The Book of Masks (Vol. 2)

Favors Asked with a Sinister Flavor

Previously: "Mother Loves" 

It's almost an agony to turn down Aidan Seabury's invitation. The lust he arouses in Carol's body is so strong it's elemental.

"I'm sorry, sugar bear," you whine, and to your horror you find that you have to fight to get the words out. "But if we're not having the board meeting ... I've got other errands I have to do."

"You had an hour for a board meeting." His soothing voice seems to slither like a serpent from the phone and wrap itself around your chest. It squeezes as he adds. "You had time for a board meeting, but you don't have thirty minutes for your sugar bear?"

"I do," you protest. "Except, something came up. I gotta prioritize."

"You mean I'm not at the top of your list, always?"

The fuck is the matter with me? With Carol? you wonder. You are so suddenly dizzy with desire you have to make an emergency turn into a parking lot and stop the car.

"You are, sugar bear," you groan. "But ... I'm on the road ... Was on the road, and I got a call from my son. He—"

"Say no more," Aidan says, and it's like a spell has been broken: suddenly his voice is only a voice, and not a magnet. "Your son—"

"Sugar bear!"

"—always comes first."

"It's not like that!"

"I didn't say it was, Carol." There is syrup in his voice again—a nectar that you love to feed on. "How is Charlie? It's not an emergency, is it?"

"Charles?" you blink. "No, I just— Some business came up with him, and I—"

"Why don't you bring him out the next time you're up at the museum? I know of some good positions for him here, things that would look good on a college application."

Now you've another feeling in your chest, like a hard, cold block of granite. "I don't think Charles would like ... museum work."

"It would be Arts Council stuff, Carol," Aidan assures you. "Executive employment, not menial. And not an internship."

You yield so far as to mumble that you'll talk to Charles about it. Aidan says, "At least bring him out so I can make my pitch directly." Again, you mumble an insincere affirmation. "Great," enthuses Aidan, and though his tone is as dulcet and ingratiating as ever, you find yourself loathing the sound of it. "I look forward to it. I'll be bothering you about it again, Carol, sooner rather than later. And sooner, too, about ... us."

Us. The word is like a sharp but sweet knife-thrust to the heart. You struggle to catch your breath as the line goes dead.

* * * * *

It took you a while to recover, as you wondered what the hell that was all about. You are trembling still when you pull back into traffic and point the nose of the SUV toward home.

The attraction that Carol Lowell-Whitney felt for Aidan Seabury when they met was immediate and total. It was at a public meeting of the Arts Council. Her friend Virginia Grant thought it might be a community activity Carol would be interested in. She was, but she was much more interested in the Arts Council's panther-like president. When Virginia introduced them to each other after the meeting, and he locked his magnetic gaze onto her, she nearly came. Their affair began soon after.

That was a little more than a year ago, and in all that time—you recall now from inside Carol's memories—she never so much as hesitated when he crooked his finger in her direction. But it was the almost violent reaction you felt when you tried resisting his invitation—as palpable as a lasso of razor wire pulled tight around your chest—that shocks you. Your mind goes back to some of their sessions together—and just as quickly you try to thrust them away. Seabury, you reflect with a shudder, is not what might be called a "gentle lover." Nor was he one for "safe words" when Carol started screaming.

You try to distract yourself by yelling at your cell phone to call Charles, but in the minutes before and after you talk to him, asking him to come home, it only reminds you of Aidan's insistent request that you introduce Charles to him. It's a request he's made before, and the recoil you felt was one that Carol also felt. As near as you can tell, she put her repulsion down to the thought of mixing her son up, even in a business-like way, with her lover. But from your own, more objective, viewpoint, you wonder if there isn't something else going on. Aidan Seabury, you can't help feeling even as contemplation of his face and name sets the lustful sap throbbing again in your glands and loins, is a bad influence.

It's not until you have been home for some twenty minutes, and hear the front door open to admit the deep chatter of male voices, that you are able to push him from your mind entirely.

* * * * *

You hadn't told Charles what you wanted, just that you wanted him home, because you had no other purpose than to somehow maneuver him into a position where you could get the mask off him and discover who was beneath it. Unless there has been another change of positions since this morning, you are pretty certain it won't be one of the assholes who trapped you, and that will give you an ally. Then, together, you might start to figure out why the magic that held you (and the others) in thrall had failed.

But he's brought friends with him. Three of them, and it takes you aback to find yourself confronting them.

So when Charles says, "Hey, Mom. What's up?" with the dead-eyed resentment he has shown more and more toward his mother, you are not quite sure what to reply.

"Oh, you brought friends with you," you improvise. "Hi Zachary, Ethan," you greet them. "Um—" You pretend that the name of the fourth has momentarily eluded you, even though as one of Saint Xavier's studliest studs you know exactly who he is. "Marius, right?" Marius Hall, a handsome, barrel-chested slab of beefcake in a gray sweatshirt and rugged jeans, jerks his chin at you, and studies you with a hooded but inquiring gaze. "You were all out having fun, I guess," you lamely conclude.

None of the boys reply or react, save for Charles, whose chilly expression ices over.

"Well," you continue, trying to collect your breath and wits, "I know it's the last Saturday of the Christmas vacation and all, but— I know!" You chase desperately after the sudden thought. "How would you boys like to earn"—How much would these guys be expecting or stand for? you wonder—"two hundred dollars for an hour or two of work? Each?"

They look startled—even Charles does—and exchange quick glances. You smile at them with a sense of relief.

"I was just going to make Charles to do it," you continue with a strengthening confidence, and with a gesture summon them to follow you through the kitchen and out the back door. "But if you're all here and help out, we can get it done that much faster. And then—" You turn a broad smile onto them. "Then you'll all have the rest of the day free again, and you'll have some spending money. Wouldn't that be nice?" You wince at that last, rhetorical flourish.

"What do you want us to do?" Charles asks as you lead them across the back lawn toward the barn. His tone is still churlish, but there's curiosity in it.

You point to the barn. "Since we sold Merrydew, that thing has just been falling apart. It's a mess in there. Your dad and I have been talking about whether we want to remodel it or just pull it down completely and put something else up."

"I thought you were talking about getting another horse," Charles says.

"Well ... Maybe. Your dad and I are talking about a lot of things. But—" You glance over the boys, who are all looking dubiously at the barn. "We want to know what the thing looks like under all the dirt and grime and cobwebs and ... and junk.

"So," you conclude, "what I want to pay you guys for is to clean it all out. Carry all the junk out, sweep it out, sweep out the cobwebs. The floor, the stalls, the loft, everything."

They look skeptical, but only Ethan—a friend of Charles's since middle school—says anything. "And you'll pay us two hundred dollars each?" He jump as Charles elbows him sharply in the ribs.

"Well, I don't know what the going rates are, but—"

"We'll do it," Charles quickly says. "It won't take, like—" He glances between the faces of the others. "An hour to do it?"

"I don't want anything slapdash," you warn him.

"Well, we'll work for an hour," he ripostes, "then you can come out and tell us if we're done."

"Hrm. Well, alright."

Then, as the quartet tramps off toward the barn, you realize you still need to get Charles alone.

And then you remember something else you might need. "Hang on!" you call.

Inside the barn, you lead them to that big trunk.

"I need this in the house," you tell them. "It's not real heavy, but—" You grab one of the handles. It's heavier than you would have guessed, but you can just about manage to get one end up. "Can I get one of you strapping boys to grab the other end and help me get this out to the garage?"

The words are out of your mouth before you realize how open-ended you phrased your request. You could get any of them inside the house, alone. Charles is the most obvious one to ask, but you know that Zachary is also a fake, and Ethan might be one too. And what about Marius? You don't remember seeing him with Charles before—just as you never hung out wrestlers and lacrosse players before.

Next: "The Marius Maskerade" 

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"Table of Contents (Vol. 2)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 2)"