6. Gibson

6

GIBSON

C hristian puts me on edge, and I can’t explain it any better than that. I don’t know whether to try and impress him with my knowledge of Italy or sit back and shut the fuck up so he can take it in on his own. For some reason, I’m afraid of screwing up this trip for him , when I’m the one he’s supposed to be impressing.

And I am impressed. The flight was good—productive. I have full confidence in his ability to adequately play the role of my assistant for the next few days, but beneath it all, there’s an unease inside me that won’t quit. Rome, for me, is typically a reprieve from my life at Gramercy Place—both of the lives I lead there. Neither one of which I feel entirely like myself in, but the truth is, I’ve lost the plot. Outside of business dealings, I’m mostly driftwood, going wherever the waves of Marianne’s whims take me, a servant of my schedule and obligations.

As I mentioned to Christian outside, my need for a drink is likely related to my inability to relax and allow myself to unwind. I think I am trying to impress him, and there’s no need for that. Rome is impressive enough without my babbling on about random historical facts I happen to know .

Our bags are already in my top floor suite. I rarely allow the use of my Italian residence to anyone, so it’s been untouched since my last trip, other than staff who’ve cleaned, put fresh linens on the beds, and stocked the kitchen. There are three bedrooms, and I show Christian to one with a view and a private terrace.

He takes a look around the ample space, his gaze skimming past the Baroque-style headboard and other furniture. The room has an en suite and television, a writing area, and a reading nook. My room is similar.

The third bedroom isn’t as well-appointed, and serves another purpose entirely.

Christian walks to the veranda doors, opens them, and steps outside. “Holy shit. I can see St. Peter’s.”

“Take your time,” I tell him. “I’m going to freshen up, and if you’d like, I’ll have drinks and food in the living room.”

“Thank you,” he says over his shoulder, and I leave him to it.

I message Marianne when I arrive in my own bedroom to let her know we landed safely. I send a similar message to my Italian partners. After a shower and a change of clothes, I pour myself my first drink—whiskey neat. The first sip burns my throat, and I let my shoulders drop. I allow a deeper breath as I, too, stare down at the historic piazza.

A new message pops up on my phone.

Carlo

Looking forward to the gift of your presence tonight in the dungeon. Ciao, Carlo.

Carlo. The Dungeon.

Prigione Sotteranea is the name of the club here. It translates to underground prison. I wouldn’t call the club in New York a kink club—it’s more of a sex club where some of my clients occasionally experiment with kink. The dungeon is different, though it didn’t start out that way. Again, I was trying to create a safe place for people to explore their needs and desires. Within a year, the BDSM lifers made a home of it.

In terms of cultural differences, The Dungeon features a great deal more nudity—more exhibitionism. The BDSM takes place out in the open for the most part. Of course, there are private rooms, but the patrons are a bunch of show-offs. I don’t hate it. At all.

I could spank an ass tonight, provided I don’t get too drunk.

When my glass is empty, I refill it and go to the kitchen to see what’s in the fridge. As I’ve come to expect, there’s a large, wrapped charcuterie board loaded with Italian meats, hard and soft cheeses, jams, bread, olives, nuts, and fruit.

I unwrap it and set it on the table between the two facing sofas in the living area. The floor to ceiling windows offer an unparalleled view, and another set of doors lead to the large terrace overlooking the Four Corners fountain. I went through a lot to obtain this old palace and convert it into a hotel, but it was worth every penny, every phone call, every bribe.

Christian appears in the doorway as I’m walking back to the kitchen. “Do you drink?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “And I’m not picky.”

“Then you can have what I’m having.” I pour us two glasses and hand one over to him as he passes me on the way to one of the sofas.

“I can’t get over this view.”

“Would you like to take this outside?” He’s changed clothes, too. A skin-tight black tank and black joggers accentuate his slender figure and his height. His legs are long, ending in a narrow but perky ass. He’s broad through the shoulders and has a pleasing taper to his waist.

Christian’s hair is blonde and straight, cut long on top and shorter on the sides. It brushes his cheekbones without getting in his eyes, his center part holding for now. He’s handsome in an unconventional way with a distinct, blunt-tipped nose and full lips. His eyes are deeply set—ocean blue under dark brows. He’s not rugged, nor is he soft. In my experience, he’s always been easy-going, but he has a resting bitch face, which makes him appear somewhat sour. When he smiles, though, it blinds.

I’ve never seen him outside a suit before, and I can’t help but notice and appreciate the way he carries himself. Upright, confident, and casual.

Without a word, he picks up the tray. I grab the whiskey, meet him at the door, and open it. We sit on opposite sides of the table on the terrace as dusk turns to night. He takes a sip of his drink, inhaling deeply and leaning back in his seat, propping his feet up on another chair.

I do the same.

“So,” I say, after a few silent moments pass. “What’s your story?”

With a sidelong glance, I catch his half grin.

“My friends say it’s awkward that I open every conversation like this, but I’m bisexual.”

Admittedly, I find that amusing. A short laugh puffs out of me. “It’s an interesting place to start.”

“I like to get it out of the way,” he says.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

“Not in any meaningful way. Don’t get me wrong, I have enough company, but I haven’t been in a relationship in years.”

“Any particular reason? You can always refuse to answer.”

“No, it’s fine. Yes, there’s a reason. The only serious relationship I’ve had messed me up. It’s been over for a long time, but I’m finding it difficult to want to invest in someone again. Once bitten, I guess.”

“Marianne’s been my only serious relationship,” I tell him.

“I guess you chose wisely.”

“Hm.” I take a longer drink of whiskey and stare out at the darkening sky.

“How long have you been married?” he asks .

“Twenty years.”

“That’s impressive by a lot of measures these days.”

“I suppose.”

“You don’t sound happy.”

“Marriage is complicated.”

“I feel the need to quote Tolstoy again,” he says.

I chuckle. “It’s widely applicable.”

“But you never wanted kids?”

“It wasn’t in the cards.”

“Any particular reason? And you can tell me to back off, too. This shit is strong.”

The whiskey is strong, and that’s why I have no problem answering. “When we first met, it seemed like the thing we’d do—have a family. But my focus was always Marianne. I never thought to want more than being with her—being there for her.”

“Vague. Is she as devoted to you?”

He can’t possibly mean anything by the question—couldn’t possibly know the way I live in virtual exile, and yet I can’t help but feel the slice—like a knife wound to the abdomen. “She is not,” I say and drain my glass.

Clearing my throat in the ensuing silence, I add, “To the marriage, she is—I’m an ideal partner for her, and she says as much. We make a good team. But it’s been a while since we were anything more than partners.”

I feel more than see Christian’s head turn my way. “You don’t have to share this with me. It’s none of my business,” he says.

“I don’t mind. I don’t talk about it much. Maybe it’ll feel good.”

“Okay,” is his soft reply.

“She had a traumatic experience in her early twenties that changed her. We spent several years in therapy—separately and together—including after we were married—but ultimately, she became an entirely new woman with desires that didn’t include me. Did I mention it was complicated? ”

“But you want to stay married?”

“She wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s like you said, I’m quite devoted.” And paralyzed. “But our arrangement isn’t without its perks.”

“Arrangement?”

Drily I reply, “It hardly feels like a marriage. Not the one I wanted, but it works.”

“Is there someone else?” he asks, rather boldly, I think.

“There’s always someone else. No one important.”

He holds up his empty glass, and I fill it for him. Before drinking any more, I load up a piece of bread with the food tray’s offerings and dig into it, just now realizing I’m starving. Christian puts a slice of cheese on a cracker and eats that, popping an olive into his mouth as a finishing touch. “I thought I asked about you,” I say, since I’ve spent the last ten minutes telling him half my secrets.

“Fine, I’ll tell you my sad story.”

“Does it have something to do with the bone you’d like to pick with God?”

“It does.”

“Then I can’t wait to hear it.”

“It has to do with that one relationship I mentioned.”

“How’d I guess,” I say, my tongue loose and my body looser. Sinking into the plush chair, I lean my head back. I close my eyes as the warm breeze ruffles my hair in that way that almost feels like human touch.

“My girlfriend Trinity—this was in high school—was raised in a hyper religious family. Evangelical Christians. Pro-life, pro-women in the kitchen barefoot and pregnant, love, honor, but especially obey. And of course, no sex before marriage because the body is sacred and meant only for your husband’s hands.”

I snort at that. I can’t help it. I also can’t remember the last time I had my hands on my own wife’s body in any meaningful way.

“Anyway, we were sixteen and horny, and I loved her so fucking much, but she was a mess. Emotions all over the place—didn’t know who to believe, what to trust, but she loved Jesus. So much she thought he hated her because of the way she felt about me.” He drains his glass again and pops another olive in his mouth.

Speaking around it, he goes on, “For the first year, it was all good. We were like any other couple figuring things out. Totally into each other. And you know, I guess when girls get a boyfriend, sometimes they lose some friends, and that’s what happened to her. She felt isolated, which only left me and her family.”

“That’s unfortunate,” I say. “Is that a girl thing?”

“According to my mom, yeah.”

“That sucks.”

“It was hard for her. But then, that summer, her parents’ marriage fell apart, too.”

“Wait—the perfect Christian role models?”

“This is one of my issues. It turns out it’s only the women expected to adhere to the dogma. Her dad evidently wanted to bring another woman in—to save the marriage—that’s how he pitched it to Trinity’s mom.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, so that didn’t go over well, and her mom basically had a breakdown, but she did leave, which was good on the one hand, but she wasn’t in any shape to be a mother to Trinity. Anyway, her dad ended up marrying the other woman he’d been having an affair with, and you know—asked for forgiveness, so all was well.”

“Wow.” I turn and look at him.

“Long story short, Trinity accidentally OD’d on her stepmom’s sleeping pills. ”

Shit. That took a turn I wasn’t expecting. “Accidentally?”

“She was tiny. When she couldn’t sleep after taking three, she took four more. She fell asleep when we were on FaceTime. Never woke up.”

He says this very matter-of-factly for someone who watched his girlfriend die on FaceTime.

“I feel like you’re skipping a few steps.”

“That’s because you’re the first person besides my mom I’ve ever told this to. Give me a second, and maybe I’ll fill in some blanks.”

Christian rubs his chest like it’s hurting him and pours another glass of whiskey. When he sits back in his seat with his drink, two tears fall in rapid succession down his cheek, and it feels like someone struck a match deep in my gut, taking all my breath away.