The Boss

by J. Calamy

  “So you’re back,” Nick said, pulling his headphones off and setting them on the counter. I wonder if he just got back or if he’s been avoiding me.

  “I am,” Graves said.

  “How are you?” Nick asked. He had forgotten how damn big Graves was, the way his presence filled whatever room he was in, the gravitational pull he exerted. It was infuriating. Despite his red-rimmed eyes and slumped shoulders, Graves was dressed, his clothes obviously pressed by his valet sometime in the night. The elegance of his appearance didn’t hide that he was clearly angry and badly needed coffee.

  “I’ll be better when I’ve had a cup,” Graves said, looking him up and down. “How are you, Nick?”

  This last came out in a low purr that made Nick wish he was wearing…well anything…more than he had on.

  “I’m good,” he said. “Wondered when you guys would show up again.”

  Nick took over the coffee machine and soon enough he had it working, the smell of coffee filling the room. Nick felt Graves watching him, his gaze like a hand on his neck. He shivered.

  “I see you had a good time last night,” Graves said. Nick glanced in the reflective surface of the espresso machine and saw the purple kiss mark above his clavicle. It wasn’t large, but there was no mistaking it for anything but what it was.

  “I did,” Nick said. He wanted to project defiance, pride, anger. But last night had been too confusing for that. So instead, he made a cup of coffee and handed it over, his gaze firmly on the floor. Graves took a long swallow and sighed.

  “You know exactly how I like my coffee,” he said. “How is that?” Nick shook his head. There was something about being caught out by him like this, barefoot and undressed in Jeanne’s kitchen while Graves was put together, down to the heavy gold watch on his wrist and polished glasses. It made Nick feel vulnerable and uncertain, made it hard to think.

  “Come here,” Graves said. His voice never rose but the absolute expectation of obedience made Nick flinch and shuffle over. Nick stood so he was right in the lee of his body. He could feel the heat from his skin and smell his cologne, tangled with the smell of Jeanne, the coffee, opium. Graves.

  “Was he good to you?” Graves asked softly, his lips close enough to Nick’s ear to make him shudder. He put his hands on the counter on either side of Nick, boxing him in, still without touching him.

  “Did you like having a man’s mouth on you?”

  “Yes, Graves,” Nick said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “Tell me the truth,” Graves asked, his fists clenching the counters hard to keep from touching. “Did you think about me?”

  Nick hung his head. He felt the heat under his skin slowly climbing from his sternum, up his throat and across his ears and cheeks. Remembering Roger’s soft and delicate touch, and how he had thought of Graves when he came.

  “Yes, Graves,” he whispered.

  “I’ve missed you,” he said and turned his head so his lips grazed over Nick’s temple. Nick swallowed. Fuck. Fuck. No. Come on.

  “Fuck,” he said. He cleared his throat. “No. Fuck you.” Nick straightened and pushed on his chest. He stepped back and Nick shook himself. “You! You, fucking… Goddamn it!” Anger shot up his spine, out his arms, making him shove the big man again. This time he didn’t move at all. It was like shoving a wall.

  “You!” Nick said. “You are the one who said you were too…what? busy? Too important?”

  “Maybe I was wrong,” the big man said. “It’s been known to happen.”

  He was trying to be funny? Nick threw his hands up.

  “Then you should have called! Or come back. Or done anything but…but this!” Graves seemed about to speak, but Nick stormed off, not even bothering to make his coffee. He would swim for an hour instead—clear his fucking head.

  *

  Oh, Graves loved men like this. His Royal Highness Mahmoud bin Rashid ibn Salman was a young lion, handsome, confident, had sense of humor for miles. Graves sprawled at the back of his booth, watching him. The prince sat opposite, making them howl with laughter. Macassar’s was hopping. Through the screens that separated the VIP section, Graves could hear the music and laughter in the rest of the club. It was a good night. Mahmoud was laying on the charm, as well brought up as they come. His English was Oxford, his manners true to his father’s house. A second son, but a young lion anyway. Graves wanted him, assuming what he had heard about the prince’s more…interesting tastes were true.

  As the prince’s friends got up to leave, Graves winked at Mahmoud, who flushed straight down to the collar of his shirt. It’s a nice shirt too. Italian tailor I’d wager, but René’s are better. Mahmoud bit his lip and gave Graves a small nod from under his long lashes. So the rumors were true then. Graves purred internally. It had been a long time since he had been with a man.

  An image of blue eyes and a crooked grin, pale flushing skin—Damn it, no! He was absolutely not going to think about the fucking American tonight. Nick had made his choice. And Graves wanted more right now. He wanted someone he didn’t have to be careful with. He wanted to indulge himself. He blinked a few times, as though Nick’s face were something in his eye, easily brushed away. It didn’t work.

  If you had done anything but this. Nick’s words came back to him. Along with the image of the bruise on his neck. Graves closed his eyes, anger surging. I could have had him. That’s what he means. But I didn’t and he moved on. Now I need to. Mahmoud would be just the thing to get Nick out of his system once and for all. Someone with manners, a pedigree. Someone Graves could fuck all damn night… He shot to his feet.

  Mahmoud was looking at him, his arms on the back of the couch. He raised one perfectly groomed brow.

  “Shall we leave, little lion?” Graves said. Mahmoud leaned forward, his dark eyes wide. His brilliant white teeth flashed as he smiled.

  “I was hoping you would say that,” he said.

  Graves leaned down and grabbed the prince by the chin.

  “Tell me something,” he continued, leaning over to speak in Mahmoud’s ear.

  “Is it true you like it rough, boy?”

  In response, Mahmoud twisted and took Graves’s thumb in his mouth. He sucked it slowly, then bit down, hard. Graves hissed and pulled his hand back.

  “Good,” he said and gestured for Russ. “Why don’t we go to my ship, and see how rough you like it.”

  *

  His Royal Highness liked it very rough indeed. They had barely even made it into his suite before Graves had ripped off Mahmoud’s Italian shirt. He had decided he didn’t want the prince to see his legs, and so had simply bent him over the couch, fumbling on a condom and barely doing any prep. He said he liked it rough. I suppose he meant it. He was plowing Mahmoud hard and steady, and he could hear the Prince’s little cock slapping against his belly under his sobs.

  “You like that?” he said. Mahmoud gave a garbled shout in the affirmative, his hips trying to buck.

  “I thought so.” Graves shifted so he was fucking down, twisting his hips, feeling his cock sawing over Mahmoud’s prostate. Even through the condom that little rough patch under the head of Graves’s cock felt out of this world. Everything smelled like musk and sweat. Nothing like fucking a woman, Graves thought. Why have I waited so long to do this?

  The image of Nick returned, nearly bowling him over. Wasn’t that long ago you were kissing a man. And then you blew it, and Roger fucking Yeung put his unworthy fucking mouth on my…

  He forced the jealousy away, but Nick stayed in his mind. Graves gave his head a rough shake, scattering drops of sweat everywhere. He couldn’t make the image of Nick go away. He’d be cursing me, kissing me. I could be myself. All that pale skin, flushing red and shining with sweat. Graves would spoil him, take him slow, face-to-face. He wanted to see Nick’s eyes widen when Graves breached him, opened him on his cock, kissed him and—

  Graves came between one thrust and the next, barking out a curse in surprise. He felt Mahmoud come a mome
nt later, flexing and squeezing Graves’s cock impossibly tight. He rubbed his face on Mahmoud’s back, letting the shudders and shivers of pleasure roll up and down his spine. For a split second he felt his right toes, a glimpse of the long lost limb.

  Graves staggered backward and over to the bar to throw away the condom. His guts were roiling. Now that he had come, his mood came crashing down. He wanted out of this suit. He wanted to be alone. But manners…

  “Was that rough enough for you?” he teased, forcing a smile for the prince. Mahmoud was pulling up his pants, stumbling a little. He accepted the bar towel Graves handed him.

  “Incredible,” Mahmoud said. Graves allowed the boost to his ego, but it didn’t help. He was glad to see Mahmoud buckling his belt though.

  “Leaving?” Graves asked, relieved. He slept alone. That was his rule.

  You slept with Nick, though, didn’t you? Slept like the dead with him lying on your chest like a cat. The thought was not helpful. Not after he had only now come to the image of Nick’s face. Graves went and kissed Mahmoud’s cheek.

  “Yes,” the prince said. “Better not to spend the night here—too obvious.”

  “Will I see you again?” Graves asked.

  “Absolutely,” Mahmoud said. “Take me shopping in that car of yours the day after tomorrow?”

  “I’d love to,” Graves said. Mahmoud yawned wide and patted Graves’s cheek. They didn’t say much as Graves walked him to his car, parting with a brief kiss that felt hollow, no matter how well meant.

  *

  Walking down Orchard Road, looking at Christmas lights with Roger Yeung was like a dream. Orchard Road was famous, the “Rodeo Drive of Asia” was how Nick always heard it described. And for Christmas, the street was decked out end to end in dazzling displays. Each shop and mall trying to outdo its neighbors. There were lights and music and real snow and treats available everywhere.

  The usual sunset cacophony of birds turned the Christmas carols into a jumble of nonsense. Nick and Roger ignored the birds and walked in the long shadows of the flame trees, admiring the displays in the windows. There was barely enough breeze to move the humid air. Nick and Roger could pause and admire each window, taking in the displays without having to dart inside to escape the heat.

  They couldn’t hold hands openly, but Nick still felt the connection between them, warm and vital. Roger was kind, polite, a real gentleman. His manners were impeccable. And he is a normal person, not some dope-slinging shipping magnate who can’t even decide if he wants to threaten me or kiss me.

  As though the thought were a summoning spell, he heard Roger give a low whistle and saw a red-and-black Bugatti parked in the spaces in front of the Rolex store. They had been strolling beside the big-name designer stores and supercars were not uncommon. But this one had diplomatic tags and was parked over two spaces, at an angle that made it impossible for anyone else to park near it. Nick went stiff as a board. Almost three weeks without a word. And now suddenly he is back, and I gotta run into him everywhere.

  “That is a hell of a car,” Roger said. “I tell you what, if a man rolled up to me in that—it would get my attention pretty quick.” Nick cringed but Roger continued, taking out his phone and snapping a selfie with the car. “I mean, it might make me shallow, but a car like this…wow.” He was only half joking but Nick couldn’t stand it. “It’s custom too. Man they only made a few of these. God, it must be worth millions.”

  “I know who owns this car,” Nick said dryly as they came alongside it. He glanced up and saw the black Range Rover on the corner. Bishop was leaning against it. He gave Nick a two-finger salute. Roger didn’t notice. He had paused to take another picture. “You do not want to meet him,” Nick continued.

  “Is he good-looking?” Roger laughed. “Should I worry?”

  “He is very good-looking, for a certain type,” Nick said. “But he is an egotistical, entitled asshole.” He wasn’t sure why he was so angry to see the Bugatti. The race, the night at Leon’s—he suddenly remembered the feel of Graves’s wrist under his palm as he shifted gears. Then he blew me off, kissed me, blew me off again. So why can’t I get him the fuck out of my head?

  “How do you know someone like that?” Roger asked.

  The words he’s my friend died on Nick’s lips. He caught a reflection in the car’s mirror shine: the unmistakable shape of Nelson Graves standing more or less directly behind them. Nick turned and saw Graves’s face was closed tight with anger. He was in a beautiful gray suit and a deep-blue tie. He was tapping his cane on the ground and looked absolutely murderous. He had clearly heard the whole thing.

  Nick held the amber eyes with his chin up, refusing to acknowledge the swoop in his stomach.

  “I’m sorry for making you wait, my lord!” came a voice over Graves’s shoulder, and a man appeared, carrying a shopping bag.

  “Don’t trouble yourself, Your Highness,” Graves said. “I was merely waiting for these lads to move away from the car.” He reached out casually and cupped the young man’s cheek. “His Highness” was beautiful, in his midthirties with golden skin and jet-black eyes. He had a neat black beard and a long aristocratic nose. He was wearing a tight T-shirt and jeans but a glance was enough to tell how pricey they were. Graves’s thumb dragged over his cheek, and Nick had to unclench his jaw. Your Highness? Of fucking course, an actual prince.

  Roger was practically vibrating at his side. Before he could say anything, Nick raised his chin and turned his back, taking Roger by the arm and guiding him away without a word.

  “That was the guy?” Roger asked once they had walked a little down the block. They heard the high-pitched roar of the car peeling off. “Oh my God, Nick, you weren’t kidding. A certain type? The ‘daddy’ type you mean. Gorgeous, but I wouldn’t want to cross him!”

  “No, you would not,” Nick muttered.

  “How do you know him? Jesus, did you see his watch? I think it was a Maître Du Temps— Do you think it was real?” Roger’s admiration was grinding on Nick’s nerves. Graves was the last thing he wanted to think about. Who the fuck cares what kind of watch he has?

  “I know him through Jeanne, and yes—if he’s wearing it, then its real. But can we please change the topic?”

  “Did you see who was with him?” Roger said, shaking Nick’s arm. Nick didn’t know, didn’t want to know.

  “Some royal, I guess,” Nick said. He rubbed his temples.

  “Not just some royal! He’s fucking Prince Mahmoud bin Rashid. Huge influencer! He plays polo— Oh my God, I should have taken a selfie!”

  “Please,” Nick said, fighting the churning in his gut. “Please, for the love of God, Roger. Can we stop fucking talking about him?”

  “Okay, sorry,” Roger said. He was clearly dying to talk about it, already pulling out his phone. “Do you want to get jelly ice?” Nick did not. He wanted to go home.

  “I think I’d like to go back to Jeanne’s and sleep early tonight. She’s having a dinner tomorrow, and I’m exhausted.” His heart was still pounding. He had not been ready, had not even had it in his mind to run into Graves like that. The size of him had dragged him back to the morning he woke up lying on his chest. And the prince! The way Graves had cupped his cheek. Nick shook his head to clear it.

  Lying in bed, listening to the rain fall, Nick couldn’t let it go. He hadn’t seen Graves in weeks, had been perfectly happy not to. And now he had seen him twice in three days, and it felt like Nick’s whole life was flipped over. And the party was coming at the end of the week. Graves would be there to see all of Nick’s hard work. How would he react? Would he say anything to Roger? Say anything to Nick? He fell asleep worrying about it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Your suit is spectacular, Nick,” Roger said. “I told you the Tom Ford was perfect. My God, you look like a million bucks! How did I get so lucky?” Roger’s years in America gave his Oxford English a smattering of Texas slang. Words like “bucks” or “y’all” popped up at random. Nick th
ought it was endearing, as though Roger were trying to speak to him in his own language.

  “Here they are!” Jeanne said. She waved Nick and Roger over to where she was talking with Mina and David Li.

  “You know Roger, of course, and this is my assistant, Nicholas Erickson,” Jeanne said. “Not only did he help me set up the display in the courtyard—he and Roger planned the entire menu.”

  “A magnificent debut,” Mina said. “I was amazed as the caterers arrived. Brilliant choices!”

  The Li’s were effusive in their praise. Nick was floating on air. He and Roger snuck a fist bump behind their backs. They had pulled it off. They had worked a bunch of street chefs into the most fashionable New Year’s Party in Singapore. The food was beautifully arranged and people clustered around Latipah, complimenting her. Roger and Nick stood off to the side, listening. They were joined by Morris and Lena, whom Nick had insisted be on the guest list. Morris was in the shirt Roger had forced him into—and even Nick had to admit the skinny former sailor looked good. Roger brought them all champagne to celebrate.

  “You should be proud, Nick,” Lena said quietly while Roger and Morris argued about the shirt. “This is incredible. You are making a nice life for yourself.”

  “Thanks,” Nick said. “I’m working hard not to screw it up.”

  “I’m proud of you,” she said. “Now let me drag Morris back to the food before he and Roger throw down over that goddamn shirt.”

  Roger wrapped an arm around Nick’s waist and signaled a waiter.

  “You are not going to believe who is with Jeanne and my mother,” Roger said, handing Nick another glass. Nick turned and saw, with a lurch in his chest, that it was Graves. He was in a blue suit and a dark-gold tie, a combination that suited him to an annoying degree. He seemed to be charming Mrs. Yeung with a story.

  “I know you don’t like him, but God, that suit,” Roger said. “Clearly bespoke. Probably has his own tailor. Should we rescue my mother?”

  “Let’s not go over there,” Nick said. “I can’t deal with him right now.”