Page 2 of The Lonely Hearts Guide

Inside the Louisiana mansion’s massive foyer, dozens of bountiful beaus wore tuxedos in every color of the rainbow. There were shades of purple and silver and glorious greens, sparkling under the chandelier’s lighting, which sent pretty fractals across the floor, making the room look electric. He scanned the space, seeking out the man from the picture Emily Broussard had sent him a few week back. i-719, Ms. Broussard had called him. They would need to pick a better name when they returned home, per Ms. Broussard’s training material. Selecting a name would bond them. It would tether them, and Alexander wanted that connection.

There was a ballroom to his right, and when Alexander peered through the archway, he spotted two men clinging to the wall like shadows, doing everything in their power to avoid being seen. Alexander knew without a shadow of a doubt that the beau on the left was his betrothed. Well, his potential boyfriend, Alexander supposed. He’d read Ms. Broussard’s training material thoroughly, combing through each entry to ensure he knew what to expect. The documentation explained his bountiful beau would fall fast, and he would fall deeply, just as soon as they bonded. But from the look of the two men clinging to each other like frightened fawns, Alexander got the impression his beau was already spoken for. The realization caused a bitter twinge of disappointment, but Alexander managed to harden his face the same way he always had when he realized he’d been unlucky in love. Pushing past his crippling self-doubt, Alexander held his head up high, stretched a smile across his face, and headed toward the men.

The man on the left held out a hand for Alexander to take. It seemed a bit formal, Alexander thought, but then, he’d never met a beau who had been tailor-made for him. He supposed there wasn’t much need for familiarity when forever was at hand.

“Mr. Davenport. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I pray I exceed your expectations.” His voice was deep, but there was a gentleness to it. A fearful tone that he seemed to be having trouble masking. Alexander didn’t need him to mask anything, though.

Alexander stared at him with hopeful eyes. “It’s so good to finally meet you.” He lifted i-719’s hand to his lips, placing a gentle kiss against his skin. “I’m going to treat you well. I promise.”

i-719’s mouth opened and closed a few times as if he hadn’t been expecting the promise, but was happy to have it, nonetheless. He darted his eyes to his friend, who was shaking as he watched Martin approach, a glass of brandy in hand, droplets sloshing over the rim with each striding step the drunken man took. Alexander was reminded of the three bourbons and two whiskey sours he watched the man knock back during the limousine ride from Dallas to New Orleans.

“Who’s a pretty boy?” his inebriated neighbor slurred. “You’re a pretty boy.” When he was finally in front of him, Martin pulled his beau in for a sloppy hug, belching into the man’s ear as he reached down and squeezed his butt.

i-719’s hand immediately balled into a fist, and Alexander noticed small droplets of what looked like blood dripping down to the floor. Another sign Alexander chose to overlook.

“Are you okay?” he whispered into i-719’s ear, startling him. When he looked up at Alexander, his eyes were red and watery, but he held back his tears as hard as he could.

“I’m perfectly fine, Mr. Davenport,” he said through a cracking voice. “I’m s-so happy to f-finally meet you.”

The sound of fear and hurt in his voice tugged at Alexander’s heartstrings. “Martin’s a drunk, but he doesn’t seem like a cruel man. I don’t think he’ll hurt your friend.”

i-719’s jaw trembled. “Promise?”

Alexander didn’t know how to promise the other beau’s safety, because Alexander hardly knew Martin. They may have been neighbors for years, but practically the only things Alexander knew about him was he had a drinking problem, apparently, and that his lawn was often unkempt, bringing down the neighborhood’s property value by simply existing.

For the next hour, the four of them shared champagne and spoke of their lives. i-719 told Alexander about his training in the art of keeping a home, and of the way he and his friend, i-720 would visit the Southern swamp at evening time, describing their hopes for a happy home. They were hoping to live close to each other, so when Alexander stated he and Mr. Moore lived only three houses apart, i-719 failed to hide the clicks and cracks coming from the back of his throat, or the tears pooling in his eyes. It was like he was awaiting execution, only to be offered a last-minute pardon.

Alexander didn’t know it then, but he would later learn i-719 and i-720 had unintentionally bonded to each other during their time training to become househusbands in Louisiana. Most of Ms. Broussard’s paperwork spoke in vague—and oftentimes extremely misogynistic—riddles. It detailed the many ways a househusband was expected to keep their suitors satisfied. But the book was more explicit about things househusbands should never do; lines that should never be crossed. It would have been one thing if she spoke about things such as adultery or murder, but did the men she raised really need to know hundreds of ways to make themselves submissive to the men who purchased them?

Alexander didn’t want submission. He wanted someone to dote on. A man who wouldn’t break his heart like the ones who came before. Alexander’s career was demanding, and it proved to be too much for the lovers of his past to handle. With no plans of leaving the company and losing his family’s legacy in the process, Alexander Davenport found himself at an impasse. He was a man on an island with no one but himself for company. He thought, perhaps, that an i-Series beau could be the answer he’d been looking for. He needed someone on whom he could rain affection upon in the time he had left to shower them.

That night, in the back of the limousine, long after Martin Moore passed out with his face pressed against the window, Alexander watched i-719 and i-720. They kept staring at each other, shell-shocked. Like their world was ending. Like they didn’t think this day would ever actually come. The moment a tear slipped down his new beau’s cheek, Alexander closed his eyes, feigning sleep to give the pair a moment together. He felt it was the least he could do.

Alexander felt guilty for eavesdropping, but he couldn’t think of a way around overhearing them. He tried to recall old songs he used to love, hoping the memories might distract him, but it was no use. The men were trying to whisper, but they weren’t very successful.

“My love,” i-719 pleased, his voice quiet and insistent, his tone frantic like he was begging for his life. “Baby, please. I need you to be strong. You have to pull yourself together. We can’t let them see us like this. We talked about this.”

“G-Goose.”

At the time, Alexander assumed he’d meant to say Gus, and later, Gus would allow him to believe it until the truth finally came to light once it all came to a head.

“I’m here, Duck,” Goose promised. “I need you to hold it together. Can you do that for me?” Goose sucked in a sharp breath when Martin mumbled something in his sleep. Once he was snoring again, the beaus continued, making declarations meant to see them through the trauma of losing each other.

“But I can’t,” Duck sobbed, his voice muffled as if he had his face buried in Goose’s neck. “I can’t go home with him. I don’t belong to him, I belong to you. This ain’t what I want. Please, Goose? Please, just make it better. You can always make everything better. I ain’t gonna be able to make it better on my own.”

Alexander could hear the pain in his voice. Duck’s country accent—something Martin had requested during his purchase, because he wanted a househusband who sounded purposefully stupid—was thick and full of terror.

“I’ll figure it out,” Goose whispered. “We’ll find a way.”

Alexander’s heart broke for them, and he made a decision then and there. He was going to help them however he could. He was going to make it right, his own happiness be damned.

And he did help them find that happiness. During the days when Alexander and Martin were away from their homes, the beaus spent half their time together. Since Alexander’s home already had a doting staff, Goose wasn’t expected to lift a finger. So, most mornings he would head down the street and greet Duck with a smile and hug before focusing on their daily tasks, cooking and cleaning for Master Martin Moore.

Then Alexander found them together one day. He hadn’t meant to surprise the beaus, and he cursed himself for forgetting his wallet at home after the fact. He wanted them to have their time, but didn’t want to let on that he knew, because he worried it might make them flee, and then he couldn’t protect them.

As the men shook in terror on Alexander’s bed, he crawled on with them, sitting in front of both men. He held his hands out for them, but they stared down at the hands for ages. Duck was the first to move. Shaking like a leaf, he trustingly placed his hand in Alexander’s. There was so much hurt and fear in the man’s eyes, and with a gentle brush of his thumb across Duck’s knuckles, his entire body relaxed. Goose’s sniffle pulled Alexander’s attention away from Duck, and he stared at the man who was supposed to be his happily ever after, his heart thumping faster. When they connected, just as with Duck, Goose exhaled, and his body went lax.

“I’m not angry,” Alexander started, because of course, he wasn’t. How could he ever be angry about love?

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