me go see him for a little while?”

“I’m not your keeper. I’m just curious. ”

“Sure you are,” I say, still amused because this is almost exactly how I reacted when he told me he was having drinks with Silas Saturday night. They’d stayed out past midnight, and I’d required some assurances when he got home. I’d couched it in concerns about safe sex, but he’d asked if I wanted to put a “Property Of” stamp on his ass.

I’d been tempted, but his ass still looks taken as fuck. His cock, however…

“Are you coming back here later, or would you rather come to my place when you get home?” he asks.

“Your place,” I tell him, leaning in for a kiss. “Definitely.”

He’s satisfied, and we stand, leaving The Penthouse together after stopping by the bar where I grab an unopened bottle of vodka, Fischer’s drink of choice.

On the elevator ride down, I take the opportunity to cage Christian against the wall and kiss him better. “What’ll you do while I’m gone?” I ask, bringing our hips together and moving to inhale his neck.

“Write, I guess,” he says, and I love the breathless sound the words make.

“How is the writing?”

“Good. I think I’ve got a decent collection going,” he says as I suck a mouthful of his vanilla-scented flesh.

He inhales sharply and grinds our cocks together. “Now I gotta go make blue balls sound poetic.”

I chuckle against his skin as the elevator comes to a soft stop. I let him go and adjust myself in my pants before stepping into the lobby. He doesn’t even bother, just turns the corner for his apartment and gives me a wave goodbye.

He makes me fucking crazy. One second he’s the Spanish Inquisition, and the next he’s walking off without a backward glance. I adore him. I mean, I’ve always liked him. But now I can’t get enough. I want every thought in that gorgeous head of his. The last two days, I haven’t been able to see nearly as much of him as I wanted. Or use him, either. But tonight I planned a scene, and now it has to wait. Disappointed doesn’t begin to cover it.

As I turn down the block to head to one of my other properties, The Eastmoor, where Fischer lives, I try to re-focus on my friend and what could have happened. I always thought he got lucky in his divorce considering he was rarely in town for the duration of the marriage, but Nicole seemed like a decent enough person. Certainly not someone who would snatch her son from his father’s arms for no reason. But abuse is impossible to believe. Not even if I really stretch my imagination, add alcohol and a horrific day—Fischer is nothing if not incredibly capable of keeping his emotions on a tight leash.

That’s one of the reasons I think about what I saw in that glass room at least once or twice a day. The burning heat—the passion. The two of them scorched the air, and Fischer was completely vulnerable. The guy who always had a snide joke for everything, who walked through war zones like they were playgrounds, who after nearly twenty years of friendship still tries to greet me with a handshake.

I never saw it coming—his falling in love like that .

The night doorman whose name I don’t know but who obviously knows who I am, tries to look more alert when I open the door for myself and step into the lobby. “Mr. Hayes. How can I help you?”

“Just here to see a friend. He’s expecting me. Eleven-seventeen.”

“Yes, sir of course.” He beats me to the elevator and pushes the button. He’s young and massive with golden brown skin and large, dark eyes. His hair is tied back in a very small topknot while the sides are shaved. A gold stud in his left ear glints in the dim vestibule lights.

“Remind me of your name?” I ask.

“Marcus, sir. And it’s okay. We haven’t met. ”

He has a great smile. I swear I have the best looking doormen in the city. Lee Vega, who owns a few other buildings on the block, gets all the old men. He thinks they’re more reliable, but I like hiring the younger ones. For one, they’re far more likely to stay awake all night, but if lifetime hospitality isn’t their goal, it’s a decent living in the city when you’re just getting started, and easy enough if you have other dreams to chase.

“Are you helping with coverage?” I ask.

“Yes. Any chance I get. Saving up for college.”

“Excellent. Marcus…?”

“Longoria.”

“Got it.” The elevator arrives, and he steps aside to gesture me in. A formality I’ve always enjoyed. “It was good to see you.”

“You, too, sir.”

On the ride to the eleventh floor, I hear from Marianne. Her text is more in depth, and I read it twice before I knock on Fischer’s door.

Marianne:

According to Stef Gallo, her daughter says Fischer is gay, partying a lot. Men in his apartment, etc. The daughter Raven lives at Eastmoor. Slept with him apparently???Belongs to the club. Friends with Nicole. Assuming something got miscommunicated? Lmk what you find out, and I’ll keep digging.

I thumbs up the message once I have a clearer picture and knock on my friend’s door.

Fischer is not half as well put together as the doorman. “So,” I say. “I made a few calls. You want to tell me what the hell you did to piss off the Gallos?”

“The Gallos? Are you fucking kidding me? Ravenna did this?”

“She seems like the type who likes to stir a pot,” I say. I’m familiar with some of her more salacious escapades at my club. She’s a brat and proud of it .

Fischer runs his hands through his tangled curls and stomps his cane against the floor. “I am such a fucking idiot.”

“Settle down. Let me grab some glasses, and you can tell me what you know.”

We take the vodka to the terrace, and he explains that he knows almost nothing—just that Nicole filed paperwork for full custody of their six-year old son, alleging abuse and neglect, regarding which, he’s as mystified as I am.

Information from Marianne continues to filter in. It’s not much, but it gives me some avenues to pursue in the morning. For now, though, I need to make sure Fischer isn’t going to do something stupid—like try and talk to Nicole himself. I establish his lawyer is good, but so is Nicole’s. We talk about his last few visits with his son Vaughn, which inevitably leads to the topic of Matthew.

I get that whole story, too, and it’s not as alarming as it sounds in terms of their legal status as brothers. What it is, however, is sad. And it adds a layer of complication that will make solving this problem harder without turning it into a full blown scandal. Fischer’s minor celebrity doesn’t help.

While I’d like to talk about how to neutralize Ravenna Gallo, Fischer’s primary concern is how to keep seeing Matthew.

“You’re in deep,” I say when he totally breaks down.

“How does it go? It happened slowly then all at once?”

“Something like that,” I say, reminded of Christian. Nothing, then everything. Or nearly.

Though, what Fischer’s going through as it dawns on him that he can’t be with Matthew—at least for the foreseeable future—reminds me of Marianne. Twenty years of pain compressed into one intense moment of pure agony. I scoot my chair closer to his and put a hand on his shoulder. He rests one of his hands on top of mine and looks out at the park, eyes shining with tears. He takes a deep, ragged breath. “Thank you,” he whispers .

“It’s worth this,” I tell him, remembering the kisses they shared—the love. “It’s worth all of it.”

Christian is at the front desk when I return to Gramercy. He glances at me, holds my gaze a moment, and looks down at the computer on his desk. I cock my head to the side, certain I’m hallucinating from lack of sleep.

Gramercy has an automatic door, so I don’t necessarily expect him to hop up and walk me to the elevator. His job is to acknowledge me, let me know if I’ve had any deliveries, and smile.

I get nothing.

“Are you pouting?”

“I’m not jealous, and I am not pouting,” he says without glancing up. “You know your way to the elevator. You own the building.”

“Good morning?”

“Oh, is it morning?” He whips his hair out of his eyes and finally looks up at me. “I barely noticed.”

“Christian.”

He flinches. Noticeably. It takes me aback.

“Aren’t you supposed to be working for me this morning?” It’s Wednesday. I think.

“I’ll be up at nine. But I did want to let you know I picked up a few overnights at The Eastmoor next week, so I’ll need next Wednesday off.”

“You—why? Am I not paying you enough?”

“Day shifts are easier to cover, I don’t mind pitching in a few late shifts down there.”

“ I might.”

“I won’t be very helpful next Wednesday if I don’t sleep Tuesday night. Anyway, you’ll see today since I got about an hour’s worth last night. ”

“Oh, Jesus.” I sigh. This shit is exhausting. “Should I have texted?”

“I’ll let you think about that,” he says, turning back to his screen. Four people leave the building as I stand there staring at him, and he doesn’t look up once.

“Why are you on the desk if you’re not going to do your job, and you’re supposed to be working for me today?”

“Julio has a dentist appointment, and I’m tired. If you’ll stop talking to me, I might be able to focus on what I’m supposed to be doing.”

“You know what? Make it noon. I need a nap.”

“Fine. Same.”

“Great.”

I stalk toward the elevator and jab the up button, waiting for it to arrive with my hands folded and my head down. I happen to see the time. Just after seven. Breakfast may not even be out yet.

Good. I drank half a bottle of vodka over eight hours. I’m nauseated, have a terrible headache, and I’m exhausted.

I have no doubt Marianne will want to know how Fischer is, or whether I have any new information, but I don’t feel like talking anymore. On top of that, Fischer’s pain feels private, and I’m too unguarded this morning to speak cautiously.

The Gramercy elevator is like a rocket compared to the ancient one at The Eastmoor, and I’m at my door in no time. I’m already over what happened with Christian—I’ll deal with him later. All I need is a shower and my bed.

A jolt of adrenaline hits me, however, when Avery slips out my door with her blonde hair in a haphazard bun and face free of makeup. It surprises me, yes—a person exiting my home at this hour. But my already upset stomach lurches when my mind gets to work on what I’m seeing.

“Oh my God, you scared me,” she says, putting her hand over her heart. She’s wearing a low-cut cocktail dress and heels. No wedding ring .

“Avery,” I say cooly, swallowing bile.

“Marianne and I were out late. I hope you don’t mind that I slept over.”

“Why would I?” I ask.

Her smile flickers and then is gone. “Everything okay?”

“Perfect.” I nod toward my door. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course. And thank you. Marianne told me how you helped.”

I can’t. I refuse to do this. I walk around her, enter my apartment, and shut the door behind me. When the door closes, Marianne, who is walking back to her bedroom in her white silk robe, glances over her shoulder and startles. “You’re just now getting back?”

I stare blankly at her, not saying a word. The question roaring through my head is Why are you even here?

And her answer, which rings just as loudly—Why are you ?

“How’s Fischer?” she asks after I’ve been silent for several seconds.

“We’ll speak later.”

“Gibson,” she starts as I cross the living room toward my hallway. “Gibson!”

I stop, allowing her to catch up to me.

“What the hell is going on with you?” she asks.

“I’ve been up all night. I’m exhausted.”

“Is he okay?”

“He’s devastated.”

“I’ll figure it out,” she assures me. “Tell him not to worry. I know exactly how to deal with the Gallos.”

Inwardly, I cringe. She touches my arm lightly. Or, I should say—the fabric of my sleeve. “Talk soon?”

I nod and keep walking.