by Tara Lain
Friday morning, he got out of his car a little before six and stopped. He hadn’t done anything for three days except sit behind his desk and very occasionally sleep. He ached in places he’d forgotten he had. Gym time.
Determined not to get sidetracked, he grabbed his bag from the trunk and walked straight to the gym to his favorite locker. Sadly, this time he didn’t see Harper. No, not sadly. I said no sidetracking, I mean it.
He changed into his gym clothes and started toward the section of the gym where they kept the cardio machines, like the treadmills and rowers.
A couple of women programmers, Carla and Shira, walked by him in leotards. Carla nodded. “Hey, Remy. You coming to do Pilates with us?”
He smiled. “I’ve never tried it. Is it fun?”
“The best.”
“But I probably have to learn the basics first, right?” Am I actually considering this?
“No, Samantha’s really a great instructor. I’ll bet she can coach you through and you’ll catch on fast. This isn’t an advanced class or anything.”
“Okay, what the heck. I’ll ask her if she’s got room for me.”
Shira chuckled. “Great. Come on.”
He followed the women into the studio and was greeted by a row of machines that looked like medieval instruments of torture—a flat bed with springs and ropes, punctuated by a metal frame from which hung bars and more springs. There were six machines, and three already had people on them, all female.
In a wing off the room stood an even bigger machine with a metal cage above it and ropes and pulleys hanging from the bars.
The woman he recognized as the instructor, Samantha, came running over. “Remy, to what do we owe the honor?”
“Carla and Shira talked me into trying Pilates, if you have room and if you think I won’t slow you down.”
“Not a problem. We may get a couple more students, but I’ve got the portable reformer and the Cadillac.”
“Uh, I’ll take your word for it.”
She laughed and walked him to one of the contraptions. She said, “This is a Pilates reformer, developed by Joseph Pilates as a rehabilitation device for soldiers returning from World War I. Take off your shoes. We start lying down.”
“Now that sounds excellent.” Remy tossed his gym shoes and lay down on the flat bed as Samantha adjusted some springs at the bottom of the reformer.
At that moment the door opened, and Harper came rushing into the studio dressed in slim black workout pants and a tight pink T-shirt. Remy swallowed. Harper said, “Sorry I’m late, I—oh.” He stopped and stared at Remy lying in front of him.
Samantha said, “No problem, Harper, come use the Cadillac.”
Harper gave Remy a grin then moved to the machine with the big cage that Samantha was setting up. That put him directly across from Remy. Harper lay down and put his feet on the bar at the end of the reformer so Remy did the same.
Samantha said, “We start with legs. Place the balls of your feet on the bar. Remember in Pilates breathing, we inhale and tighten the abdomen, then exhale and tighten it even further. It’s all about the core, people. Begin. One, two….”
What followed was an hour of exquisite torture. One part of Remy’s brain tried to learn the precise movements of the Pilates routine; the other part flamed out watching Harper Treadwell execute the movements. Sweet Jesus. Doing the legs was pretty much okay. Yes, Remy could see the muscles bunching in Harper’s lean thighs, but that was endurable. Then Samantha said, “Place your feet on the bar, now raise your hips and push out, in, out, in, out….”
Remy’s feet fell right off the bar as Harper thrust his hips toward the ceiling and then proceeded to act out things that Remy had only seen in gay porn.
“You okay?” Samantha smiled down at him, and he could only hope his shorts were sufficiently baggy to cover the evidence.
“Yeah, sorry. My foot slipped.”
They moved on to arm exercises, which were all right, but then—oh God help me…
“Place your feet in the straps.” Samantha walked around to be certain they were doing it right. “Stretch your legs out, now pull them into a frog, then out, now back to the frog. Good. Ten times.”
Remy’s gaze drifted to Harper’s legs in the slim pants as his feet scrunched in toward his butt, separating his knees, then stretched out again.
“Good. Now extend your legs to opposite sides as far as they’ll go without straining. And return. Again.”
Harper’s legs stretched gracefully to the sides. Thank God I’m not facing his crotch.
“Now move into short spine.” Samantha walked over to coach Remy in the complex movement as he extended his legs in the weighted straps, let them drift up over his head until his hips rose, bent his legs like a frog, and then extended them back out. She gave Remy a pat. “Good. Do three more.”
Remy extended his legs again, but as he did, he looked toward Harper just in time to see his slim body move from an upright shoulder stand into the frog, outlining a bulge so round and fully packed that Remy gasped, remembering exactly what that bulge looked like uncovered. He lost control of his legs and ended up flailing with one leg still dragged over his head and the other slipping out of the strap to wave in the breeze.
“Whoa there, cowboy.” Samantha grabbed the strap on Remy’s leg and carefully removed it from his foot. “No worries. Minor mishap. You were doing great.”
“Uh, thanks. I feel like Humpty Dumpty.”
“Don’t stress.” She smiled. “You’re all back together. Come over and lie on the foam roller while we finish up.”
“Uh, I think I’ll hit the showers, but thank you. I really enjoyed it. I’ll be back.” Just not when Harper’s here. He crawled off the reformer, grabbed his shoes, and headed toward the locker room, feeling some combination of embarrassed, exercised, and hugely turned on. Probably just all that energy from the Pilates.
At his locker, he reached for a towel and headed for the shower. On the way, the smell of eucalyptus and the feel of steam enveloped him, sneaking out of the steam-room door. Without even thinking about it, he opened the door, inhaled the wash of hot moisture, and felt his way across the tiled room. He turned, sat on the bench, and abruptly jumped back up. Wet and squishy. He unwrapped his towel, placed it on the bench, sat, and dropped his head in his hands.
He’d promised Mama he’d consider his life and what would make him happy. Not that he’d exactly planned to do that, but what the hell? It was like life was piling stuff on his head, saying, “Want this? How about this?”
The fact was he’d never called or considered himself gay, even though he’d had experiences with men that other people for sure would have interpreted that way. But he’d always dated women when he dated at all. Did that make him what they called bisexual? How did he know?
He knew some gay men. Ben Shane, who headed a foundation Merced Enterprises contributed money to, was married to an adorable young guy named Dusty and seemed really happy. But what was Remy going to do? Call Ben up and make an appointment to discuss his sexual orientation? Jesus, I’ve got balls but maybe not hanging quite that low.
Oh hell. His analogy threw him right back into the Pilates class, and his dick, which had finally calmed down, gave another wiggle. Think about something else.
The giant cosmic joker in the sky reached down and pronounced Remy a fool when the door to the steam room opened and a body thrashed through the dense mist and landed on the seat a few feet away.
Remy wrapped the tails of the towel around his lap as best he could and shifted slightly to increase the distance from the other steamer.
“Oh, sorry.” The other body moved farther away.
Well, shit. In the middle of the steam room floor was a drain to catch the condensing water, and Remy wanted to slip down it and vanish because the voice next to him transformed “Oh, sorry” into “Aww, sawwry,” and there was only one person who could be sitting next to him. “Harper?”
“Oh, hi, Remy. I a
pologize for crowding you. This steam is thicker than corn chowder, and I can’t see a thing.”
“It’s okay. Me either.” He’d like to scoot even more but didn’t want to make a statement.
“You did real well in Pilates.”
“Until I practically wrecked the reformer.”
Harper chuckled, and it did more than the steam to open Remy’s pores. “Actually, that last move that tripped you up? The short spine? It’s pretty hard, so you did fine, just fine.”
“Thanks.”
“You think you’ll come back to class? It’d be fun not being the only man.”
“Uh, maybe. It’s hard to predict my morning schedule.”
“Oh sure. I understand.” He sounded disappointed, which both pleased Remy and made him feel weird.
The only sound in the room was the hissing of the steam nozzle. Remy’s chest tingled—almost hurt—with a gathering pressure. His throat spasmed, and out it came. “Harper?”
“Hmm?”
“How did you know you were gay?”
The door to the steam room opened, and two men loudly discussing football scores thrashed into the room and managed to find the bench, one of them slapping against Remy’s thigh with his leg as he moved.
“Sorry, man. It’s like London at midnight in here.”
“No problem.” Remy gathered his towel around him like armor and fled toward the door. What in the hell did I do?
Chapter Eight
JUST WORK. Don’t think. Remy stared at the computer, but the words ran like condensed steam in front of his eyes. It’s not such a weird question. It doesn’t mean a thing that I asked it. Probably lots of people—straight people—have asked him that question. Right? Calm down.
But what if he says something to Hoag? Shit. That would be a great way to break the news to their Merced customers. Yeah, the customer base that had started in Arkansas and spread out to Louisiana and Alabama and Georgia and South fucking Carolina and—stop!
I’m the head of Merced Technologies, not MercedMart. We started in California. Hell, the CEO of Apple is gay. Nobody cares.
Does that mean I’m saying that I’m gay?
He jumped up from his desk, walked down the hall to the coffee room, grabbed a cup, and reached for a pot.
“Wrong coffee.”
Remy whirled and faced Harper standing in the door of the coffee room. “Oh.”
Harper walked over and took the cup from Remy’s hand. He didn’t look embarrassed or uncomfortable at all. He filled the cup from a pot tucked back into a corner on the far side of the counter. Next, he pulled a container of heavy cream from the refrigerator, poured some in a cup and stuck it in the steamer device on the side of the espresso machine. After the machine hissed and gurgled a few seconds, he poured the cream into Remy’s cup, carefully stirred it with a stick, and handed the mixture to Remy. He grinned. “Now that you know my secret recipe, I’m fearing for my job.”
Remy stared at the cup, his mama’s words about tea leaves coming up for him. “Don’t be silly. Thank you.” He turned and walked out of the room and was almost back to his office before he realized he hadn’t smiled once. Better news was that Harper hadn’t looked like he had some awful secret, so he must have accepted Remy’s question as simple curiosity. Good. Except Remy was… disappointed.
Must be stress.
He picked up the phone and started calling regional managers to get them ready for the new trials.
It was nearly five, and he hadn’t even stopped for lunch. Just munched some almonds and kept going. He’d mostly kept his door closed, as he usually did when he was on the phone a lot. When the knock came, it was a relief, both from the unbroken work and the tension. It was Harper.
Remy motioned for him to come in.
Harper walked in with a smile, looking excited but relaxed. “We’re ready with the code when you are.”
“Really? Already?”
“Yep. Once the programmers got the rhythm, they powered through. Our customers are going to have a lot of exciting options when they order.”
Remy leaned back and motioned to the visitor chair. Harper sat, leaning forward.
Remy said, “Do you think we’re giving them too many options? Are we going to confuse them?”
Harper grinned. “Have you seen the Starbucks app?”
Okay, that did it. Remy laughed for the first time that day. “I see your point. So we’re ready for trial. I talked to all the regional managers today.”
“I figured that’s what you were doing.”
“So next week, we’ll do a web training for the support staff and get all the materials to the regions.”
“I’ve got to admit, I’m kind of nervous.”
Harper nodded. “Me too.” He rose. “By the way, if you ever want to talk about your question, I’m happy to answer.” He smiled and walked out of the office.
Remy couldn’t catch his breath. For minutes he stared into space while pretending to study his computer. He was vaguely aware of people walking by his office as they left for the night. When he blinked again, most of the place was empty.
He got to his feet, grabbed his jacket, and rushed out of his office and down several cubicle rows. Few lights were on, but as Remy rounded the corner, he saw Harper at his computer, hammering keys. “Harper?”
Harper turned, maybe looked surprised for a second, then smiled. “Hi.”
“I missed lunch. Want to get some dinner?”
If Harper had looked a little surprised a moment before, now a flash of astonishment crossed his face, but at least it seemed like a happy one. “Sounds great. I’m starved.” He flipped off his computer and stood, then looked at Remy. “Would you mind driving? I got a ride this morning. I’ll Uber home.”
“Sure, that’d be great.”
They walked out of the office and got on the elevator quietly—maybe a little awkwardly, but not too bad. In the parking lot, Remy beeped his car, which was nearby since he’d arrived so early. Parking was democratic at Merced Technologies. First come, first choice.
They walked to Remy’s car, and Harper said, “You drive a Prius?”
“Uh, yes. I actually have a couple cars, but I like this one the best.” He got in the driver’s seat and was a little too aware of Harper sliding in beside him.
“I have a Prius too. It’s older, by a lot actually, but I love it.”
Remy pulled out into the dense traffic of an Irvine evening. “Have any choices of restaurants?”
“Something unassuming and easy on the wallet.” Harper chuckled.
Funny that Harper didn’t assume the boss would pay. Maybe that meant he didn’t think this was a business dinner. “Where do you live?”
From the corner of his eye, Remy caught Harper glancing at his hands. “Uh, Pelican Point. But remember, I’ll Uber home.”
That gave Remy a little twitch since the very high-end neighborhood was clearly Hoag’s. Remy said, “No. No problem.” He thought for a moment. “Okay, I know a great place. It’s not super easy on the budget, but I’m paying and you might have heard I command a decent expense account.” He grinned. “So we can afford this place. It’s small, quiet, and friendly.”
“Sounds perfect, but I don’t want to take too much advantage of the expense account.”
“Right.” Remy laughed. It was fun pretending he couldn’t have bought most of the buildings they were passing with a phone call. Kind of like passing for a regular guy. Actually, Harper always treated him like he was a normal person versus a billionaire. Remy clicked his phone and told Siri to call Dizz’s. The maître d’ answered. “Hey, Antonio, this is Remy Merced. Any chance I could get a table for two in about half an hour?”
“No problem, Remy. I’ll hold it for you.”
“Thanks. See you soon.” He hung up.
Harper said, “They know you well?”
“It’s a place I enjoy going by myself. I can’t say that for most restaurants. So yes, I’m a good customer. My house doe
sn’t have much of a kitchen.”
“Oh, that’s a shame. I actually love to cook.”
“Really? Uh, I’ve had trouble figuring out what I want to do with my kitchen, so I haven’t done anything. Maybe you could help me decide.”
Harper rubbed his hands together avidly. “Point me toward a kitchen and let me spend someone else’s money, and I’m in Southern boy heaven.”
“Okay, it’s a deal.” Remy let the earlier smile break through. “So you like to cook. Tell me more about you.”
“Not much to know. My father’s no longer living. My mother’s a grand old Southern lady who has all the grace and none of the money, but she’s always worked hard to be sure I could get a good education. I had a bent for business, so I got scholarships and finished college fast, then did some, uh, nonprofit work in Arkansas.” He cleared his throat. “Decided to move to California, my mom talked to her old friend, who twisted the arm of her son to give me a good job, and you know the rest.”
Remy gave him a side-glance. Might as well say it. “You came to California to be with Sylvan Hoag.”
“Uh, yes. Incidentally, that kind of spontaneous human combustion isn’t like me normally. I’m more of a planner. But I guess I was going through a bad patch, and I was inspired by Sylvan’s ideas and, well….” He shrugged so broadly Remy caught it in his peripheral vision.
Not the most glowing endorsement of Harper’s passion for Hoag. Remy tried not to smile. “Tell me about the bad patch.” He held up a finger. “Wait, hold that thought.” They were gliding along the Pacific Coast Highway through Laguna Beach, and Remy turned left up the hill then angled downward again to the back of Dizz’s. All the parking places were taken, as was usual by that time of night. Remy stopped behind the old house that had been converted to a restaurant years before. “Go inside and tell Antonio we’re here. I’ll find a spot on this crazy hill to park and be right in.”
Harper slid out and Remy pulled down to the Coast Highway again. After a few minutes’ patience, somebody pulled out of a spot directly beside the narrow, busy road, and Remy grabbed it.
By the time he got in the side door of the old house, Harper was sitting at the bar looking way too young to drink. The bartender, Andre, waved. “I poured you a glass of your favorite, Remy.” He pushed the chardonnay closer. Harper had a bubbling glass in front of him. Remy said, “So a champagne drinker, huh?”
