Page 49 of The Party Plot

He must have made a noise, because Casey paused, thumb making slow circles on Laurel’s hip. He kissed Laurel’s hair, rubbing his nose against his scalp. “You okay?’ he asked.

“Yes!” Laurel almost shouted. No clever comebacks came to mind, just the red-hot need in his head, his body. All those years at Duke had apparently meant fucking nothing, because he couldn’t piece together any love sonnets or anything witty or anything at all except, “Yes—fucking—keep going.”

And Casey did, his nails digging into Laurel’s hip, breath hot against the back of his neck, the filthy slapping noise of their bodies as they moved together filling up the room, almost louder than the sound of the rain. Laurel’s dick was rutting against the bedspread, and his hair was in his eyes, the muscles in his back pulled taut, and when he came, it was almost a surprise, because he had already been immersed in pleasure for so long that it was like a dream without an end.

He turned his head, kissing what he could reach of Casey, his jaw, his neck, as the last paroxysms traveled through him, as Casey sucked in a breath and buried his face in Laurel’s hair and came, too, silently, his mouth open, his fingers laced through Laurel’s on the bed.

16.

The storm was still going, hitting the windows so hard that the shutters clattered, pounding on the walls like a giant was trying to get inside. Tornado sirens whined throughout the night, but Laurel had no way of knowing how close they were. Every so often, the door would creak and groan, and the deadbolt would rattle. Water had begun to seep in from beneath the doorjamb, staining the carpet, which was already in bad shape, threadbare in places and dotted with little burns from cigarettes or—something. Laurel thought of the crack across the bathroom ceiling and counted them lucky that the entire roof hadn’t fallen in. It was probably the worst hotel he had ever stayed in, because—let’s face it—he was an elitist snob, but with Casey here at his side, it felt like a little pocket of heaven.

“Here you go.” Casey handed him a steaming styrofoam container, then climbed up onto the bed next to him. They were both still naked, their clothes draped over the shower rod in an effort to dry them off, and Laurel checked him out unabashedly, the long lines of his body, his smooth lower belly and the vulnerable softness of his cock.

Casey noticed him looking. He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think I can go again yet, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“I can’t either. I’m just enjoying looking at you.” He stoked a hand up Casey’s leg. “You’re so tan. Do you go to tanning beds?”

Casey shook his head. He scooped a forkful of noodles from his own cup, blowing on them. “I’ve always been like this. My dad used to make up stories, say we were creole, or his grandmother was a Cherokee princess, or some other bullshit. But I’m probably just very Swedish. Or Italian.”

“You might be secret Italian royalty,” Laurel said. Casey scoffed, but Laurel insisted. “No, really. I met a guy in Europe that that happened to. He inherited a castle. He and his boyfriend were super cute,” he added. From what he remembered. They had met in a club in Milan, and the undetermined number of Aperol spritzes he’d had made everything from that night warm and golden and a little fuzzy. He wondered if Casey would ever want to go to Milan, pictured him there, elegant and timelessly beautiful and just a little bit extra, just like the architecture of the city itself.

“Right.” Casey took a bite. Motioning with his fork, he said, “Try your noodles.”

Laurel looked down into the cup dubiously. The noodles were floating in some creamy-looking slurry, drops of hot sauce dotting the surface. “This is your secret recipe?” he asked.

“The shitty hotel room special. A taste of my childhood.”

Laurel felt obliged to try it, if only to keep Casey talking. Information about his past seemed to come out in bits and pieces, and this was the most he’d said in awhile. The soup was surprisingly good, even if it did mostly taste like salt, and Laurel’s stomach growled aggressively after the first bite. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. “It’s good,” he said. “What’s in here?”

“Just cheese and hot sauce.” Casey shrugged. “I had to get creative. We lived off of convenience store and gas station food for a long time. I think crappy food was, like, my only friend. I was a chubby kid,” he added, with an embarrassed laugh.

“You grew up just fine,” Laurel said. Honestly, Casey could probably stand to gain some weight.

“Yeah, well. It wasn’t like we couldn’t afford better, but my dad spent his money on other things. Luxury cars, fancy suits. Pain pills.” Casey chewed on the tines of his plastic fork, staring off into the distance. “He had to look the part.”

Laurel stroked his foot along Casey’s calf, watching him. It was like watching a wild rabbit at the edge of a briar patch, and he was afraid that if he made any sudden movements, or asked too much, Casey would dart back inside himself. “What did he do for a living?” Laurel asked.

“Lied to people,” Casey said flippantly, but there was tension in his jaw, his shoulders. “He wrote fake checks, talked people into get-rich-quick schemes and never delivered. Sold products that didn’t exist. Sometimes we pretended that I was tragically sick with childhood leukemia, or something else. I don’t even remember what all he did.” He set his cup of noodles down, picking at a loose thread on the bedspread. “He got caught eventually, and I got to live with my grandma while he was in prison. That was probably the only time I had any stability. The last I heard, he’s back out, and still at it. Tricking people on Facebook into fake Go-fund-mes and selling prayers on eBay.” He looked at Laurel, lips pressed together, face pale. “I guess you’re wondering why I decided to follow in his footsteps.”

Laurel didn’t say anything, just scooted closer to him, rubbing his shoulder, his neck. Casey relaxed into the touch, sighing.

“I don’t think I’m a very good person, to be honest,” he said.

“Eh. I’ve met worse.” Laurel’s heart was thudding against his ribs, and his tongue felt heavy. He knew he had to be honest, even though it was terrifying. But he had talked to Melody about the drinking, so maybe he could do this, too. His stomach dropped, and he said in a rush, “But I—I don’t want you to do it again. I mean, I guess in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t really matter if some rich lady doesn’t get the perfect birthday party. But what about all the little people, the caterers and florists and other staff? They’re losing money, too, and they actually need it, and—it just makes me uncomfortable, Casey. I mean, if we’re—if we’re dating, or whatever it is we’re doing, then—then—”

“I know.”

“Don’t look away. I’m not mad at you.” Laurel took his hand. “I just don’t think it’s ethical, and I don’t want you to get in trouble, either. I mean, if you need money, I have—”

“I don’t want a sugar daddy, Laurel,” Casey said harshly. He tried to free his hand, but Laurel hung on tight.

“What do you want, then?”

Casey sighed, collapsing back against the pillows. “I want to get away. I was saving up, and then I was going to go—somewhere, I don’t know. British Columbia, maybe. I wanted to open up my own business and actually make an honest living.” He looked at him, eyes full of some unreadable emotion. “It just never seemed like enough.”

Laurel leaned in and kissed him, a soft, decisive kiss. “It’ll be enough. We can get away together.”

Casey ran the pad of his thumb over Laurel’s lips, studying him. “I want to believe you,” he murmured. Then he closed his eyes, burying his face against Laurel’s chest. “I’m tired of talking. Can we watch TV?”

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