yet another soapy tragedy from Avalon’s den of iniquity.
The apartment door swished open and Lucien braced himself for the final click that would forever part him from the one person in the world who held his heart.
Adrian’s voice called, “I’m leaving.”
Lucien closed his eyes. “Okay. Have a good night.”
Silence. Then, “Eat something, Luke. There’s food in the refrigerator.”
“Thanks,” he said softly, knowing his friend couldn’t hear his response. Then the door closed, and into the dearth of sound, he whispered, “‘Night, Ad.”
Five minutes later, he pulled on the jeans and T-shirt Adrian had loaned him, rummaged through the living room desk for stationary and a stamp, and sat down to compose what he hoped was a reasonable, decorous letter of resignation from Avalon and life in general. It would be better, more merciful to send it directly to Azure instead of leaving it for Adrian to stumble across, so he left the apartment door cracked and rode the elevator down to the lobby, where he stuck the addressed envelope in the building’s out-delivery mailbox.
37
Shelby Reed
The doorman squinted at him in instant suspicion when he padded back to the elevator, and Lucien offered him a crooked smile as the brass-paneled doors closed between them again.
He rode up with a beautiful teenage girl in low-slung jeans and a belly shirt, who stared at him from beneath her lashes and said, “Wow. What happened to your face?”
“Train wreck,” Lucien said. The doors slid open on the fourteenth floor. He started to exit the elevator, then stepped back and pressed a kiss against her astonished, open lips. “To live well is the best revenge,” he told her, smiling into her eyes. “Take it from a dead man.”
Back in Adrian’s apartment, he tucked his driver’s license in his back pocket, turned off the lamp that sat on the entry console and crossed the living room to the balcony doors. Night had not yet fallen, and the smog mingled with clouds over the setting sun, casting a strange pink iridescence across the city’s tree canopy.
“Stay,” he told Rudy, who waited anxiously at the French doors with a threadbare stuffed banana in his mouth, as though he too had business on the balcony. Then Lucien stepped into the warm summer wind and closed the glass doors behind him.
It took him an eternity to hoist himself onto the concrete ledge, partly due to terror, but mostly because he was still sore from having the hell kicked out of him yesterday.
He straddled the balustrade and stared down at the traffic snaking along Connecticut Avenue as far as the eye could see.
Too many pedestrians crossed the sidewalk fourteen stories down, so Lucien waited. He waited until the sun rested like a fat neon orb on the treetops, until the sidewalk below was clear, until no cars were parked in the building’s circular driveway.
He waited until the wind dried the tears on his lashes and his body quit shaking, and he had no more excuses.
“Adrian,” he whispered. A prayer.
And then he flew.
* * * * *
At Avalon, Adrian left a message with Maria that Lucien was still sick, then flipped through his file to check the night’s clientele.
Helen Feinstein had booked three hours of his time. The fifty-year-old socialite was hell-bent on clinging to her youth, so full of plastic and saline Adrian often pictured a blow-up doll when he watched her undress.
Mary Ellen Frazier came at seven, a new customer he hadn’t met before. She wanted to go to dinner, and then back to the club for intimacies. She liked a dominant lover. She liked bondage.
38
The Fifth Favor
Gwendolyn Campbell came after that, lightly penciled onto the schedule as always, in the untimely event the authorities ever got hold of the records. Gwendolyn was a U.S. senator, a member of the President’s cabinet. Her membership was utterly secret, and despite the tension her hush-hush presence brought with it whenever she visited Avalon, she was a
The apartment door swished open and Lucien braced himself for the final click that would forever part him from the one person in the world who held his heart.
Adrian’s voice called, “I’m leaving.”
Lucien closed his eyes. “Okay. Have a good night.”
Silence. Then, “Eat something, Luke. There’s food in the refrigerator.”
“Thanks,” he said softly, knowing his friend couldn’t hear his response. Then the door closed, and into the dearth of sound, he whispered, “‘Night, Ad.”
Five minutes later, he pulled on the jeans and T-shirt Adrian had loaned him, rummaged through the living room desk for stationary and a stamp, and sat down to compose what he hoped was a reasonable, decorous letter of resignation from Avalon and life in general. It would be better, more merciful to send it directly to Azure instead of leaving it for Adrian to stumble across, so he left the apartment door cracked and rode the elevator down to the lobby, where he stuck the addressed envelope in the building’s out-delivery mailbox.
37
Shelby Reed
The doorman squinted at him in instant suspicion when he padded back to the elevator, and Lucien offered him a crooked smile as the brass-paneled doors closed between them again.
He rode up with a beautiful teenage girl in low-slung jeans and a belly shirt, who stared at him from beneath her lashes and said, “Wow. What happened to your face?”
“Train wreck,” Lucien said. The doors slid open on the fourteenth floor. He started to exit the elevator, then stepped back and pressed a kiss against her astonished, open lips. “To live well is the best revenge,” he told her, smiling into her eyes. “Take it from a dead man.”
Back in Adrian’s apartment, he tucked his driver’s license in his back pocket, turned off the lamp that sat on the entry console and crossed the living room to the balcony doors. Night had not yet fallen, and the smog mingled with clouds over the setting sun, casting a strange pink iridescence across the city’s tree canopy.
“Stay,” he told Rudy, who waited anxiously at the French doors with a threadbare stuffed banana in his mouth, as though he too had business on the balcony. Then Lucien stepped into the warm summer wind and closed the glass doors behind him.
It took him an eternity to hoist himself onto the concrete ledge, partly due to terror, but mostly because he was still sore from having the hell kicked out of him yesterday.
He straddled the balustrade and stared down at the traffic snaking along Connecticut Avenue as far as the eye could see.
Too many pedestrians crossed the sidewalk fourteen stories down, so Lucien waited. He waited until the sun rested like a fat neon orb on the treetops, until the sidewalk below was clear, until no cars were parked in the building’s circular driveway.
He waited until the wind dried the tears on his lashes and his body quit shaking, and he had no more excuses.
“Adrian,” he whispered. A prayer.
And then he flew.
* * * * *
At Avalon, Adrian left a message with Maria that Lucien was still sick, then flipped through his file to check the night’s clientele.
Helen Feinstein had booked three hours of his time. The fifty-year-old socialite was hell-bent on clinging to her youth, so full of plastic and saline Adrian often pictured a blow-up doll when he watched her undress.
Mary Ellen Frazier came at seven, a new customer he hadn’t met before. She wanted to go to dinner, and then back to the club for intimacies. She liked a dominant lover. She liked bondage.
38
The Fifth Favor
Gwendolyn Campbell came after that, lightly penciled onto the schedule as always, in the untimely event the authorities ever got hold of the records. Gwendolyn was a U.S. senator, a member of the President’s cabinet. Her membership was utterly secret, and despite the tension her hush-hush presence brought with it whenever she visited Avalon, she was a
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