Hidden Love by MINK

2

Gaines

“Why can’t I just fork out the money, you have the event, and I remain at my home while you wine and dine more cash out of the one percenters who come to these types of things?” I’ve had this argument several times over, but I still put up a fight when it comes to my social calendar, as meagre as it is.

“This is a worthy cause.” Mrs. Pettyford sighs and drapes a lock of her iron gray hair behind her ear in what I’ve learned is her ‘exasperated’ tell. “Every year the Anonymous Love event brings in a king’s ransom for the homeless shelters downtown. You keep them going by funding the gala, so just accept it.”

She bustles to my closet, her starchy black uniform perfectly crisp as always. “Now, let’s find you a tux worthy of your name.”

“I think we both know that isn’t an option.” My name. Which one? Mrs. Pettyford is the only one in the world who knows all my secrets.

“The Braeburn name, then. If you want to be specific about it,” she chirps from the depths of my closet. “Did you get a date this year?”

“Knock it off.”

She laughs, but it verges on a salty cackle. “Didn’t think so.”

I grumble some choice words, but she rolls right over them. “You should find someone and settle down. Make some babies for me to fuss over. I’m wasted in this huge house with just you to look after. Half the time, you won’t even let me do for you as I’d like.”

“I do just fine for myself.”

Another laugh. “Brooding, studying, going on secret trips and coming back with priceless relics you’ve saved from destruction. Always alone. Always shunning others. You’re lonely, Gaines. You need someone.”

“I’ve got you.”

“Bah! A widow twice your age who can cross-stitch, cook, and keep secrets isn’t a companion, young man.”

She hasn’t called me “young man” in years, and her tone cuts a little deeper, as if she’s truly worried about me.

“I’m doing just fine. We’re fine.”

“Bah,” she says again, then keeps muttering under her breath.

It’s time to escape this conversation. We’re having it far too frequently these days. I rise from the bench at the foot of my bed and trudge to my bathroom. A quick shave and a shower will have me looking good enough for the rich assholes at the event. Once I’ve shaken enough hands, I’ll be able to fade when the real entertainment begins.

Shah is perched on my sink, his green eyes watching me solemnly as I pull out my razor and shaving cream. He’s a Persian, one with a particularly haughty look. It’s why I like him. He’s the real deal, not a pretender like me. Maybe having a petulant cat is the only way to keep a man like me grounded. Remind me of where I came from. He’s also a pretty good sleeping companion, until he gets a bit too diva and tries to lie on my head.

“I won’t be gone long.” I slap some water on my face and get to work. He doesn’t move, his eyes watching every move I make from my shave to my shower to getting dressed.

Before I leave, I walk to the back of my closet and work through the puzzle and series of locks that hide my greatest treasure. Shah prances to my side. I think he enjoys my secret room as much as I do. When I’ve finally dismantled the locks and the booby traps, I stride into the climate-controlled room with black velvet walls and smooth marble floors.

Treasure after treasure line the walls, many of which would’ve been looted or destroyed in foreign conflicts. I don’t keep them for myself, even though I do enjoy looking at them. Each piece has detailed instructions of where it came from, where it belongs, and when it should be returned. Relics, art, jewels--all of it kept safe from the outside world.

“Mrs. Pettyford thinks I’m playing God.” I shoot a glance at Shah. “That I should let these artifacts perish or be stolen or despoiled.”

His tail twitches with disdain. He agrees with me, not Mrs. Pettyford, on the subject. Another reason I like him.

At the back of the room is a box no bigger than a loaf of bread, its ebony surface inlaid with ivory and an intricate pattern of gold and jewels. I’ve never been able to open it. The locking mechanism contains an ingenious booby trap that, upon closer inspection, reveals that any attempts to circumvent it will destroy the contents. Worse, the box is lined with lead on the inside, so any attempts to guess at its contents via modern imaging technology have been futile.

I found it at an estate sale many years ago, and it has intrigued me since. In fact, I’m drawn to it despite not knowing what’s inside or why this particular item caught my eye. As far as I know, it’s not a religious or cultural relic.

Shah and I stand and admire it for a while, as we do almost every evening.

“Enough gawking at things you don’t even intend to keep!” Mrs. Pettyford’s irritated voice filters into my sanctum.

Shah and I exchange a look, then return to my closet, lock my vault, and find Mrs. Pettyford waiting for me in my room.

“You could’ve spent a little while longer on your hair.” She reaches up, but there’s no way she can touch my hair. She’s barely five feet, and I’m all of six foot five.

“It doesn’t matter.” I run my fingers through the unruly strands that need a cut.

“It does. Photographers, looky loos, eligible ladies.” She frowns and follows me into the hall and down the stairs.

“I won’t be gone long. Keep the home fires burning.”

“I always do.” She sighs as I head out to the courtyard. “And try and bring someone home this time, will you? Be nice. Stop frowning at everyone. Don’t be scary. Don’t be … you know … you.”

That instruction only causes my budding frown to bloom into a full glower.

“Put yourself up for auction,” she continues. “All those rich bimbos will fall all over themselves to bid on a night with you.”

I turn to her. “I do that every year.”

Her brown eyes narrow. “Yeah, but then you always outbid the highest offer and take yourself home for the night. That’s cheating!”

“It’s fair.” I wave a hand without looking back, then drop into my Ferrari. It’s a tight squeeze, but I manage it. Nothing beats the feeling of all that horsepower at my command, so I gun it down my drive and out into the night.

I will do what I must, get the event going, bid on myself, and disappoint Mrs. Pettyford yet again. Despite her words, there has never been a “rich bimbo” that’s interested me, and tonight will be no different.