Chapter 24
Phantom. Then.
It was late by time I got home.
I’d dropped Ophelia and the kids off with her sister.
Not one to overstay my welcome, I took a cab back home.
When I got inside, however, it hit me all at once how quiet my house was.
There was debris from Friday’s club night.
I made myself useful and went around the house, cleaning up and putting it back together.
Washing sheets. Wrapping rope. I journeyed upstairs to the attic and knocked on Princess’s room, but even she wasn’t home.
I was starting to think that the word alone was less of an aspiration, more of a self-inflicted wound, when my phone buzzed.
[Text: Ophelia]
Liar.
[Text: Phantom]
***
She sent a picture. It was one of the (many) selfies I took with the kids on Ophelia’s phone while she napped.
[Text: Ophelia]
Kids don’t hate you. they love you
[Text: Phantom]
They like me because I bribe them with ice cream.
[Text: Ophelia]
and carry me around like Tarzan apparently
[Text: Ophelia]
I’m only going to say this once…
[Text: Ophelia]
You were right.
[Text: Ophelia]
I’m glad you were there today.
[Text: Phantom]
I’m glad I was there too.
There was a pause. Her text bubble started, stopped, then started again.
[Text: Ophelia]
The zoo was such a hit, we’re doing the MET tomorrow
[Text: Ophelia]
You in?
Am I in…?
How far am I willing to let this go?
A knock on the door pulled me from my thoughts. I tucked my phone away and answered the door. I thought that maybe Princess locked herself out, so I was surprised when I saw a tall man with floppy, dark hair.
“Poe?”
I hadn’t seen him in—shit. Over a year, I guess. He used to be a regular at the club. Then, one day, he vanished and never came back. That happened, sometimes. Usually people find love, settle down, and decide they no longer need the club.
But here he was. Back on my doorstep.
And drunk. That was clear enough by his lopsided grin and the stagger in his step.
“I tried the code,” he said, then he frowned. “But I seem to have…forgotten it.”
“Club was Friday,” I told him. “Today’s Saturday.”
“Is it?” He sucked in air through his teeth. “Damn.”
“I’ll call you a cab.”
He swayed on the step. I grabbed him by the front of his shirt, halting his backwards motion before he fell and broke his neck on the stone steps. “Why don’t you wait inside?”
But his eyes looked glassy now. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a book. He held it up to me so I could read the title, but we were so close that he nearly smacked me in the face with it. “Have you read this?”
Damaged Hearts. I shook my head. “Never heard of it.”
His smile turned apologetic. “You’re in it.”
Poe made himself at home in my library. He spread out, his feet crossed on the red, velvet fabric of the couch.
I cracked open two beers and we sipped while he read passages from the book out loud.
Damaged Hearts was, apparently, a tell-all novel written by Poe’s sister-in-law.
It revealed all the sordid details of his secret relationship with her.
Since they’d played at the Seekers Club, the club was a major figure in the book.
Poe hooked the book between his fingers, reading dramatically, “The club owner, a neurotic man in his fifties—”
I scoffed.
“—Has all the warmth of an aging boxer who should’ve retired twenty punches ago.”
Ouch.
“The ying to his yang is his assistant, a childlike trans woman who shadows him like a codependent puppy dog.”
Now I could feel my blood pressure rise. Say what you want about me, but Princess—?
“Together, they rule Club Noir like the perfect Batman villain and henchwoman duo, amassing an army of freaks, degenerates, and perverts. Like me.”
Poe snapped the book shut. He was laughing so hard at this point, he had to wipe tears from his eyes.
“An army,” he repeated. “Seekers, don your jockstraps! We’re storming the pulpit!”
I took a generous swallow from the bottle. I needed it. The Seekers Club was full of freaks—sure. But they were my freaks. A protective anger stirred under my skin. “What does she have to say about you?”
“There’s too many passages to choose from.” He flipped through the book. “All terrible.”
“Did you know she was going to publish this?”
He shook his head, snapping the book shut. “I had no idea until it came out. Copy on my doorstep.”
I winced. “How’d your family take it?”
“Well. They didn’t guillotine me for sleeping with my brother’s wife and corrupting her to the dark side. They just cut me out.”
He said it in such a devil-may-care tone, but I could tell it was eating him up from the inside out. “I’m sorry,” I said sincerely.
“That’s the gamble we play, right?” Poe said. “We play all these secret games in the dark but, eventually…the light is gonna come. And when it does, it’ll ruin you.”
“Poe.”
“My parents don’t talk to me. My sister has been warned against me, like my perversions are infectious.
My brother—forget it. Last time I saw him, he punched me in the face.
I am never getting him back.” He said it, then paused, as though the weight of it hit him all at once.
“I am never, ever getting my brother back.”
The night took a somber turn. I stood and gave his shoulder a pat. “Water?”
“Sure.”
I stepped into the kitchen, dug out some ice, and fixed Poe a glass.
As the water filled around the ice cubes, I couldn’t help but ruminate over Poe’s situation.
Poe had two lives—his vanilla life and his kink life.
The minute his ex exposed him, he lost everything.
He lost his family. His parents. His siblings.
All because of the things he did under my club’s roof.
This was why we kept the door locked. Why we used scene names. Why we made such a clear divide between the Seekers Club and reality.
Meanwhile, I’d been playing with Ophelia in the daylight. Going to her house. Meeting her family. Meeting her niece and nephew. I’d been playing with fire, and I knew it.
I reentered the living room and set Poe’s glass down. Poe had curled over, his face tucked into the cushion. His body shivered, and I realized…he was crying.
“I fucked up, Phantom,” he choked out. “I really…really fucked up. I’m a bad person.”
I crouched down beside him and put my hand on his shoulder.
“You’re going to be okay,” I told him. “It’s going to be okay, Poe.”
“Dorian.” He sniffed. “Please, don’t…use Poe. Just Dorian.”
I hesitated. “Alex. Alex Casper.”
He chuckled on a weary laugh, wiping his hand over his face. “Casper. That’s so…goddamn cute.” He sat up, grabbed his beer, and we clinked our bottles together.
It wasn’t going be okay. Not for Poe, anyway.
Not for me, either.
Poe passed out on my couch, clutching a bottle of beer like it was the Holy Grail. I gently pried it from his hands and set up an array of recovery tools on the table instead: a full glass of water, a bottle of Advil, and an apple.
(I’d run out of clementines).
Then I put a blanket over him, sat in the armchair, and closed my eyes.
I never texted Ophelia back, and she never followed up. This was a usually long stalemates for us. I should’ve let it go, but…I couldn’t.
I didn’t have a social media presence myself, but Ophelia did. And she posted frequently. Pictures of her dog and her coffee order and selfies of her sticking up the peace sign with a halo of light behind her making her look like a goddamn angel and…
Sure enough, there was a post. Two minutes ago. Location tagged: the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Song: Knife in my Eyes by the Subway Ratz.
In the picture, Kira was crossing her eyes for the camera. Squeaky was hiding behind a stuffed sea lion. Ophelia was wearing a gorgeous smile and—
Who was that? A man with them. Square face, smooth complexion, mid-thirties. Around Ophelia’s age. He was adjusting a hat on Ophelia’s head, which she was playfully pointing to. The hat read in jagged white lettering: Subway Ratz.
The caption: Ratz in the museum!
He was tagged. Brody Hansen. Lead singer of the Subway Ratz.
I recoiled. Out loud, I heard myself balk, “Who the fuck is Brody Hansen?”