His focus didn’t last long there. Of course he could have told Bennett the truth about why he’d hired Mr. Sieber. He wanted Bennett to know how his every action weighed on Grant’s mind, an avalanche of disappointments. But it wasn’t only that. He wanted Bennett to care. The fact he didn’t shamed Grant more than anything Bennett had done. Bennett’s only response to seeing Mr. Sieber was “Why not a girl?” There was no way he could tell Mr. Sieber his son was so devoid of empathy that he couldn’t even acknowledge his father’s emotional pain. Then again, Mr. Sieber probably already knew that.
“…and you can see the third-quarter reports on page six show that growth is on the rise by twelve percent….”
“Yes.” Grant turned to the proper page and followed along with Mr. Colman’s graph, shutting Mr. Sieber and Bennett away.
“SIEBER!” ALAN stalked through the dressing room. Jim stopped velcro-ing his shirt closed to watch him approach.
“Yeah?”
Alan shoved a yellow envelope at him. “Tell your friends this isn’t a post office.”
Jim took the envelope. “What’s this?”
“A lesbian left it at the front for you.”
“A lesbian with exceptions,” Jim corrected.
“Excuse me?” Alan looked at him like he’d lost his mind.
“She’s into Shannon.”
“She knows Shannon’s trans?”
“Her heart will not be tethered to one gender,” Jim quoted.
Alan shook his head in exasperation. “I don’t know how you fucking young people make sense of yourselves. Tell her we’re not a fucking post office.”
“Sorry,” Jim said, but Alan had already turned around. The club was packed tonight, and all four small stages had performers working the poles. Jim was due out on the main stage in a few minutes, after Lady Chantelle finished strutting to “Pretty Woman.” He opened a corner of the envelope and peeked inside. It was a check. He worked the end of the envelope open and slipped it out enough to see the amount. $2500, signed by Grant Jessup. Rory must have dropped it off. Jim carefully put the check back into the envelope and hid it in the back of his book, which he shoved into the bottom of his bag. Here was another example of Jessup’s considerate nature. He could have waited a week, but instead he’d made sure Jim had the money now. The thought made Jim smile. Jessup probably did this for everyone. No reason for Jim to think he was special. But that didn’t stop him from feeling it. There was something about Grant Jessup, and Jim hadn’t felt this way in a long time.
“Pretty Woman” was on its final verse. Jim planted a fedora on his head, checked his tear-away tux in the mirror, and sprinted for the stage. He slid on, Tom Cruise in Risky Business style, as Chantelle strutted off. Jim struck a pose: legs spread, head bowed, hand planted on his heart, elbow aligned with the center of his chest. Instead of AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck,” “Gangnam Style” began to play. Jim started his routine anyway and checked who was behind the DJ booth as soon as he turned that way. Shannon made a dismayed gesture that could only mean he’d been ordered to switch Jim’s record. It was Alan’s super mature way of punishing the dancers. He must have hated being mail boy today. Jim kept his grin in place, undulated his hips, then in a one-two movement, thrust his groin forward and ripped his shirt open.
He strutted along the front of the stage, grabbing the few dollar bills already in the air. New people, maybe a little nervous about getting close to a near-naked man, tended to pay up early. The real money came when he tossed his pants to the floor. A few seconds later, that proved to be fact. Jim shed his hat last and finished his act with a G-string full of bills. He plucked them out as he walked back to the dressing room.
Chantelle tossed him a robe. “Room five,” she said. “A gentleman has requested the pleasure of your company.”
“Thanks.” Jim rolled up the cash, put it in his bag, and shoved it all inside his locker. It was well enough to leave things lying around when it was only clothes and a book no one would think to open. But after a performance, belongings went inside the locker. He closed and spun the number wheel on the lock.
“I think Mr. Samsung is going to propose,” Chantelle said.
“Yeah?” It was hard to tell if she was serious or only wanting to be.
“He’s a regular in my rooms now.”
“Well, you’re halfway down the aisle. You leaving after this?”
“Of course not, sweetheart. I’m finessing the floor like the aging working girl I am.”
Jim pulled the robe on. “See you later then.”
The walk across the main floor was the same as always. The crowd mostly parted for him as he headed for the stairs up to the private rooms. He nodded at Shannon and jogged up the steps. He squeezed his cock before he opened the door. Chantelle had distracted him from getting hard. He bounced a few times, trying to work himself into interest. Closing his eyes, he conjured up his favorite fantasy, the dreams of being touched that were so much better, so much more wanted than the real thing. His cock began to fill. He couldn’t manage a full erection in the seconds he had before entering. One last squeeze, straighten the robe, and open the door.
BEA FINISHED buckling the watch Grant had repaired around her wrist and gave it an admiring smile. “Thanks, Daddy. I really appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome, hon. I’m glad I got it to work for you.”
They were in a high-end restaurant that Grant normally looked upon with fondness for both the delectable food and attentive service. He had worn a new tie.
Lunch was at Bea’s invitation, and he’d been glad for the chance to give her the watch. Then she said, “Bennett told me you hired a masseuse.”
“Oh?”
As Grant dipped his spoon into the chilled pea soup he’d been looking forward to since Bea’s call, he felt mildly trapped.
Bea, in a black sheath dress and ignoring her asperge blanche, continued, “Bennett also told me he recognized him from the strip club. What’s going on?”
Grant looked away. As usual, the restaurant was packed. He and Bea sat against the wall, part of a corridor of tables populated by his peers and blocked from view of the tables where the nonrich dined, having saved a few hundred dollars for a once-in-a-lifetime night out.
“This isn’t any of your business.”
“Daddy, is this man your pumpkin bottom?”
“What?” Grant snapped his attention back to Bea, certain he’d heard her wrong, but her prodding, helpful expression assured him he hadn’t.
“You remember what you were doing the last time I was over? I told you that I support you in finding someone to spank the pumpkin with.”
Well, he wouldn’t be enjoying his pea soup tonight or the flaked salmon or possibly anything else. “Sweetheart, I’m not comfortable with you being comfortable talking to me about this.”
“You’re the one who cultivated an open and honest relationship.”
“You’ve asked me if I’m engaged in a kink relationship with Mr. Sieber and you’re not even blushing.”
“There is nothing to be ashamed of.”
He sighed. “You are truly your mother’s daughter.”
“But I have your nose, Dad.”
Grant looked around. Thankfully the diners on either side didn’t seem to have any interest.
“So, do you like him or is this just sexual?” Bea asked. Although she still hadn’t touched her asparagus, her wineglass was getting a workout. In others, this would be a sign of stress. For Bea, it was merely appreciation of a good vintage.
“It’s not sexual at all,” Grant replied. He chose not to address Bea’s confused expression. Bea, however, wouldn’t let him.
“So you like him, but you haven’t had sex yet?”
“I think I do, yes, but sex isn’t part of our relationship for reasons that are complicated and private.”
“Complicated how?”
“Bea,” Grant warned.
“I want you to be happy.”
“
I’m glad one of my kids does.” Grant started to signal a waiter to refill their glasses, but the man was already there with the bottle.
“Bennett does, too, but he’s frustrated with you.”
Grant watched the white splash into his glass. “Ditto. Now, will you please tell me how things are going at your gallery?” Since getting her start working on Melanie’s magazine, Bea had left to co-manage a midsized art gallery in Chelsea.
“Sure, Daddy, and actually I wanted to ask your advice on a retrospective we’re planning for next season,” Bea said, sliding into the new subject and unlocking Grant’s roiling gut as easily as she maneuvered into every part of her life. Grant did his best to pay attention, but thoughts of Jim distracted him. His subconscious made the switch to the informal, even though Grant fought it. He was too young, for one thing. For another, they came from completely different backgrounds. Plus, Grant had sworn to keep their relationship all business. It would never work, and that was that. Except… he thrilled when Jim smiled. He burst when Jim laughed. He lived when Jim stood up to him.
Well, shit.
“Daddy?”
Grant sighed. “Darling, I’m in love.”
Chapter Six
MR. SIEBER—Grant resolved to think of him formally—leaned against Grant’s kitchen table. The edge pressed into his legs a few inches below the line of his near-naked ass. He’d come in a few moments before, businesslike, greeted Grant, and led the way into the kitchen, where he’d stripped off his overshirt and pants.
Grant readied the belt and tried to keep his voice casual as he asked, “Are you getting what you need out of this?”
“I’m fine,” Mr. Sieber said. “You just do what you need to do.”
But Grant remembered Mr. Sieber’s expression of grief after the last whipping. He hadn’t been able to forget it. Mr. Sieber probably hadn’t spent the week thinking about Grant, whereas Grant had been ruminating in relation to Mr. Sieber. Grant tried not to be a selfish man. Mr. Sieber had needs, and selfishness would be Grant ignoring them.
“You know, it might help if I knew why you’re doing this,” Grant said.
“Just hit me.”
“I want us to trust each other.” Grant sounded too earnest to his ears, but Mr. Sieber didn’t seem to pick up on it. Ever since the dinner with Bea, Grant had spent too much time dwelling on the possibilities of a relationship that Mr. Sieber clearly did not want.
Mr. Sieber shrugged. Thankfully Grant’s prodding inquiries didn’t seem to annoy him. “If I tell you, this arrangement could get complicated. So if you could tell me how many strokes Bennett earned me this week, I’d appreciate it.” He hiked up his shirt to the middle of his back. Then he rested his chest on the table, arms bracing the sides.
Grant folded the belt over, stepped back, and stopped.
“Since I’ve told you that I don’t think of you as a Bennett stand-in anymore, we could try something else.” Realizing his feelings for Mr. Sieber had made this statement even more true.
“Like?”
“If you want, we can forget about Bennett this time and I can do this for you. I mean, you can think about what you need to think about and I’ll do this for you. Do you want that?”
Grant waited. For a long time, Mr. Sieber didn’t speak, but he clutched the edges of the countertop. Grant debated and decided against resting his hand on Mr. Sieber’s back.
“Y-yes,” Mr. Sieber said.
“Okay. This is for you.” Grant steadied his breathing and swallowed the rock that had lodged in his throat at Mr. Sieber’s hesitant acceptance.
He let fly. Mr. Sieber had worn his jockstrap again, giving unhindered access to his ass. He didn’t make a sound when the belt struck him.
“Okay?” Grant asked.
“Hmm.”
He checked Mr. Sieber’s face and found his lips were clamped together. Fighting the urge to squeeze his shoulder in comfort, Grant responded with blow three. The first five tended to be the same. Mr. Sieber lying still and taking it. At blow six, the rhythm settled in. Stripes down the ass, one below the other, then back up. Doing this for Mr. Sieber opened a connection that didn’t come when he whipped him as a stand-in for Bennett. Grant almost pulled his strokes, but Mr. Sieber’s determination, his obvious need for pain, propelled Grant to put his all into it.
At ten, Mr. Sieber’s clamped lips loosened and a few gasps escaped. By fifteen, they were whimpers. Grant caught him on the thigh, and the whimpers turned to screams. Whatever Mr. Sieber hoped for from this, Grant prayed he was getting it. What could he possibly feel so guilty for? Mr. Sieber was a good person. Grant trusted his instincts enough to be sure of that. But then… good people sometimes did wrong things, and they had a harder time coping. At twenty, Mr. Sieber huffed between each blow. Usually this was the end. Not tonight. At twenty-two, he’d pulled himself onto his tiptoes, his body bent into a vee, and hung on to the table with his mouth gaped open and his hair stuck to his face with flop sweat. Grant tossed the belt aside as Mr. Sieber collapsed back down. What did you do? But he didn’t dare ask.
“Be right back.” Grant took his time fetching the aloe from the bathroom. Mr. Sieber seemed like he needed a few extra minutes to pull himself together. Seeing him like that discomfited Grant too. A glance in the mirror confirmed this, and Grant spent the time he’d meant to reserve for Mr. Sieber’s recovery to brush his hair and splash water on his face. He looked pale around the eyes, so he slapped his cheeks lightly to encourage the color to return. Maybe we don’t go over twenty anymore. Maybe we don’t allow Mr. Sieber to think about his troubles.
Figuring he’d given Mr. Sieber enough time, Grant unscrewed the lid of the gel as he stepped out of the bathroom. He wasn’t prepared for the sounds that greeted his ears. Gel in one hand, lid in the other, Grant sprinted toward Mr. Sieber’s broken sobs. He skidded into the kitchen. Mr. Sieber still lay flat, his head turned so Grant could see the tears dropping from his eyes.
“Mr. Sieber?” Grant tossed the gel on the counter. He should have brought the lavender pillow. Mr. Sieber had liked it. Grant debated going back for it.
Then Mr. Sieber blinked, which only made his eyelids wetter. “S-uh-suh-sorry.” He heaved himself up with what looked like great effort, wiped his face with his arm, and made a horrible, pulled face, as if he would sob again at any second. Grant didn’t think as he stepped forward and grabbed Mr. Sieber’s arm to angle him away from the table.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, this is what I wanted,” Mr. Sieber said. “Took me by surprise.” He rested his hands on Grant’s shoulders, and most of his weight, too, by the feel of it.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Grant had to move one foot backward to brace himself before Mr. Sieber brought them both tumbling to the floor. He didn’t seem capable of holding himself upright.
“No.”
“Okay.” He intended to help Mr. Sieber over to the gel and his pants and then a cup of coffee or something stronger. Emotions were best experienced in private.
Before he could do any of this, Mr. Sieber hugged him. It was a firm, engulfing hug that Grant couldn’t have escaped if he’d wanted to.
He didn’t want to. Mr. Sieber felt strong and perfect and right. Instead, he cupped Mr. Sieber’s face in both hands and moved him an inch down and an inch to the left and kissed him. On Grant’s end, it was a desperate, hopeful kiss, seeking to comfort and soothe, to distract, rather than to arouse. As Mr. Sieber breathed a shaky exhalation into Grant’s mouth and hugged him tighter, it seemed to be working. Grant closed his eyes. His cock took interest, so he shifted to be able to press against Mr. Sieber’s naked leg and returned a soft moan into Mr. Sieber’s mouth. This was almost nothing, but he felt overwhelmed with how much he wanted it.
“Jim,” he whispered, moving his mouth to the shell of Mr. Sieber’s ear and daring to utter his first name, business relationship be damned. However, Mr. Sieber made a distressed noise, so soft Grant wasn’t sure he’d heard it a
t first.
It took Grant a moment to realize that Mr. Sieber’s hands were not scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders to hold him near but rather to shove him away. His brain didn’t catch up with the change in plans until his hip hit the kitchen counter and sang out in pain. He flung his arm backward to catch himself.
“Fuck. You,” Mr. Sieber said. Grabbing his pants and overshirt, cheeks still drenched in tears, he strode out of the room.
Grant’s instant reaction, Don’t you know who I am? was rolled over instantly and replaced with What have I done? He ran to the door, expecting to catch Mr. Sieber waiting for the elevator or already inside it, but stopped short when he almost collided with Mr. Sieber in the front room. He wasn’t near the elevator doors and didn’t seem intent on leaving as he slowly pulled his clothes on. Grant let himself breathe.
“Mr. Sieber, I’m sorry,” Grant said. “I shouldn’t have done that.” He couldn’t say “Mr. Sieber” enough to wipe away the emotion behind why he’d called him Jim.
Mr. Sieber shrugged. The anger he’d exhibited in the kitchen was gone, replaced with a clean expression that showed only disinterest. It was so flat that it could have been two-dimensional. “If you’ll give me my check, I’ll be on my way.”
“Right.” Grant headed to his office, expecting Mr. Sieber to follow. He didn’t. Grant filled out the check, stopping several times to steady his hand, and returned to Mr. Sieber with it. The elevator doors were open, and he stood in the doorway to hold them.
“See you in a week,” Grant said. He’d meant it as a declarative, firm statement. The way it came out, however, made it a question.
“Good night,” Mr. Sieber said tonelessly and stepped back. The doors closed.
Grant grabbed his phone and called Tanya.
“Grant?” She sounded surprised.
“I fucked up.”
“Excuse me?”
A Cordial Agreement Page 8
