A Cordial Agreement

by Ryan Loveless

  “Can I ask you”—Mr. Sieber hurried behind him—“the room with the chair…?”

  “Melanie’s office. Former office.”

  “Oh. I thought—” He faltered.

  Grant stopped. “You thought ‘crazy rich guy has a room for a chair.’” He burst out laughing.

  “Well….” Mr. Sieber had the grace to duck his head. He smiled sheepishly, peeking out from behind his mussed bangs with apologetic eyes—such a better sight than the lost emptiness in his gaze during the whipping’s middle strokes. Grant sought out eye contact with Mr. Sieber with an eagerness for connection he didn’t normally feel toward anyone. Maybe whipping Mr. Sieber had affected him more than he’d thought.

  “It’s okay. I’d think so too. There’s a painting in there, too, but you have to be inside the room to see it.” He thought it prudent not to mention that he sometimes sat in the chair and admired the painting with his dick in his hand. Because Mr. Sieber still looked uncomfortable, Grant added, “You know, my daughter caught me practicing last night.”

  “Practicing?”

  “For you.”

  “Oh.” Mr. Sieber backed off a step and extended his hands at his sides, as if he were creeping through a haunted house.

  “I didn’t tell her what it was for.” Mentioning close calls: not the best way to relax him, noted. “She supports her bisexual father’s foray into kink. Encouraged me to find a partner. Awkward conversation, let me tell you.” He stopped when Mr. Sieber paled further.

  “Bisexual?” Mr. Sieber squeaked. It was an odd sound coming from a man built like a linebacker.

  Grant squeezed onto the thread inside him that held his patience. He’d never broken it during a business deal, and he wouldn’t start now. “Everyone in the world knows that.” How he managed to speak without snapping, he didn’t know. “My divorce was in every newspaper and media outlet for months. I should know—I own most of them.”

  “You could have stopped them from reporting it. If you owned them.” Mr. Sieber held himself angled in the direction of the living room—and the elevator—with his hands tucked into fists, arms stiff at his sides.

  “And be scooped by my competitors? No thank you.” Grant smiled. It didn’t relax Mr. Sieber. He tried another tack. “I’m sorry, but you didn’t know?”

  “I… I guess I didn’t pay much attention to the news back then. I was sixteen.”

  “That’s not an excuse.”

  “Oh, so you were aware of every news story when you were that age?” Grant stared at him; Mr. Sieber stared back. For a beat, they held each other’s gaze in a moment that wasn’t quite a challenge, but wasn’t meaningless, either. Mr. Sieber broke away first—Grant made certain of that—and once his gaze was gone, Grant gathered himself, slotted all his nerves into place, and continued down the hall. A few seconds passed, and Mr. Sieber followed.

  Grant took the time to reflect on his statement. “When I was sixteen, we lost in Vietnam, sentencing came down over Watergate, Jaws opened, and I saw the Rocky Horror Picture Show three times on Broadway.”

  “Three?” Mr. Sieber looked intrigued.

  “It only ran for four shows, and one of them was on my mother’s birthday. I apologize for what I said. I can be self-absorbed.”

  “It’s all right. I appreciate that, though. When your daughter told you to find a partner, did you think of me?” The question, delivered in vibrato, seemed more appropriate aimed at his back, but Grant turned around to answer.

  “We’ve established that your role is to be strictly nonsexual. You are here for a specific purpose. I’d no more ask you to perform a sexual act than I’d ask the handyman to steam the drapes.”

  “Good, because I’m not—” There was that uncertainty again, fear, perhaps. Grant prevented himself from asking about it as Mr. Sieber’s face became guarded.

  “No one will ask you to,” he said. How did a man who stripped for a living gain such an aversion to the idea of sex? “Besides, if I were to have a partner, I’d need commitment. Long term. I was married twenty years. Seven wonderful ones without children and then the rest.” He forced himself to laugh at his feeble joke. To his gratitude, Mr. Sieber responded in kind. “This isn’t sexual for me either.”

  “It’s not?”

  “Haven’t you ever been so frustrated you wanted to hit someone?”

  Mr. Sieber’s grin answered for him. “Or so guilty you wanted to be hit.” Though his tone was light, the words sucked the joy from it.

  “If there’s anything I should know to make this better for you—” Grant said.

  “Did you get divorced because of the children?” Mr. Sieber interrupted.

  Grant debated not answering. He still didn’t fully agree with the truth, but he’d grown self-aware enough to realize and accept a portion of the blame he deserved for his role in losing his family. “No, not the children. That was a bad joke. Melanie felt I was holding her back.”

  “Were you?” Normally people didn’t question him like this, but Mr. Sieber faced him with open, serious curiosity.

  “She thought so, and that was enough.”

  Mr. Sieber snorted out a half laugh. “That’s not an answer.”

  “I was busy with Jessup Enterprises. Working eighteen-hour days, traveling nonstop. So I didn’t notice that she wanted more than what we had together. She mentioned starting a new magazine from time to time, but it never sank in with me. Then one day a man brought me divorce papers at the office and she finally got her magazine running.”

  Mr. Sieber watched him for a moment. Grant braced himself for whatever reaction would come next from that serious expression. “You haven’t been alone the last ten years, have you?”

  He almost sighed in relief. It wasn’t pity or accusation; Mr. Sieber had somehow landed on exactly what he needed to hear. “No, of course not. But it’s been difficult. With the business.”

  “Yes. I’m starting to get that.” Mr. Sieber rubbed his wrist, as if he were checking for a watch that wasn’t there. “I need to go. My roommate— Anyway, thank you for the tour and for the um, well, you said you’d pay every week and—”

  Grant slapped himself on the forehead. “Christ, I’m sorry. Go on into the living room. I’ll meet you there in a moment.” He hurried in the opposite direction to his office. After pulling out a check ledger, he made the check out to Jim Sieber for twenty-five hundred dollars, and signed it before tearing it out of its book.

  In the living room, Mr. Sieber stood next to the elevator. “Sorry.” Grant offered the check. “Thank you for coming. Same time next Monday?”

  “Okay.” Mr. Sieber pocketed the check in his inside jacket pocket. “Thank you.”

  “Are you in pain? Let me know if you want to go easier next week.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good.” They stared at each other as they waited for the elevator. Grant tried to think of something to say, but couldn’t come up with anything beyond personal questions, so he kept his mouth shut. Mr. Sieber became interested in the ceiling.

  “That’s stucco,” Grant said. Mr. Sieber looked at him, his expression open. Grant couldn’t tell if he was interested or grateful to have something safe to talk about. Thankfully the elevator opened and saved Grant from offering an on-the-fly architecture lesson.

  “Bye,” Mr. Sieber said.

  “Goodbye, and thank you.” Grant watched as the doors closed and the elevator began to descend. After all that had happened in the past two hours, the simple farewell didn’t seem like enough. He didn’t know what else he should expect, though. He wasn’t the type to want a rounding up of emotions, and other than Mr. Sieber’s question about whether the discipline session had helped him, he didn’t seem the type, either.

  In the kitchen, Grant took the belt from the drawer. Probably best not to leave it there. Even if the kitchen staff didn’t find it strange to have a belt in a drawer, they’d move it so he couldn’t find it. He carried it upstairs, shutting off lights as he went. />
  He did feel better. Not perfect by any means, but better. He might start looking forward to Mondays.

  JIM’S KEY slipped out of the keyhole three times as he braced himself against the door, arm raised and head on his forearm. He heard Shannon on the other side and knew from the creaking floorboard that he’d stopped a few feet away. Shannon was probably standing there, fists clenched in front of his hips, fighting a flight response as he waited for the door to open.

  “It’s me,” Jim said. With their crappy door, Shannon would have no problem hearing him. The floor creaked once, twice, then, finally, the lock turned. The door opened a crack, and a sliver of Shannon’s face appeared.

  Jim offered his best I’m-a-big-dope smile. “Sorry. I couldn’t get the key in.”

  Shannon grinned. “Did your mystery man beat your coordination out of you?”

  “I’m tired is all.”

  Shannon stepped out of the way, but Jim pulled him in for a hug. With his arm around Shannon’s shoulders, they walked toward Jim’s bedroom. “Were you all right getting back from your meeting?”

  “Imani waited for me. I was jumpy after I got back, though.”

  “Maybe if this deal keeps up, I can afford an apartment with thicker walls.”

  He kicked his shoes off. Shannon sprawled on the bed on top of the covers. Jim sat down next to him, back against the headboard, legs stretched out. Shannon cuddled close, curling into a familiar position. Jim blinked back not-quite tears of stunned pain, uncertain if they were the result of pressure on his still-tender ass or the realization that most times he and Shannon sat like this, Shannon was pale-faced and trembling.

  “I could move with you?” Shannon asked. “If you had money?”

  “Well….” Jim paused, almost too confused to continue. “Yeah, I mean, you’re my roommate. Who else would I live with?” Reaching down, he patted Shannon’s thick thigh. He still had his jeans on.

  “Did it hurt?”

  “What?” Jim asked.

  Shannon tilted his head up and gave Jim a don’t-screw-with-me look. Jim was consistently amazed at how Shannon could go from broken to brazen in seconds.

  “Yeah, it hurt. But he gave me some gel that took most of the sting away.”

  “He gave it to you or he put it on you?” Shannon put space between them. Jim appreciated not having anyone touch him, even Shannon, the one person in the world who knew how to touch him, as he forced his mind to return to Jessup’s hands.

  “Put it on. But it wasn’t— He kept it businesslike. Nothing funny about it.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I think I would know.”

  “Yeah.” Shannon settled down again. His head rested heavy against Jim’s shoulder. Jim twisted so he could stroke Shannon’s hair. It was getting long again, almost to his shoulders.

  “Do you want me to cut your hair tomorrow?”

  “That would be nice. Your guy should have given you the gel to take home. I can tell you’re not sitting easy.”

  “Hm.”

  After a bit, Shannon began to snore. Jim got up and went into the bathroom. He stripped down and stared at his ass in the mirror. It was its normal color but still tender to the touch. He poked it a few times and squeezed, testing his tolerance. He remembered Jessup touching him and how it had been…. It had been fine because Jessup had kept his word and not taken advantage or tried to push anything on him. Glancing up, he caught a glimpse of his face, cheeks high with a blush, and looked down to see that his dick was hard.

  It was no surprise; he came home from the club most nights, after dodging away from grasping hands and more concrete offers, sick with the thought of another person on him, to find that his dick, safe at home, wanted those memories. He took his time stroking off, giving himself over to the fantasy of being touched by imaginary men, of being fucked, hard, bending forward and spreading his legs to let the cool air touch where no man’s hand, not even his, ever touched in a sexual way. He turned the faucet on to cover his grunt as he came—he had a horrible O-noise, more wounded animal than porn star—and shot into a handful of toilet paper. He dropped it into the john and flushed.

  When he returned to the bedroom, hands washed, teeth brushed and body clean, Shannon was gone. Jim pulled a pair of shorts on and went to check. Light glowed from under Shannon’s bedroom door along with the murmur of the radio.

  “Night,” Jim called.

  “Night,” Shannon said.

  Jim returned to his room and climbed under the covers. Jessup had surprised him today. Jim wasn’t expecting the kindness and consideration. It had been a long time since he’d been the cared-for, rather than the carer. Since he expected this to be a temporary arrangement—Bennett couldn’t be a stress-inducing disappointment for ever—he’d have to be careful not to get used to it. Keep it business, as Jessup had said. As they’d agreed.

  Chapter Four

  JIM JOGGED offstage and snagged a white towel to wipe the sweat off his chest. He’d done six numbers—solo shot aerobic grinding to Aerosmith as a fireman, a group number as a cowboy, another with a strategically placed top hat, and two more solos, one with a chair and the last in a flannel shirt and tear-away jeans—and was finally finished for the night.

  He squeezed his way through the always-crowded dressing room. Despite ten people sharing it on any given night, Chantelle’s wigs took up half the counter space. She was leaning back in one of the rusty folding chairs when he walked in, leg up on the table, and preparing to rip a wax strip off her inner thigh.

  “Ouch,” Jim said.

  Chantelle yanked. “They missed a spot at the spa. Fuckers.”

  “If you didn’t yell at them so much, they wouldn’t be in such a hurry to get you out of there,” Jim said mildly.

  “I’m never anything less than a perfect lady.”

  “Yeah, did you tell that to the guy you kicked in the nuts last week?” Jim squeezed into a too-small chair next to her, seeking an empty spot on the counter to put his hat down.

  “He was no gentleman,” she snapped back.

  “Who is, in here?” But Jim smiled over his shoulder to show he hadn’t meant any hard feelings. She reached out, long, real fingernails brushing his naked shoulder for a split second before she turned her hand over to offer him a long brown hair she’d plucked from him. He assessed it to determine if it was his and decided it belonged to an enthusiastic woman in the audience.

  Jim took it and dropped it into the trash can at his feet. “I thought she got a little close. Bachelorette party.”

  “Expecting a private call-in?” Chantelle asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I haven’t fake-fucked anyone under fifty since I started here.” She stood and spread out her albatross arm span. Lady Chantelle was the only person in the club who could literally see eye to eye with Jim. “It gets a little dull playing the part of an old guy’s kink.”

  “You’re stunning,” Jim said obediently.

  “Damn right.” She sat back down.

  “And you don’t want to meet the man of your dreams in here anyway, do you?”

  “I suppose not. I’ve heard you’ve got a new man.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Shannon.”

  Jim grabbed a cotton ball and forced his hand to keep steady as he spread cold cream over his face. Deciding it was easier to let Chantelle go on thinking he was in a relationship rather than explain his new job, he said, “Well, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Fair enough. Don’t blame me for trying to hear something exciting around here for once.”

  Turning toward her, Jim cracked a smile. “Considering where we are, that’s a damn sad sentence.”

  Chantelle’s laughter rolled forth, richer than her speaking voice, a laugh she kept locked away from most people. “Well, whoever he is, I hope you’re happy.”

  “Thanks.”

  Chantelle’s first number was up next, so she walked off after that, heel
s tall enough so she’d be looking down on Jim even if he stood up. He heard her say “Excuse me” as she left, but didn’t turn around to see who’d come in.

  “Not so fast, Jimbo. Got a private for ya.”

  “Alan, I’m going home.” Jim turned to face Alan Freeman, manager of Club John & Jane.

  Alan waved a stack of bills at him. “They’ve already paid. So you get your panties back on and head up to room three toot sweet.”

  Alan loved to dust off his high school French. “Fine.” Jim wiped his face clean and reached for a fresh pair of briefs. “Who’s the group?” He changed in front of Alan without a thought, as he had a thousand times before. Alan was too busy staring lovingly at the cash in his hands to notice.

  “The bachelorette party and a group of guys they hooked up with.”

  “Guys too?”

  “Yeah, it’s, you know.” Alan waved Jim’s concern away. “The, what’s his name? The Jessup kid.”

  “Bennett?” Jim’s throat went dry.

  “Yeah, that’s the one. Him and his friends.”

  “They’ve never ordered a dance before.”

  “Well, now they’re trying to impress a bride’s friends.” Alan glanced up, tearing his attention away from the cash. “They’re waiting.” He left, leaving “get a move on” unsaid and unnecessary between them.

  “Shit.” Jim cursed through clenched teeth as he jacked his cock. Private dances, the people always preferred the strippers hard. He snapped a cock ring around himself. Under his briefs, they’d never know he had it on, and the idea wasn’t for him to come, anyway. It was the only way he could guarantee he’d be “happy” the entire time he was in the room. After snapping his briefs over his erection, he pulled a white robe around himself. He’d wear it to walk through the club. It bore the John & Jane logo on the back, silhouettes of a man and woman on either side of a stripper pole, barely reached to his midthigh, and would mark him as off-limits as he headed for room three. As he wove his way through the audience, he passed his coworkers, all stripped down and mingling, hoping to pick up a few extra dollars or even a big spender who’d want a private dance. Lady Chantelle had the stage. Jim glanced at her as she did the splits, and winced, thinking of her already much-abused cock and balls, stuffed up between her ass and held in by “God’s will,” as she said. He avoided looking at the bar where Shannon was posted, knowing that if Shannon spotted him, he’d be met with a look as if he were marching off to be raped, and he didn’t need that at the moment.