Bath Haus Read online

  ALSO BY P. J. VERNON

  When You Find Me

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Philip Vernon

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Doubleday, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.

  www.doubleday.com

  DOUBLEDAY and the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Cover design by John Fontana

  Cover images: man © Torkil Gudnason/Trunk Archive; cross © johnjohnson/Shutterstock

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Vernon, P. J., author.

  Title: Bath haus : a thriller / P. J. Vernon.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Doubleday, [2021]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020051998 (print) | LCCN 2020051999 (ebook) | ISBN 9780385546737 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780385546744 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Gay men—Fiction. | Spouses—Fiction. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3622.E753 B38 2021 (print) | LCC PS3622.E753 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2020051998

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2020051999

  Ebook ISBN 9780385546744

  ep_prh_5.7.0_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by P. J. Vernon

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Asphyxia (n)

  I. Surprise Respiration

  Chapter 1: Oliver

  Chapter 2: Nathan

  Chapter 3: Oliver

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  II. Dyspnea

  Chapter 7: Nathan

  Chapter 8: Oliver

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10: Nathan

  Chapter 11: Oliver

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14: Nathan

  Chapter 15: Oliver

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18: Nathan

  Chapter 19: Oliver

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21: Nathan

  Chapter 22: Oliver

  III. Unconsciousness

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24: Nathan

  Chapter 25: Oliver

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29: Nathan

  Chapter 30: Oliver

  Chapter 31: Nathan

  Chapter 32: Oliver

  Chapter 33

  IV. Hypoxic Convulsion

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35: Nathan

  Chapter 36: Oliver

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38: Nathan

  Chapter 39: Oliver

  Chapter 40: Nathan

  Chapter 41: Oliver

  Chapter 42: Nathan

  Chapter 43: Oliver

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47: Nathan

  Chapter 48: Oliver

  Chapter 49

  V. Terminal Respiration

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51: Nathan

  Chapter 52: Oliver

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54: Nathan

  Chapter 55: Oliver

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For Barry

  Asphyxia (n)

  A lack of oxygen and excess of carbon dioxide in the body that results in unconsciousness and, within four to six minutes, death.

  Clinical asphyxia is divided into five stages:

  I. Surprise Respiration

  When danger is recognized, a deep and forceful inhalation occurs.

  1

  OLIVER

  This is a fucking mistake.

  My heart beats against the back of my sternum like it might knock itself still.

  I kill the ignition and Nathan’s SUV sinks into silence. My wedding band slides right off, joining spare console change. Nathan and I aren’t married, but he insists we wear rings.

  The iPhone buzzing in my pocket is a miniature washing machine. Nathan’s calling. I wait it out, don’t move. A simple phone call that I treat like a kidney stone. Excruciating and it needs to pass. He leaves a voicemail.

  “Oliver. Dinner’s wrapped up, headed back to the hotel now. Give me a call if you can. Wondering what you’re doing. Did you remember Tilly’s heartworm medication? Don’t forget. It’s important. Call me. Love you.”

  Mental note: return Nathan’s call within the hour. Thirty minutes is his typical limit. If he doesn’t hear back within half an hour, we fight. But he’s out of town, and I can stretch it to an hour. He can’t fight me from Manhattan, and it sounds like he’s been drinking anyway.

  Cars jam the parking lot, bumper to bumper, nose to nose. Hidden from uninvited curiosity by a blanket of thick tree cover. No rhyme or reason or pattern ties one vehicle to another. A rust-scorched Pontiac sits beside a sleek black Mercedes. The polish on the Benz captures light from a lone streetlamp, painting itself in electric-blue waves. Countless more juxtapositions abound. Cross sections of the city. Not a single thing in common among their owners.

  Except one: the desire to have sex with other men. Anonymously.

  Breath fights me on the way out, clawing my windpipe like something feral. Oddly, my heartbeat slows and for a moment, I worry perhaps it has stopped altogether. One sneaker in front of the other, I make for a lone door—windowless, heavy. The building is unmarked save for the name I’d found online days earlier:

  Haus.

  I tug the handle, and the door creaks open on one, two, five sets of metal hinges.

  Low lighting, obviously. And a smell, pervasive, that soaks everything. I can almost wring it from the air. Cheap sterility. A pungent odor that’s at once recognizable. The purple bottle. Lavender, I think, and adjacent to Pine-Sol on every supermarket shelf.

  “Hey.” A man greets me from behind a glassed-in desk. Not unlike a bank teller. “You a member?”

  No, I say—only not aloud. A cough, then: “No.”

  “You need to be one.” He pushes a clipboard through an opening and I note the thickness of his fingers. He’s large, but his sweatshirt still hangs loose. His features are drawn to the center of his face, needlessly crowding it.

  “How much?” I ask, certain I’ve spoken out loud.

  “Forty bucks. For the year. And I need your ID.”

  Not bad, and an ID makes sense. No minors allowed. Here, a birthday is the difference between no strings attached and the sex registry. I slide him my driver’s license: Oliver Park. Twenty-six years old. W
ashington, DC. Organ donor.

  A flare of blue Xerox light crosses his face. The abrupt flicker leaves behind a wake of blackness as my eyes readjust. For a fleeting moment, Nathan materializes in the dark and my pulse spikes. But seeing things in the dark is normal. Things that aren’t there. My thoughts return to the copy machine. Proof of my visit crowds the tip of my tongue with questions, and I tug my bottom lip.

  He reads my mind: “For our records. We never share it, but we need to know our patrons. Legal shit.” A pause. “You signed?”

  I nod and trade his clipboard—cash attached—for my license.

  “If you’re gonna drink, you gotta leave a card.”

  “You can do that here?”

  “Only in the bar. Two-beer max. One if you want liquor.” I’m quiet for a beat, and he taps his finger. “Look, don’t sweat the charge. If you forget to cash out, it’ll say dry cleaning.”

  “Yeah. Okay.” Regret from walking in sober—fear of whiskey dick or something stupid like that—vanishes as I slip him my credit card. Dry cleaning’s not the best cover because Nathan handles ours. But I’ll pay with cash after.

  “Perfect.” He stoops beneath his desk, and for a few long seconds, I’m alone again. When he stands, he holds a cream-colored towel, folded into a neat square. Atop it: a single-use packet of lube, two condoms—fruit flavored—and a brass key on a rubber cord.

  “Nine zero three.” He grins, and his narrow eyes crease. The corners of his mouth nearly touch his beady irises like a feline’s. “Have fun.”

  “Thanks.”

  When I’ve lingered too long, he gestures to the door on my left. I’m suddenly a bit like Alice. I’ve just met the Cheshire Cat, and Jefferson Airplane drums over which pills do what in my head.

  Through door number 2, rows of lockers wait. I’m eager to leave the solvent reek of cleaners behind, but it only thickens. I’m also not alone, and my heart hiccups. Men stand and sit and linger in stages of undress, manspreading on changing benches, tiny towels intentionally parted.

  None of them are particularly attractive—or if they are, the darkness is a mask—but that’s not the point, is it? What’s important is that I’ve left my life behind. I’ve abandoned its norms and its mores for Haus. Where we all play half-hidden in shadow and nakedness and thirsty eyes aren’t transgressive.

  Haus caters to consequence-free expression, and I’m going to give in. An odd decision only in that I’d sworn I’d already made it. Somewhere between a heart-thumping Google query and cranking Nathan’s car, but apparently I hadn’t. Until now.

  I locate the nine hundred row, find 903, and slip my key in.

  What would Nathan say if he could see this? Of course, he can’t. And he won’t ever know. His conference keynote is long over. He’s left NYU Langone Medical Center for his hotel. The Millennium Hilton according to his e-confirmation. Awake or not, he’ll expect a call back soon. The longer his voicemail grows stale, the more he’ll needle later. His statement, I love you, will assume different punctuation. I love you?

  I pull my T-shirt off, and gooseflesh crawls up my bare back.

  Nathan’s thumbing through news on his phone. Or if not, he’s fast asleep. Glasses on the nightstand next to iced water. No, water’s not quite right; Nathan sleeps beside a hotel tumbler. It would’ve held bourbon but it won’t by now. And it won’t have been his first. One hour, timestamped, and I’ll call him from his own car in the parking lot.

  My chest tightens. I draw in breath, slip khaki to my ankles, and step out from my shorts.

  I’m in black briefs now. Briefs and sneakers—no socks. Nothing else. An older man, pear-shaped and lumpy, stares in obvious ways. He consumes both my flesh that’s exposed and my flesh that isn’t. When our eyes meet, he doesn’t look away and I’m embarrassed for him. Then I remember where we are.

  An undeniable pleasure blooms. This man lusts for me and being objectified is an intoxicating little feeling I’ve missed terribly.

  I toy with removing my underwear but opt to keep covered. At least a little bit. Don’t get ahead of yourself. I wrap the towel around my waist and hang the key from my wrist. I don’t need Nathan’s medical degree to know to keep my sneakers on. No amount of lavender solvent justifies bare feet on this tile.

  The leering man’s no longer there. He’s likely vanished down a black corridor, hazy from steam, and I follow suit.

  Down the rabbit hole and into a space that feels dark enough for developing photographs. Hot jungle air. Low red light touches everything but corners where shadows of men grind and thrust and bob. Moaning. Hushed words, frightening and thrilling.

  “Yeah…”

  “Don’t…”

  “Yes…”

  “Take…”

  I pad down another humid hall. Stifling, door-lined, and each door is numbered. The inevitable looms on either side of me, like a sharp knuckle about to knock. A sign behind the Cheshire Cat had detailed room rates and these rent by what? The hour? The minute? The hall spills into a kind of gallery where projectors paint the walls in flickering vintage porn. Grainy cowboys smoking cigarettes and cock. No volume, but you wouldn’t need it—the space teems.

  My palms are wet and itchy. Am I really prepared to do what I’ve come here for? What I only just decided I would do? I’ve come this far, and this is very far.

  I find what appears to be a lounge, and drink relief like cool water. A casual refuge. Barflies. Sultry Britney belts “Toxic” on a TV over the counter, and I could be in any gay bar now. I’ll take a seat here and regroup.

  Breathe, Oliver.

  “Vodka tonic?” I ask a shirtless bartender in jeans so low it’s a shame he’s off-limits.

  Black light sets his teeth aflame in fluorescence when he bares them. “Locker number?”

  “Nine oh three.”

  He winks and slides a glass of well liquor my way. The drink has bite, and a thrumming pulse hurls alcohol through my blood-brain barrier. I’m done in two swallows.

  “What are you looking for?”

  The voice comes from behind, but its owner sidesteps and claims the next stool over. The accent takes me by surprise. Scandinavian maybe.

  He’s in a towel too. Rubber flip-flops. He moves with intention, and his shoulder muscles tense and relax. A tightness in my gut says I’m buying whatever the hell this stranger plans to pitch. He’s muscular and svelte at the same time. Taller than me, but most men are.

  His eyebrows lift and he smiles before repeating himself: “What are you looking for?”

  Blond bangs frame deep eyes. Ocean deep, actually, and Alexander Skarsgård here just might drown me. I clear my throat. “I’m not sure yet.”

  It’s the truth, which means I’m off-balance. In situations like this, the truth is what we offer when we don’t have anything better.

  He draws closer, and I flinch. A second, knowing grin, and he reaches into my glass for ice with long fingers. He places a wet cube between full lips, where it starts to melt, before slipping it inside his mouth.

  When it cracks between his teeth, my resolve—what little there is—does precisely the same. Our eyes meet, and I resist the urge to look away. Something taunting says he wouldn’t let me. His ocean-deep eyes would chase mine. Pin them down, pin me down.

  Tiny hairs on my face and chest stiffen with static charge. His hand finds my thigh, travels beneath my towel. Fingers run the hem of my briefs.

  “I’m Kristian.” He whispers unfettered possibility into my ear: “I have a room.”

  I nod, and he stops just shy of my crotch. Dopamine—and whatever the fuck else makes a body high—rafts through my veins. I’m intoxicated and trailing him down a hall.

  Everything is about the present. Nathan doesn’t exist here. Nor does the home we’ve made together. This is Wonderland, and Wonderland only exists in the now. There is
only now. The door shuts behind us in a room couched in darkness. My heart pounds, and Kristian says he can feel my pulse in every part of me.

  Electricity snaps, arcs from me to him. We kiss.

  The towels are gone. As are my briefs. He spins me to face a sweating wall, my palms flush against it. Steam from saunas and showers and whirlpools pipes in through unseen vents. Dampness crowds the air, pools in body crevasses.

  We slip against each other, but he holds me firm. His mouth on the back of my neck.

  I turn long enough to say: “Condom.”

  “I have,” he answers, and I swallow the softball in my throat. My thoughts barely keep pace with my heartbeat. I’m doing this. No more thinking about it. The bridge is crossed and every moment after this will exist in the light of a new truth.

  I’ve pulled a trigger. I’ve cheated on Nathan, and like a gun, I can never un-fire.

  He brings my wrists together behind my back. I expect he’s fumbling with the condom or the lube or both.

  Only he isn’t.

  Instead, his free palm pushes its way between my shoulder blades. I turn, and his grip on my wrists tightens. His fingers reach my neck, and my heart catches fire. I’m vulnerable for a moment, but soon his hand will run through my hair, gripping it for what’s to come.