Gulliver Takes Five (5 page)

“You’re a very attractive fellow,” the crypt keeper says. “Do many men tell you that?” (He sounds like Anthony Hopkins too, thanks to the Brit accent.) I know I shouldn’t let him waste his time on me, especially considering how little of it might remain.

I smile off into the distance. “One too many, actually.”

“Oh! He’s got wit too! My name is Ronald.”

So not only does he get the clue, he’s decided to let it pass right on by him. Entitled prick. This is what happens when you get used to waving a checkbook in front of people to get what you want.

“Brayden.”

I can’t go searching this place with Daddy Warfucks following me around like there are insider trading tips hidden up my ass. But if I bash my martini glass over his head and call him an ugly old fuck, it’ll only cause a scene. Then my wonderful surprise for Christian is ruined!

“Not one for eye contact, I gather?”

Where the fuck is Christian?

My eyes oblige and meet Ronald’s. They have to. Because a guy my age wouldn’t be in this penthouse unless he’s into guys who’ll be wearing Depends in another couple years. “Don’t take it personally. These eyes are all over the place all the time. Always gotta be on the lookout.”

“For what?” Ronald’s eyes light up with a renewed sense of opportunity.

I shrug. “Depends. I know it when I see it.”

“Would you like some fondue, Brayden?”

“No thanks, Ronald—swimsuit season and all.”

“Well, I highly doubt you have much to worry about in that department. Me? I love the stuff. I might actually be the only guy here who does. They’d all prefer to leave the space open for additional mingling or fill the table with more stimulating substances. But when you’re the host, you call the shots.”

Ka-ching. If anyone would know where my endangered ex is, Ronald’s the one. “Well then, since you asked, Ronald, I’m looking for someone named Christian. Maybe you can help me?”

“Oh, he’s a pretty one. Pretty intoxicated the last time I saw him too.” He looks around the room. “What is your business with him?”

“I have something to give him. Something he really needs.”

“Well. Doesn’t look like he’s around, which usually means only one thing.”

“He left?”

“He’s in my bedroom. That’s my guess.” He smiles lasciviously for a second before his face turns serious. “Unless he left with the others for that tawdry party downtown—eWrecksion.” He says this last word with no small amount of disgust.

“Did the host of this poor-boy buffet really just call another party tawdry?”

“We have fondue and a jazz quartet. They have porn stars and someone pushing shuffle on his iPod.”

“Right. This is clearly a far classier affair, especially with the table piled in blow.”

Ronald chuckles. “Stole half of my regular crowd tonight. But there are still some who prefer more
intimate
encounters.” His eyes are practically fucking me at the word
intimate
. I want to throw up on his shoes.

Instead, I caress his arm lightly, initiating flirt mode despite the coke, booze, and repulsion surging inside me. “Well, assuming Christian didn’t go downtown, you think he and his beau might like a couple more guests in that bedroom of yours?”

“It’s certainly worth inquiring,” he says, taking my hand.

And off we go.

The bedroom is past the kitchen, dining room, movie theater, three walk-in closets, and a library. Along the way Ronald tells me the history of the art hanging and lit upon his walls, exciting tales of auctions where he almost missed out on this gem by Matisse, that pure display of genius from Dali. (Like many elderly, he takes his sweet time getting anywhere.) The bedroom door is closed when we reach it. He taps lightly. “Hello? Are you decent?” Then he winks at me. “I certainly hope not.” He opens the door.

From inside, I hear low, muffled voices long before my eyes adjust to the dark. There is an undulating mass on the bed that seems totally unaware of our presence.

Then, as if on cue, one of the pairing speaks:

“Oh, yes, Christian!”

That’s all I need.

Ronald is far too slow and feeble to stop me. I fly, screaming, across the room and crash onto the bed, flinging the senior citizen part of the screwing couple to the floor. Hopefully he’s got good insurance, because I just shattered his fucking hip.

Then I pound the shadow of my ex’s face over and over again. My fists come down like the sheets of rain outside as his hands try (and fail) to fend me off. Christian’s naked old lover tries to stop me from assaulting his precious little thing, but I put him back on the floor with a thoughtless punch that I don’t even turn to throw. If this were an action movie, the audience would’ve cheered at that one. (Well, if he were a terrorist instead of a defenseless old man in his birthday suit, anyway.)

Light fills the room. And the audience in my head abruptly stops cheering.

Oh. Shit. This isn’t Christian. Doesn’t look like him at all, actually. He’s black, for one—and not only does he not have Christian’s swoopy Bieber hair, he doesn’t have any hair at all. His head’s buzzed to the skull. I’m staring at the bloody face of one of the guys who came up in the elevator with me earlier.

Now the poor kid is naked and crying, his face black, blue, pink, and soaking red. The metallic scent of blood cuts right through the sweat and sex smell.

He was pretty cute too.

Pity.

“Stop it! What do you want?” Ronald screams a little too late. “Are you okay, Christian?”

I fall back on my knees, disengaging from ass-kick mode to allow the poor kid to scamper out of the room, drops of blood following him like breadcrumbs. His gentleman friend follows, not caring that he’s hobbling back into the party naked as the day he was born (however many eons ago that was).

I am silent. Just breathing to stop the burning in my stomach that kicked up when I began my attack. Trying to collect my scattered and panicked thoughts. If Christian’s not here, where is he? Getting fucked in one of the walk-in closets? Has he not arrived yet? Grant and his friends are in SO much shit.

“Christian,” I finally say, turning around. “Where. Is. Christian.”

“THAT was Christian!”

A crowd has gathered behind Ronald, filling the wide hallway from wall to wall, all peering in to try and piece together what just happened. Hilarious. I just cock-blocked dozens of desperate losers at once. What a pleasantly productive evening!

“Christian Molson. Where the fuck is HE?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about! Now please leave my home!”

“Christian ROBERT. Ever hear of him?” I’m in Ronald’s face now. All that swagger and suave shit he seemed to possess by the kilo thirty seconds ago is gone. “ANYONE ever hear of him?” I scream at the crowd. But even though I
know
at least two of Grant’s buddies are here and know who he is, none of them dares speak up.

“The DJ who spun at my brunch last weekend?” Ronald finally manages. His poor old face looks so confused. Early onset Alzheimer’s must be SUCH a bitch. “He just came by to pick up his check!”

This is getting ridiculous. Like Christian knows what I know and is leading me on this absurd Easter egg hunt. Making me chase him until I pass out from exhaustion or get myself arrested.

“Where did he go?”

“Leave now or I will call the cops!”

Oh, hell no. The trail does not go cold here. I’ve already committed to this and will see it through to completion. The people in the hallway seem to blink in unison. Frozen in place like a room full of precious, invaluable statues that darling Ronald won at auction.

“Don’t you all have an orgy to start? Take out your boyfriends’ teeth and GET GOING!”

“No! YOU get going!” Ronald has reached the end of his withered rope, and now it’s his turn to take me by the throat. Laughable pressure is applied, like I’ve accidentally tried on a turtleneck one size too small. I’d punch his head straight out the window if I
weren’t concerned about being carted off to jail before I got a hold of Christian.

“Not smart, Ronald. I’m giving you five seconds to let go.”

Ronald’s hands release in one. He takes off like a shot in two. I’m not quick enough to stop him before he runs out into the hall, through the crowd, shouting that there’s a violent disturbance in his house. Someone has surely pulled out a cell phone and dialed 911 by this point.

In other words, I better make my exit. NOW. I blaze the trail left by Ronald and cut a hard right to the door. Boys and men try their damnedest to stop me, but they end up thrown against the wall, into the coke table (all over the floor now!), in a puddle of fondue. Hurricane Brayden. Cleanup, aisle everywhere!

I skip the elevator and make a run for the fire exit, setting off a screeching alarm. I speed down five flights of stairs and reenter on the fifteenth floor to hop in an elevator for the remainder of my descent.

The doorman downstairs screams, “Hey! Stop!” as I sprint by, the phone he just answered (no doubt a call from Ronald) crooked between his head and shoulder. I am already on the street and running harder. As soon as I round the corner, I dive into a cab and tell him to step on it. The driver’s too busy talking on his own phone to ask why.

Only now do I have time to process everything that just happened. The numbing throb of my knuckles. The shocked faces
of the twinks and grumpy old men. My fleeing from the scene like a bank robber.
I told you we should’ve gone to eWrecksion like everyone else
. I know someone said that at some point during my escape, but I can’t quite remember who or where.

And now I recall everything else I’ve soaked up through osmosis about eWrecksion tonight: the “Gay Party of the Century.” The party that caused elder Ronald to turn up his nose.
Everyone who’s anyone will be there
.

Well, then I suppose I should probably be at eWrecksion as well. I have a pretty good idea who I’ll find there.

My driver opts to take the highway from Ronald’s apartment, promising that it’ll be a quicker ride than avenues and side streets. Quick is good.

To pass the time, I check Christian’s Facebook. No updates since yesterday. He’s gone completely off the grid—most likely in hopes that I won’t find him. Well, too bad, baby. I’m almost there. Already I’ve made the executive decision not to trust anyone I’ve spoken to. Christian fucked Grant, no matter what he told me. They traded cock pics overnight, Christian was newly single by noon, and the two of them were spotted walking to Grant’s place by happy hour. You don’t need to be a detective to figure that one out. Hell, Christian probably went a round with Ronald while the jazz quartet warmed up too. He’s on a bender. Maybe because he knows his life in New York is over as soon as I find him—and this is his last meal. So far, he’s had a cream puff and a few flights of
aged cheese; my guess is now he’s going for something more filling. Prime rib. And where’s the beef tonight?

Initially, I incorrectly Googled “Erection NYC,” coming up with a lot of porn sites and men’s health clinics. I should have given the promoters more credit. The actual event is “eWrecksion”; the website promises a “One-Time-Only, Big Fucking Deal.” Yeah, right. I get ten e-mails a week promising the same damn thing from ten different parties. This one’s claim to fame? The “dorm dudes” of New York Screwniversity are performing live at 3 a.m.—which is bullshit. Public sex at clubs hasn’t been permitted in this city since the early nineties (or so I’ve heard from people who were actually living here back then). So they’ll gyrate around in G-strings like any run-of-the-mill go-go dancers. Big fucking deal. This party sounds as phony as the NYScrewniversity “dorm.” I’m not familiar with the site, but I’m willing to bet most of the “dudes” didn’t graduate high school, let alone pursue a higher education.

One thing on the eWrecksion website does catch my eye, though: its main promoter is Todd DiTempto. One of my best friends—or so I thought up until this very second. Why the fuck didn’t he tell me about this party? If the hyperbole all over the site is even halfway true, this will trump any other party he’s thrown. And Todd always brings us out with him!

Us
. Hmm. Aside from Shane, the crew has been mysteriously quiet today, and not one of them informed me of their evening plans, let alone invited me to come along. That’s highly unusual. Are they at eWrecksion? WITH Christian? It would make so much sense. Christian DJs a few of Todd’s parties. The whole crew likes him—whereas things between me and the crew haven’t been quite the
same since I put the beat down on Gulliver. They may not have said much about it after the fact, but they didn’t need to: I’ve noticed the glances they exchange, awkward silences that never used to be there. Maybe this time they’re just not willing to sever ties with yet another of their friends I’ve had drama with. How many times have they rolled their eyes at the shit I pull? Complained about cleaning up my messes? Told me I’m too quick to fly off the handle at a moment’s notice, before I even get my facts straight? Are MY friends the “anonymous sources” who told Christian I was crazy?

Backstabbing SHITS. They’re having cocktails and laughing at me right now. For all I know, Christian has fucked ALL of them! A three-way with Rowan and Servando in a dark corner of one of Todd’s parties. Sneaking out of my room in the middle of the fucking night to cross the living room and give it to Shane. I bet he’s banging my trampy ex Marty too, just like Gulliver did.