A Collar and Tie (Ganymede Quartet Book 4) (4 page)

“Yeah,” Wendell said, “It’s interesting how people you’ve
known your whole life treat you differently once you have your slave.”

“Oh, most definitely,” Henry agreed. He looked to where
Martin stood talking with Ralph and Tom in the aisle; Martin saw him looking
and smiled, brief but gratifyingly intimate.

“Say, I heard something about Adam,” Freddie began. When he
had Henry’s attention, he said, “I heard it directly from him, actually. I was
with my father at his club, and Adam was there with his father, and he was
bragging about how he’s going to have his pick of the new companions before
they even come to auction.”

Henry disliked this idea. “He shouldn’t get another. He
doesn’t deserve one.” He wondered if Martin had heard this news.

“I think he’s still sore he didn’t get Martin,” Freddie
remarked. “He was going on and on about Ganymede being the best and how he
deserves the best.”

“He doesn’t,” Henry said grimly. He hated the idea of any
Ganymede boy, or any boy at all, being subject to Adam’s cruelties.

Freddie laughed. “Well, of course not! He’s
terrible
!”
Henry believed Freddie felt this, but he also believed Freddie wasn’t losing
sleep over it.

At the arcade, there were new reels in the Mutoscopes and
Martin wanted to look at them all, and so Henry wanted to do the same. Freddie
and Wendell grew bored and went to play other games, leaving Henry to linger by
the slaves, trying not to be too obvious about his eavesdropping as he inserted
his pennies and turned the cranks on the machines.

Two machines away, Martin peered into his own Mutoscope
while Tom stood at his side, complaining in a low voice, seeming quite
pathetic. “You’ve no idea,” he said. “I’m so lonely, Martin! I can’t have sex
while I’m sick, of course, but I miss sharing a bed.”

“Mr. Caldwell won’t let you sleep with him?”

“He has to feel pretty sorry for me first. He says I cling
too much. I keep to my side of the bed as best I can, but once I fall asleep,
I’m all over him, I guess.”

Martin laughed, but not unkindly. “Poor Tommy. You’ll be
better one day and you’ll have lots of people eager to have you in their beds.”

Tom did not seem as sure of this. “I don’t think you realize
what a pariah I am now, though. Even when I’m cured, people will definitely
remember that I had the clap and stay clear of me.”

Martin was not convinced the circumstances were so dire.
“People are always attracted to you, Tommy, you know this. You’ll have plenty
of partners. You’ll use rubbers from now on, and it’ll be fine.”

“I hate rubbers,” Tom grumbled.

“More than you hate being treated for gonorrhea?” Martin
laughed again, and Tom did, too.

“No, I guess not.” He turned and saw Henry, who had
forgotten to be circumspect in his interest. “Oh, Mr. Blackwell, Sir. Am I in
your way?” Henry was quite sure Tom knew he’d been listening.

“No, no,” Henry hurried to assure him, his face red. “I was
just—” He put his hand in his coat pocket and pulled out a handful of pennies.
“Do you want these, Martin? I’m just going to go find Freddie and Wendell.” He
shoved the coins in Martin’s hand and went to find his friends.

Henry felt quite sorry for Tom, actually. It was still
surprising to Henry that such an attractive person had such poor luck in
relationships, especially when he was open to romances with men and women both
and so had more options than most. He did see Tom’s interest in Martin as
having a romantic aspect, whether Martin would acknowledge it or not, but was
very confident Tom would see no satisfaction on that front, either, despite
Henry’s vivid fantasies. It surprised him to know that Freddie did not let Tom
share his bed. Were others of his friends sleeping alone? Was Henry the only
one who loved to sleep with his slave?

Freddie and Wendell were messing with the machine that
engraved words onto aluminum tags. Freddie had made one that said ‘fuck,’ but
Wendell was making a ‘Betsy’ for his churchy dance hall girl.

“What’s she supposed to do with it?” Henry asked.

Wendell shrugged. “It’s just to show her I like her. I don’t
think she can do much of anything with it.”

“You’ve known her a long time now,” Henry remarked. “You’re
not really courting her, though, are you?”

Wendell scoffed at this. “Of course not! I just like her.”
He put the finished tag in his pocket. “She lets me kiss her now, so that’s
nice. Nice for both of us.”

Freddie elbowed him. “So she thinks you’re a good kisser?”

“Well, neither of us has anyone to compare to,” Wendell
pointed out. “But yes. That’s what she says.”

Henry inferred from this that Wendell had never kissed his
Ralph. Had Freddie never kissed beautiful Tom? How could he not want to?

“Wendell tries to set me up, but all of Betsy’s friends are
too churchy for me,” Freddie told Henry. “I’ll dance with them, but it’s a
waste of time to try anything else.”

“You still go to that dance hall?” Henry asked Wendell. “Do
you see Miss O’Malley?”

“Who? Oh, Louis’ girl. No, she doesn’t come around anymore,
at least not that I’ve seen. Say, why did Louis break it off with her anyway?”

Henry shrugged. “It was sort of a mistake.” He didn’t want
to explain about James putting stupid ideas into Louis’ head. “I think he
regrets it.”

Freddie snorted. “He was having
sex
with her. He was
an idiot to give that up.”

Some other boys wanted to use the engraving machine, so they
shuffled over to the row of strength testers.

“We could have a contest,” Wendell suggested, waving a hand
at a machine testing punching strength.

Freddie wrinkled his nose, not liking this idea. “Henry will
win.”

“So?” Wendell countered, and Freddie conceded with a shrug.

They called the slaves over to hold their coats while they
took turns punching. Henry
was
strongest, and he
would
win, and
he didn’t care about it at all, and it meant nothing to him, except he couldn’t
help noticing how much it pleased Martin that he was in the lead. He couldn’t
help noticing how it seemed to arouse Martin, bringing color to his cheeks, and
how he had a gleam in his eye and a certain satisfied smugness that made Henry
feel pretty confident he was going to get his cock sucked later on.

It almost made him want to skip Jesse’s party.

There were some other boys using the punching bag, and while
they waited their turns, they returned to the subject of girls. Freddie had a
cousin who would kiss him, a girl a year older, but this was purely a
relationship of convenience, carried out at holidays and family birthdays.

“It got uncomfortable, though,” Freddie said. “At Christmas,
her slave had sex with Tommy and then things felt weird somehow. We’d be
sitting there with our slaves standing at our backs, just really aware that
they’d fucked and we
wouldn’t
, and it was…I don’t know, it was
embarrassing, I guess.”

“You don’t have to let him cat around,” Wendell pointed out.
“It’s caused a lot of trouble for you.”

Freddie shrugged. “No, not that much trouble, really. It’s
definitely been more trouble for him. Tommy’s a good slave.” He turned to
Henry. “What about you, though? You never talk about girls.”

Henry blushed and ducked his head. “I, uh, don’t have a
girl.”

“No kidding. Everyone knows that.” Freddie rolled his eyes.
“It’s peculiar because handsome fellows like you and Charles should definitely
have girls, but neither of you do.”

“My father doesn’t want me getting involved with any girls,”
Henry offered.

Freddie persisted. “Don’t you have a cousin or something?”

Henry shook his head. “My only girl cousin is a lot older,
and she’s off at school anyway.”

“Well, what kind of girls do you like? I know you’re shy, so
maybe the rest of us can find a girl for you if we know what you’re looking
for.”

“Uh…” Henry had no idea how to respond, but then the other
boys abandoned the punching bag and he had a respite while he and his friends
took their turns.

Henry was best at the punching bag, too, and he did care
about it a little now, aware that it was exciting to competitive Martin. With
the competition over, and Henry declared the winner, they all agreed to quit
the arcade. Henry would go to Jesse’s, his friends to the ice cream parlor.
Henry was slipping his arms into the coat Martin held ready for him when
Freddie insisted on returning yet again to the subject of women.

“So what is it you like, anyway, Henry? Redheads? Blondes?”

“Uh…” Was it safe to say he liked Martin’s coloring? It
probably was not. Henry bit his lip and felt his face grow hot.

“Sir?” Martin’s voice rang out clear as he smoothed Henry’s
coat over his shoulders. “Sir? You should tell them about your cousin’s girl.”
Henry turned to look questioningly at Martin, and Martin smiled warmly,
encouragingly. “I’m sure Mr. Caldwell and Mr. Franklin would be interested.”

“Oh,” Henry said. “Yes, I think they would.” He turned to
Freddie and Wendell. “My cousin Jesse, the one whose party I’m going to, is a
sort of
bohemian
and an artist, and he’s in love with this wild girl…”

They all walked to the ice cream parlor while Henry relayed
all he knew of Elizabeth: the poetry, the pubic hair, the sneaking, the
possible elopement, and Jesse’s topless drawing. Freddie and Wendell were
keenly interested, and quite nearly as delighted as if Elizabeth were Henry’s
own girl. Neither of them had ever met such a free spirit. Neither asked any
more questions about what sort of girl Henry liked.

They said their goodbyes and shook hands in front of the ice
cream parlor, and then Henry and Martin went to catch the omnibus back uptown.
They got off across the street from Hamilton & Sons and walked the few
blocks to the Wilton house. Henry had forgotten to be nervous all morning, but
his anxiety came flooding back as they walked. Jesse’s friends would all be
older, smarter, and more sophisticated than Henry. There was the distinct
possibility that they’d expect Henry to swap with them, and Henry wasn’t
entirely sure he could count on Jesse to help him opt out gracefully.

“What are you thinking about, Sir? You seem so serious.”

“There won’t be any swapping today, all right? No games.”

“Oh, of course not, Sir.”

“At the least hint of that, you come to me, understand?”

“Absolutely, Sir. I won’t get involved in anything like
that.”

The front door of the Wilton house was surrounded with crepe
paper bunting in red and yellow and the sounds of a lively party could be heard
even out on the stoop.

“Are you ready, Sir?” Martin asked, waiting for Henry’s nod.

Henry took a deep breath. Everything would be
fine
.
“Yes,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

Martin knocked and they were let in and their coats were
taken. One of the Wilton slaves went running to find “Mr. Jesse,” and Henry
stood awkwardly in the hall, Martin at his side, waiting. There was a festive
atmosphere inside as well as out, with more crepe paper on the walls and
wrapped around the balusters on the staircase. The rooms to either side of the
hall were packed with young people, boys and girls alike; it had not occurred
to Henry that Jesse would know girls.

“I could get you some punch, Sir,” Martin suggested.

“Don’t leave me alone!” Henry said in an urgent whisper. All
around, interested faces turned to look at them, and Henry made himself look
back, a bland smile fixed in place.

Martin leaned a little closer and murmured, “Remember Ronald
Hastings, Sir? They’ll all be like that, at the very least, wanting to be your
friend because of your name. You needn’t worry about anything, Sir, I promise.”

Martin was probably right. Henry relaxed a little, just a
very little, and bumped Martin with his shoulder for reassurance.

“Henry!” Here was Jesse, pushing through the crowd with Russ
right behind him. “Henry, I’m so glad you’re here!” Jesse hugged him, which was
somewhat embarrassing, though no one paid them any mind. Jesse took hold of his
wrist, pulling him into the crowd.

“Happy birthday, by the way,” Henry told him, letting
himself be tugged along.

“Oh, thank you, Henry, and thank you so much for the gift!
The shop tried to wrap it, of course, but it’s obvious what it is, and I
appreciate it so much!” He stopped to give Henry another hug, one-armed this
time. “Let me introduce you to some friends, all right? We should get you something
to eat first, I suppose. Martin, you know what he likes. Fix him a plate while
I take him to meet my friends.” When Martin hesitated, Jesse said, “Go on.
He’ll be right over here, I promise. Russ, you go with him.”

“Are all these people your friends from school?”

“Yes, mostly twelfth-year boys, but a few eleventh-years, as
well, along with people I met at the ball last year. But these fellows I want
you to meet now are my best friends.”

Four boys stood in a small group, hunched over their buffet
plates, their slaves close by. Henry recognized his cousin Eli Carmichael, of
course, and was glad to see him. They shook hands and exchanged greetings and
Eli clapped Henry on the back. The other three looked at Henry with interest.

“So you’re the famous cousin,” said a handsome pale blond
who reminded Henry somewhat of Julian. “I’m Gene Vermeulen and this—” he
indicated the dark-haired slave at his back “—is Warren.” Henry noted the
Ganymede tattoo below Warren’s collarbones.

“Henry Blackwell. Pleased to meet you.” Gene’s hand was
cool, his manner assessing. Henry tried to remember what Martin had said and
tried to believe it was true: all of these boys would want to be his friends.

The other two boys introduced themselves, as well. They were
Perry Whitman with his Chris and Joel Tate with his Vince. Perry had Martin’s
coloring, though not his beauty, yet Henry felt uncomfortably drawn to him all
the same, and his cheeks grew hot as they shook hands. It was a great relief
when Martin appeared at his elbow with a plate of food and a cup of punch and
he could occupy his hands and face with the business of eating.