Hang Up Your Coat (Barlyle)

07

The upscale restaurant was among the nicest in the city. Leaston's lips curled into a smirk around his wine glass as the door opened and the owner of one of New York's finest theaters came through the door.

Like Phillip, Leaston had a way with words that came to life upon the stage. However, his flair for romance and seduction was often overshadowed by Phillip Carlyle's Shakespearean-esque tragedies. The Carlyle boy was whiny and overly dramatic, and had a peculiar taste for tales of woe inspired by bouts of alcoholism. And, though his playwriting had taken a backseat to his rendezvous with the circus, his plays continued to sell out theaters. Theatre owners over picked Phillip's plays over Leaston's - and it infuriated the latter-mentioned man to no end.

Some platforms may be able to overlook Phillip's abandonment of the aristocratic lifestyle for the circus, and they may be able to overlook his very public feud with his parents, but this new information could not go ignored. Leaston knew this and that almighty power caused him to smirk as his business target took his seat.

"Ah, Mr. Harris," Leaston greeted, "I cannot express my gratitude enough that you've finally decided to meet with me regarding my work."

"You were quite persistent, Mr. Leaston," Mr. Harris responded. He, too, ordered a glass of champagne and spoke again once the waiter had gone. "However, I know you know that my shows are currently booked, and Phillip Carlyle's plays are—"

"If I may," Leaston interrupted. Mr. Harris lifted an eyebrow as he fell into silence. "I believe I have knowledge about the Carlyle lad that you and other managers around New York will find quite... interesting."

"Oh?" When his champagne arrived, Mr. Harris took a sip and leaned back in his chair. He rested his hands on his very round stomach. "Do tell me more."

Glancing quickly around the restaurant, Leaston leaned forward. Whispers of Phillip Carlyle's affair with an "unknown male" passed from lips to ear.

Mr. Harris's eyes sparkled with intrigue by the time the waiter came back to take their orders.

Beside them, a grinning group of men snickered and elbowed one another. Their wives folded hands over their mouths, faces burning bright pink, ducking their heads in odd mixtures of awe and shame. Their eyes sparkled as they glanced quick peeks at one another.

The news would be all over their part of New York before long.

*

Phillip Carlyle woke with the hangover to end all hangovers. Legitimate tears formed in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks as he sat up in bed - his own bed, this time - and forced his feet to the floor. Hungover or not, he had to get to the circus. They had a show (one? two? he couldn't remember) that night.

(anne is going to kill you)

Anne—

He sat perched on the edge of his bed and let the tears flow. The night with Flynn felt like a lifetime ago - though he'd been waking up in the other aristo's bed just twenty-four hours before - but the dulled pain in his ass reminded him of his betrayal. However, though the beautiful trapeze artist was the name that echoed over and over again in his mind, it was not her face he saw when he closed his eyes.

It was P.T.'s.

Forcing his eyes open, Phillip swallowed back a sob and forced himself up on trembling legs. He was totally alone in his apartment - he even missed Flynn's presence, as crazy as it sounded - and he willed himself to get dressed and straighten up. The sooner he got to the circus, the sooner he could put on his mask and temporarily lose himself in the comforts of his makeshift family.