Page 29 of The Party Plot

“Why are you so fucking interested in my sex life, Howie?” Laurel hissed, finally wrenching himself out from under Bonard’s arm.

Bonard held up a hand. “Woah, just making friendly conversation, son.”

“I’m not your son. Or your friend.” Laurel’s fist was too tight around the punch glass, and he set it down on a railing, afraid he would throw it otherwise. “Neither is Melody. Stay away from her. Stop texting her.”

“I think you should calm down.” Bonard’s eyes were flat, reptilian. He took a slow sip of his drink. Behind him, Laurel could see people moving back and forth in the windows, hear the sounds of music and conversation. He knew everyone in there, but he had never felt more alone.

He swallowed. Turning away, Laurel fled down the steps and into the garden.

*

Casey was still here. Okay, maybe he had freaked out a little after the moment in the car, sat trembling under the cold spray of the shower, a catalog of Laurel’s expressions playing through his head, his red face and the tortured little gasps he’d made and the long, taut line of his throat. The candy-sweet taste of his lips. Maybe those same lips had visited him once or twice in his dreams since then. But Casey was still in control. He had a high tolerance for uncomfortable situations, and he could tolerate this one for as long as it took to get paid. Like Jamie had said, Casey wasn’t going to fall for Laurel. He didn’t even like him as a person, didn’t like his undeserved optimism and his annoying exuberance and how damnnosyhe was. How he just seemed to assume things would go his way. How he thought he was the smartest person in the room, and how he made Casey’s self-control want to jump out a window. There was really nothing appealing about him at all, besides his trust fund—

And his pretty eyes, Casey’s brain whispered, and how amazing his ass looked tonight, in that pair of slacks—

The trust fund. Which was, again, the only reason Casey was sticking around. He was in this for the money. He told himself it would be worth it. He told himself that the sizzling, anxious sense of anticipation he felt in his palms, in his lower belly, was because of the one hundred and fifty thousand dollars and not because Laurel was here in the room with him.

It was going to be a long night.

He shouldn’t have let Denise drag him along to this event. Casey was an expert at performing, and he was used to being trotted out and shown off; his dad had used him as a prop in various sob stories before Casey had even been able to talk. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have minded being here, fielding probing questions and getting his arm squeezed, playing the gay bff to a bunch of achingly sweet ladies who he was fairly sure all expected that he was going to Hell. Being a source of fascination and mild horror. In its own way, it was interesting. People told you all sorts of things when they considered you a novelty. It was just that he wastired. He’d felt Laurel’s eyes on him all night, and keeping up the party planner persona was hard when his mind was back in the Land Rover, in that little pocket of urgency and heat.

Luckily, right now he didn’t have to do much more than smile and nod. Birdie Callaway, who had apparently been hitting the sherry punch pretty hard, had gotten on a tangent about how women hadn’t even been allowed to wear pants in some of the clubs in Charleston, back when she was young.

“But of course now everyone wears whatever they want. Boys are going around wearing skirts, and the girls are out in the tiniest little tops, I mean, just showingeverything, without a thought for the effect they have on people. How is anyone supposed to get anything done when all these young women have their stomachs out like that, I ask you?”

Casey was half-tempted to reassure Birdie that it was totally fine if women’s midriff was making her have some previously-undiscovered feelings, but he just smiled sympathetically, holding his tongue.

At last, she fluttered back off to the punch bowl, and Casey was able to make his exit, slinking out the back door and onto the veranda. He needed to get away. Not just from the ladies, but from Laurel, who had been staring at him from across the room like a starving puppy. Although now he was nowhere to be seen. Good. Casey really didn’t want to talk to him about what had happened in the car. He didn’t even want to make eye contact, because then he would want to kiss him again. Which was annoying and not smart.

There was a light on in the carriage house, a little square of orange in the humid night, and he set off toward it, thinking maybe it would provide some shelter from the midges and mosquitoes. To tell the truth, he was kind of curious about what a carriage house actually was. Casey had always liked exploring other people’s homes, gaining impressions of their personalities from how they lived and decorated. It was one of the only perks of working in the service industry.

As he got closer, he could see that it was actually a collection of buildings: an English-style cottage, incongruously cozy for the punishing summer heat; a covered area that did actually house two carriages, shiny and free of dust or leaves, though they obviously hadn’t been used in decades; and a long line of stables. The door to the cottage was locked, but he peeked inside. This was where the light had come from. The room was illuminated, and it was full of furniture from an earlier time, a modest table setting laid out and logs on the hearth, as if the groundskeeper would be back at any time. This must be what “fully staged” meant (Casey had checked the Bonard House’s Wikipedia page before coming here). So strange, to cling to the past so much that they’d installed a little snapshot of it on the grounds of their estate. Casey had never had much use for the past, his own or anyone else’s.

He wandered into the stables, feet nearly silent on the cobbled floor. It was dark and muggy in here, the symmetrical lines of the stalls stretching off into obscurity. The air smelled like jasmine and magnolia blossoms from the garden, the faint, dusty scent of old hay and a ghostly whiff of sickly-sweet ammonia from long-ago horses. Shadows pooled across the floor, and Casey felt an uncomfortable tingle between his shoulder blades, not liking how little visibility there was, how anything could be moving around out there in the dark—

Shock jolted through him and he heard himself let out a curse as he realized that somethingwasmoving, one of the shadows was elongating and standing up, and Casey fumbled for his phone, heart pounding—

And he cursed again, for different reasons. Because it was Laurel. Laurel had turned on the flashlight on his own phone, and was standing there in the bright white beam, his face washed out and a little blotchy, freckles stark against his pale skin. He looked like he might have been crying, and Casey nearly turned and ran back out into the garden, because he wanted exactly nothing to do with that. He licked his lips, not sure what to say. His heart still hadn’t slowed down, and he felt a corresponding pulse start up in his groin, a shiver work its way through his thighs, as he took in Laurel’s messy hair, the cords standing out in his neck, the way his sweaty shirt had molded itself to his chest.

“Oh good,” Laurel said. “You’re here.”

“I didn’t mean t—” Casey started to say, but Laurel had surged forward out of the darkness, and his hand was on Casey’s chest and his tongue was in Casey’s mouth, and from far away, Casey heard the clatter of Laurel’s phone dropping to the ground as the flashlight beam swung wildly around the room before going out entirely, and they were kissing up against the door of one of the stalls, kissing in the dark with the smells of flowers and hay and old leather all around them, uneven wood paneling digging into Casey’s shoulder blades through his jacket, stars bursting behind his eyes.

Laurel kissed with desperation, with a kind of panicked hunger, and Casey felt himself sink into the kiss with the heady, luxurious pleasure of giving in to a craving. Slowly, almost lazily, he ran his hands over Laurel’s body, appreciating the lines of him. The night air was like molasses, sticking to their bodies, and Laurel was trembling under his touch like a nervous animal, muscles fluttering in his lower back. He made an amazing little sound when Casey squeezed his ass, so Casey dug his fingers in, pulling him closer, making Laurel fall against him. Laurel had a great ass, round and plump, with adorable little twin dimples in his lower back. He had strong thighs, too, and even though Casey was slightly taller, he felt wonderfully small and delicate with Laurel’s weight on him, pinned here against the wood in this pocket of darkness and heat. He ground his hips against Laurel’s, face buried in his hair, breathing in the familiar scent of him. Laurel groaned, nuzzling and mouthing at his neck, sucking on his earlobe until the hairs on his nape stood on end.

When Laurel’s shaky fingers began to undo Casey’s belt buckle, he heard himself say, not at all convincingly, “It’s a bad idea.” But really, he couldn’t get himself to give a shit. Something at this rich people party had put Laurel in a state, and Casey was just along for the ride. This had been in the cards for them since they’d kissed in the car, or maybe even since Laurel had winked at him in Denise’s kitchen, and it was hot out and Casey was too tired to resist.

“I don’t care,” Laurel muttered against his shoulder. “Please, I just want—I want—”

Casey meant to shrug, but all the nonchalance dropped out of him as Laurel fell to his knees. It looked a little painful; cobblestones were bad for your kneecaps, and he heard Laurel let out a muffled curse against his leg.

“Are you okay? You’re so dramatic. You could have just—”

“Shut up.Please.” Laurel was undoing his pants, and Casey felt the warm air enveloping his bare legs, felt Laurel’s hot breath stir the hairs on his lower belly. He could barely see Laurel’s face, but he could tell he was looking up at him. The light caught in his eyes sent a silver-bright thrill rippling through Casey, from his scalp to his belly to the soles of his feet. He let out a breath, reaching down to caress Laurel’s cheek as Laurel bent his head, kissing his way along Casey’s hip bone, his abdomen, soft, lavish kisses that got wetter and more eager the lower he went. His thumb was rubbing circles on Casey’s thigh, and the brush of his hair against Casey’s skin felt electric, almost painful, setting his teeth on edge. His cock leapt against Laurel’s lips, and Laurel smiled, kissing the tip of it. Casey babbled to keep from gasping, his voice sounding strange and waterlogged to his own ears.

“You know, I like the pleading. And I like you quiet like this, it’s—”

Oh, God, he couldn’t stop himself from gasping after all, because Laurel sank his teeth into the meat of Casey’s inner thigh. Shock and pleasure arced through him, his hand scrabbling across the wood behind them, his mouth falling open. Laurel’s grip on his leg had turned forceful, holding him in place, and Casey gasped again as Laurel took his cock fully into his mouth. He was sucking him deeper even before Casey was fully hard, his mouth velvet and lush as the darkness around them. Casey let his head fall back, his eyes half-closed, the smell of jasmine in his sinuses, on his tongue. Laurel’s hair was rough between his fingers. His other hand had wrapped itself around one of the posts behind him, his palm sweaty, his equilibrium gone. He felt almost drunk on it, onhim, his thoughts swaying like branches in the wind, his body liquid. He could hear the chittering of insects in the garden and the slick, fevered sound of Laurel’s lips sliding around him, and every time his cock hit the back of Laurel’s throat, his brain burst into dazzling shards of glass. It had been like this before, too, this raw and uninhibited, Laurel throwing himself into their encounter with luxurious abandon. Casey almost admired it, the way he got lost to the ungovernable strength of his wants.

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