44
Two weeks later.
Thirteen days since I’d spoken to Tony for more than five minutes at a time. Thirteen days since I’d seen him.
It was over between us.
Snuffed out.
Let me explain.
He was the one I called when Lucas and I found a phone. We weren’t at the SwordFight studios. It would come out later that Mason wasn’t aware of Kristen’s side business. Although he was guilty of knowingly employing the underage Brent, and of helping him create the false documents that made it look legit.
The paper trail wasn’t hard to find.
Kristen was guilty of much more.
Turns out the first body that had been found in the river was another victim of the demented director’s “art.” Videotapes discovered in Kristen’s apartment and secret studio promised there were more out there, waiting to be found.
As for Brent? Kristen had killed him, too. The whole thing had been filmed. Not that I ever intended to watch. Tony told me it had nothing to do with Brent’s being underage-I was wrong about that. Twisted as Kristen was, he really did have feelings for Lucas. Mind you, those feelings were perverted and had more to do with possessiveness than “love,” but they were strong.
When he figured out that Lucas had been seeing Brent on the side, and that Lucas might be leaving him for his co-star, Kristen had to stop it. Once he made that decision, it only made sense to do it on film. After all, why not make some bank while defending your turf?
That’s why Brent was all drugged-up. Knowing there was a chance Brent could be traced back to him (his usual victims were picked up in bars or clubs by a third party), Kristen tortured Brent in a way that didn’t leave marks so that the drowning story would be more believable. In fact, that’s how he eventually killed Brent, by holding his head in a bucket of water he’d filled at the river, so that the fluid in his lungs would match that from the Hudson.
Tony said that at the moment Brent’s body went limp in his arms, Kristen’s violent shudder and the ensuing stain in his pants indicated he’d spontaneously ejaculated.
He came when Brent left.
I kind of wish I’d slit his throat when I had the chance.
As it turned out, Kristen had achieved the perfect trifecta.
He’d killed for money, sexual jealousy, and thrills.
Every bad motive rolled into one deadly package.
No matter how I protested, Tony wouldn’t hear it. After he helped me the night of Kristen’s assault, when his fellow officers were done taking our statements and I was safely returned home, he came at me.
“You did it again,” he accused. “You almost got yourself killed.”
“I didn’t, ” I insisted. “Okay, maybe in the past I kind of ignored your advice, but not this time. I swear. I was going to tell you everything I found out and let you handle it. I just went by Lucas’s to give him a heads-up first. I didn’t even know Kristen would be there, let alone that he was-”
“Enough!” Tony shouted. “This can’t be a coincidence, Kevin. You keep doing this. Putting yourself in harm’s way. Lying to me about it. I can’t take it.”
“I didn’t.” I tried to explain myself. “I’m not-”
“You say you want to be with me, but you make it impossible. You’re always pressuring me to do more than I can. To make you promises I can’t. Because, unlike you, Kevin, if I give my word, I keep it.”
That hurt.
“Tony…”
“I have a son, Kevin. He needs me. Obviously, you don’t. You think you can do it all on your own. Well, I’m not sticking around while you get yourself killed. Rafi doesn’t need to lose another adult in his life, either. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m no good for you. Why else are you so… self-destructive? I think we need a break.”
That’s what Brent said to Lucas before he disappeared. Famous last words.
I didn’t try and talk him into staying. I didn’t even ask where he was going. Maybe he was returning to his ex-wife.
Tony was right. I had been pressuring him to make a decision. Now, he had.
It just wasn’t the one I was hoping for.
I went to work.
I did my job.
Some evenings Freddy came over, more often than not with Cody. We ate takeout and watched movies on my flat screen.
They tried to get me to talk about how I felt about Tony’s leaving. I deflected every attempt.
The other evenings, I watched movies alone. Whatever was on, as long as it wasn’t a love story. If there wasn’t a movie devoid of any possible romantic plot points, I tuned into “reality” shows about people less relatable than Martians, or people screaming at each other on MSNBC’s political coverage or, best of all and with alarming frequency, the Home Shopping Network, where the host’s enthusiasm for a steam cleaner or plastic jewelry hocked by a C-list celebrity never known for her taste to begin with, blotted out my own emotions, taking my mind almost completely off the Tony-sized hole in my life.
I also spent a lot of time on the phone with Lucas. Almost every other day, for hours at a time. We had the easy intimacy of two people who’d survived a disaster. Since he’d never met or heard about Tony, it was always a safe conversation. Discussing our near-death experience and torture porn was a lot less upsetting than having people ask how I “felt” about the dissolution of my relationship.
Lucas seemed to be getting better. He was still living in Kristen’s place, where he’d found tens of thousands of dollars in cash hidden throughout the apartment. The maintenance fees on the co-op were paid a year in advance, and I agreed with him that until-or if-Kristen’s lawyers tried to force him out, he’d be a fool to leave. I also advised him what to do with all that money. Ill-gotten though it might be, Lucas could live off that cash for a long time while he made up his mind what he wanted to do with the rest of his life.
However, as a favor to him and because I really was rooting for the guy, we agreed that, for the short run, the money would go into a safe deposit box for which only I had the key. Lucas knew he was too volatile and immature to be trusted with that much cash. As a recovering addict, he was also too prone to temptation. Part of the deal, though, was that I’d only hold the money for him if he got into therapy. He agreed and I hooked him up with my former psychologist.
In the meantime, he volunteered half-time at Stuff of Life, a nonprofit that made and delivered meals to people living with HIV and AIDS. I used to help there when I was an escort and only had to work ten or fifteen hours a week.
My full-time job on my mom’s show made finding time for that a lot harder. I hoped that Lucas filled whatever void I’d left. I know my old friend Vicki, who was the volunteer coordinator there, called to thank me profusely after Lucas’s first day.
“Baby,” she said, and her deep, throaty voice on the phone made me miss her even more, “he is a find. Not only is he enthusiastic and hardworking, but he’s so hottified I expect we’ll be having men by the hundreds discovering a previously unknown interest in bagging sandwiches signing up. I get a hard-on looking at him, and I don’t even have a dick.”
“Unless you count the one in the drawer of your nightstand,” I joked.
