Page 20 of The Party Plot

“Oh yeah. Years of therapy.”

Casey sighed. “Can we get back to it?”

Laurel tilted his head, trying on a smile. “You don’t find me amusing, I guess.”

Casey mirrored the expression mockingly, no warmth in his eyes. “Be funnier.”

What would it be like to actually make him laugh? What did Casey even laugh about? Tricking people out of their money, probably. And he’d never laugh in front of Laurel unless he was laughingathim, because he really did hate him. He must, to have targeted Denise like this. “What was it?” Laurel asked casually, though he felt anything but. “What did I do to make you dislike me so badly? What was it that made you seek out my mom as your victim?”

“You really think I did this because of you?” Casey gave him a blank look. “I didn’t even know your name. I forgot about you.”

Laurel’s heart pounded against his ribs. To be despised was one thing, but to be forgotten? Unbearable. He could feel the tension in his neck as he said, “No you didn’t. This is all—”

“Some big plot against you?” Casey shrugged. “Sorry, but it’s not. I was headed further south, actually. Trying to distance myself from the pirate party fallout. I stopped in town for the spring flower festival. Got to talking with Denise. She said she had always wanted to throw a big annual event like that one, and I saw an opportunity.”

“And you never once made the connection?”

Casey grimaced. “Like I said, I wasn’t thinking about you. There was no connection to make. And the only full-size picture your mom has up is that—”

“Creepy portrait with the haunted eyes? I know.”

“It doesn’t look like you.”

“Thanks for saying that.”

Casey brushed a strand of hair out of his face, saying nothing. Laurel’s eyes tracked his fingers involuntarily. The smell of his scalp, herbal and sweaty and somehow sweet, filled Laurel’s nose. The taste of his mouth, the feeling of his nails digging into Laurel’s hips. How could he haveforgotten? Laurel hadn’t; Casey had been a phantom floating in the forefront of his brain for the last three months. It wasn’t fair that Casey could just discard that night, when it had sunk its hooks into Laurel so irrevocably.

“Can I,” he cleared his throat. “Can I have a glass of water, or something?”

“You invited yourself into my apartment. I think you can help yourself.”

“I guess I can.” Laurel busied himself in the cabinet, noting the lack of dishes: a few chipped coffee mugs—not even fun ones with art or lettering on them, but just solid colors—and a place setting for one. He felt Casey’s cold gaze on his back. “I didn’t really think about it, but it’s an interesting quandary of manners, isn’t it. When is it appropriate to barge into someone’s home but not appropriate to help oneself to a drink? Are the two always aligned? And if not…”

“I give up.” Casey snapped the laptop shut. “Tell Denise. Turn me in. Anything to keep from working with you. I can’t stand hearing you talk for another second.”

“I mean. You could stop me from talking. You have ways.” Laurel smiled at him over the rim of the glass. He felt a little feverish, his equilibrium off, his stomach tight and his ears ringing the way they had when he’d climbed the great pyramid or touched the Eiffel Tower for the first time.

“I told you I’m not going to fuck you again.”

“Your fingers are trembling.” They were; Laurel could see them jittering against the tabletop. Casey clenched his hand into a fist.

“Too much caffeine.”

“Sure.” He thought about kissing Casey’s knuckles, about uncurling his hand and sucking his index and middle finger into his mouth the way he had before. The salt of Casey’s skin and the pressure against his tongue, Casey’s breath stirring the tiny hairs on the back of his neck.There you go. Get them ready for me.

“You’re bright red,” Casey said, snapping him back to the present.

Laurel looked away, taking a sip of water. It was lukewarm, and did nothing to soothe the heat throbbing in his face.

“I think that’s the only thing I like about you.” Casey tilted his head. He didn’t rise from where was, leaning over the table. He didn’t approach Laurel, or touch him. He didn’t need to. His gaze was like sugar syrup all over his body, sticky and intimate. “How reactive your skin is. It makes it easy to guess what you’re thinking.”

“All I’m thinking is—”That I’m doing this for the wrong reasons. That I shouldn’t be here. That I’ll make sure you don’t forget me this time.Laurel cleared his throat. “That I should get home and get some sleep. We have an early morning tomorrow.”

“Right.” Casey stood fully, stretching. His T-shirt rode up, showing the tan hollow of his belly. Laurel noticed, and Casey noticed him noticing. He kept eye contact as he said, “Well, sleep tight.”

“You’re not going to run off during the night, are you?”

“I thought about it.” Casey kept looking at him. He still hadn’t blinked, and Laurel felt an atavistic little shiver, as if he were being held in the eyeline of a leopard, or some other big cat. “But no. A hundred and fifty thousand, remember? You’d better be good for it.”

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