Mere Liaisons

[This story was written for a writing exercise limiting the text to exactly 750 words.]

Trent beat on the door of the St.-Raphaël Mediterranean-shore villa a second time after it had been shut in his face by Rene’s bodyguard, Hebert. It opened again, with Rene’s factotum, Claude, hovering in the background, saying, “Let him in. There’s no longer a need to keep him away.”

“Let me see him,” Trent said, brushing past Hebert. “He didn’t tell me he was ill. That’s why he sent me away, isn’t it?”

“I won’t deny that,” Claude said, moving in the young man’s wake. “He didn’t want you to see him deteriorate. He said to let you in, but he still doesn’t want you to see him. His bed’s behind a screen. You’re looking good—very good—Trent. I hope you landed on your feet.”

“Adult films. I manage for now,” Trent said. “But that won’t last for long. I gave him my all, Claude. Three years totally dedicated to him.”

“You gave some to me, too,” Claude said, “after he no longer could manage you.”

“Is that why you’re letting me see him now?”

“I’m not letting you see him. Just to be near him. He’s heavily sedated and isn’t lucid. But he comes and goes. He speaks of you often.”

“Even though he sent me away?”

“Yes. Be prepared, though. He continually reviews his life and his liaisons.”

“His liaisons?”

“Yes. Many before you, talking of them as mere liaisons, not romances or commitments—and of doing them all for gain. It’s a brutal assessment of his life.”

The room was large, airy, light-filled from doors opening out onto a balcony and the Mediterranean. The corner of the room, though, was darker and set off by a Chinese lacquered screen.

“You may stay unless he becomes agitated,” Claude said, pulling a chair to the screen. “I’m afraid it won’t be long for him now.”

“Have you told him I’ve come?” Trent asked, aware of the heavy breathing and mumbling from the other side of the screen.

“I’ve told him. It’s not clear he understood,” Claude said, as he left the room.

It took Trent a few moments to adjust to Rene Roux’s murmurings. He wanted to hear he had meant something to the head of the House of Rouge—The House of Red, with that color being highlight in all of its designs. It was the daring Paris men’s fashion house Rene Roux had ruled for three decades and where Trent had started as a model. He had given the man three years of his well-endowed life. He had put his life on hold. He loved him, thinking that Rene had loved in turn. Only to be jettisoned, even from his modeling job, Rene telling him it was only his cock he loved. Forced to get employment where he could—in adult movies.

Only now had there been the hint Rene sent him away to save him from Rene’s fast decline.

“Mere liaisons.”

What was that Rene murmured? Trent leaned closer into the screen.

“Derick Laughton, box office only a couple of seasons. What a handsome man. Insatiable cock. Taking me from the Marseilles gutters at an almost-too-early age, Taught me everything a man could do to another man to give him pleasure. Called me his boy toy. Enlightening months, but when the public came to know of it, his career went down. It brought me to Michel’s attention, though. A mere liaison.”

Rene coughed and mumbled something Trent couldn’t hear, but he clearly heard the name of Michel Brucile, the man who founded the House of Rouge. “Took me in. Couldn’t get enough of riding me. Brought me up through the fashion house, and left it to me. A cruel, demanding man, fucking me everywhere. But I outlasted him. Constantly saying he loved me. A mere liaison. But Rana, the Raput of Calcutta. The Clifton diamond. Another mere liaison, but the diamond allowed me to expand and take the House of Rouge global.”

“Then Trent.”

Yes, yes? What about me? Trent wanted to know. Was that more? Was it love? It had been to Trent. But he heard no more. After a while it occurred that he didn’t even hear breathing.

Claude returned and went behind the screen. “It’s good you managed to return in the end,” he said as he came back around the screen.

“Mere liaisons. All for his own gain,” Trent murmured.

“Not you,” Claude said. “He loved you. He’s left you the fashion house, not me. Not a mere liaison with you.”