The Boss

by J. Calamy

“Who even is he?” Roger said.

  “Lord Nelson Graves, Duke of some kinda something, head of Scimitar Shipping,” Nick muttered.

  Roger shook his phone in annoyance. “The company has a boring shell page and there is nothing, I mean nothing about him on the internet. How can that be?

  “Please, stop,” Nick said. “I’m sure he has people who make sure he stays that way.”

  “Well I am going to find him,” Roger said. “He has to be somewhere.”

  “This is our night,” Nick said, pushing Roger’s phone down. “Forget it.”

  Roger didn’t argue, and the two went out onto the patio instead, breathing in the smell of the night-blooming flowers. There were others there, but it was easy to make their way to the edge, where the stone wall dropped down the hillside in an artificial cliff, above the rocks and crashing waves. Looking down, they could barely see the tide pulling out, leaving little pools and rivulets in the stones far below. The breeze was fresh and the sea smell seemed to go perfectly with the champagne.

  They talked aimlessly, enjoying each other’s company, and when Roger took Nick’s hand, he didn’t object. Roger’s face was illuminated by the lamps the Palladium had placed in the garden to show the paths and fountains. His high cheekbones and full mouth reminded Nick of Jeanne in a way, a kind of effortless beauty. The palm trees sounded like waves in the breeze, and the alcohol in Nick’s system was making him feel warm and more than a little amorous. It was a perfect night.

  *

  According to the hasty investigation Graves had ordered, Roger Yeung was perfect. Nothing interesting there, nothing Graves could sink his teeth into. He was handsome, well off, came from a respectable family. But none of that mattered. What mattered was that he was with Nick, and clearly they were having a good time.

  Graves watched without appearing to watch, as Roger Yeung won Nick right out from under his hands. It was enough to make him want to kill everyone in the room. Or himself—he couldn’t decide. Roger was attentive. Roger was kind. Roger brought Nick drinks and food and made him laugh. Nick was looking at Roger Yeung with smiling awe, his cheeks flushed. Graves could barely stand it. He knew Nick had seen him, but other than a polite nod, he had not even come over to say hello. It was intolerable.

  Graves was glaring at himself in the mirror of the bathroom, washing his hands and thinking about where he could stash Roger fucking Yeung’s body when Nick came in, still looking over his shoulder with a wide smile. That is my smile; that is my blush. How have I bungled this so badly? Why is this damn boy killing me like this? He was still blinking stupidly as Nick turned and saw him.

  Nick’s smile disappeared, something that twisted his heart in his chest and made his knuckles whiten around his cane.

  “Hello, Graves, how are you?” he said, always polite.

  “I’m well, Nick. How are you?” Graves said automatically. What he wanted to ask, “What can I do to get you to leave that handsome, perfect, whole-bodied young thing waiting for you and come away with me?” stuck in his throat, logjammed behind a host of other questions and demands.

  He settled for “Are you having a good time?” and left it at that, clenching his jaw around everything else. He realized he wasn’t breathing and cleared his throat, forcing his hand to relax.

  “I am. I’ve never been to something like this, with a—” he said. He stuttered to a halt and Graves forced himself to smile. Never been with a man. Don’t say anything, old boy. You can do this. You’re a gentleman.

  “I mean…sorry… I didn’t mean,” Nick was backpedaling and Graves almost felt sorry for him. Almost. The sight of those blue eyes—he felt something like a cramp in his chest.

  “It’s fine, Nick. I am happy for you,” he said. He almost meant it.

  “Thanks. I mean, I don’t know what this is. He’s nice though,” Nick’s neck was flushing up to his ears now, and Graves had to physically restrain himself. He’s nice and I’m not. Well that’s true enough.

  “I’m glad you are enjoying yourself.”

  “How is your—what was he? Some kind of prince?” Nick asked. Graves tried not to flinch. That had been an…unfortunate run-in.

  “Oh, he wasn’t mine. I mean…” Graves swallowed. “He is on a jet home,” he said. Covered in bruises and barely able to walk. Just the way I want you. “And that was Roger, then?”

  “Yes. Well, thanks for not—I thought you would, you know—say something,” Nick was stumbling through his words, and Graves arched a brow at him, pretending not to understand.

  “Say something? Like what?”

  “Well, I told you I didn’t want a relationship, and now—I mean,” he stammered.

  “Have fun with Roger Yeung. I’m sure he is a nice boy,” Graves said. He could feel his patience sliding through his fingers though. Nick’s hopeful smile made him furious.

  “But you know where to find me when you are done playing about,” he said. Nick’s shocked face made him wince. Well, there you go. Why don’t you simply punch yourself in the face, Graves, you fool. “And make sure little Roger knows that if he’s unkind to you, or hurts you in any way…”

  “You’ll what?” Nick snapped, stepping back. He sneered. “Feed him to your dogs?”

  “Something like that,” he said. In for a penny, in for a pound. “But what I do will be nothing to what Jeanne does to him, so you needn’t make that bloody face at me, boy.”

  “I’ll make any fucking face I want, Graves,” Nick said, his fists curling at his sides. Graves leaned in and pointed at him, but Nick slapped the finger aside, his face red with anger.

  “I’m looking out for you, and you are thinking about taking a swing at me?” Graves barked—the throb in his hip and the ache in his heart had reached a kind of counterrhythm. He swore he could feel the pain alternating with his pulse.

  “You’re an asshole, Graves,” Nick said, his lip curling. “You know it would be you out there holding my drink if you weren’t such a dick? Man, fuck you and the horse you rode in on, Nelson Graves.”

  Graves snapped his mouth shut on the retort he wanted to say—the things that would likely break what little chance of friendship they had left—and walked out of the bathroom. He was acutely aware that his limp was worse than it had been in days. His neck felt too tight for his collar. He needed air. With a nod to Jeanne, he went all the way to the back of the house, to the private patio by the pool. He threw himself down on a bench and cursed, pulling out a joint to smoke with shaking hands.

  Fool. Twice-damned fool. Bloody, bloody fool. You could have kept your mouth shut, and when littler Roger is gone in a week, everything would be fine. But no. Bloody stupid fool.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Nick watched Graves storm out, then turned and splashed cold water on his face. He made himself breathe, use the bathroom, wash his hands, taking the time he needed to cool down. He was still furious and hurt and, worst of all, miserably tempted to go after Graves. So he made himself slow down and wait, knowing the man would be gone by the time he came out of the bathroom. Graves was never as drunk as his jovial exterior let on. He was a stone cold, calculating, manipulative bastard under all the smiles and champagne and handing out little joints everywhere bonhomie nonsense. Nick wasn’t fooled, and he was not going to chase after him like some punk just because, because. Nick made himself count to fifty before he left the restroom.

  Roger was nowhere to be seen. So Nick stood with Jeanne and Roger’s mother, listening politely to whatever Jeanne was saying. His mind was flashing around his conversation with Graves, no matter how he tried to push it away. He realized that what he had said—it would have been you—was true. Was it? Even if it was, he wished he hadn’t said it.

  His phone buzzed.

  ROGER: Come to patio. Need to talk.

  Nick smiled and headed eagerly back to the patio, but when he saw Roger, he slowed his steps. Roger was shouting at Lena, who had her hand over her mouth, eyes huge. Morris had his arms crossed, shoulders h
unched, shouting right back. Roger was furious, face closed and chin drawn up in a way Nick had never seen.

  “There he is,” Morris said. Lena took a step back, shaking her head. She turned and practically ran inside. Morris shot Nick a poisonous look and ran after her, leaving Roger and Nick alone on the patio.

  “I was looking up your friend,” Roger said. “And then I looked you up. Took a little digging, but I think you know what I found.” Nick’s heart froze in his chest. His whole body shuddered in fear, even his skin seemed to seize up, as though his whole body was bracing for a blow.

  And the blow came. Roger slapped Nick hard across the face, hard enough that his head snapped to the side. Nick didn’t lift it, staying crouched and turned away, his face throbbing.

  “How dare you? How did you think you could be with someone like me?” Roger snarled. “Someone like you? A felon? You disgust me! I can’t believe I trusted you!”

  “Roger,” Nick started but Roger cut him off.

  “Don’t even say my name,” he hissed. “Do you know what it would do for my career, my family, if I dated you? You’re a murderer! Just because you got some sweet deal from a bleeding-heart judge—you think you can be associated with people like me? You’re not even good enough to wash the dishes in a place like this!”

  Nick was floating somewhere above his body; he couldn’t feel his own skin or hear anything beyond the rasp of his own breath. Roger’s exact words barely mattered. After all, they were simply echoes of what he said to himself, what he thought of himself. The floor had been ripped out, the fragile construct of his new life, his fresh start—shattered.

  Nick didn’t even blink, so far away from the moment he could barely breathe. His body was still hunched sideways.

  “I’m telling everyone,” Roger repeated. “I’m telling everyone in Singapore. That you tried to…to infiltrate our circles.” He spat at Nick’s feet, his face red with anger, and stormed off.

  Nick didn’t move for several minutes. His body was perfectly still, trapped in the moment between the cut and the awareness of pain. His breath rattled in and out, shallow things, barely enough to keep the body going. His heart beat, pounding in his ears, loud and urgent. But his mind was flatlined. There was nothing. Nick was gone. Disassociation Father Anderson had called it.

  “Your mind will try so hard to get away from the reality in front of you that it will succeed in doing so. Your mind will just…go and leave your body there to take the rap.”

  He had also given Nick plenty of advice on combatting it, on bringing the mind back into the present. None of that advice was available now. Nick could only stand there and breathe, stricken and shattered to pieces. And anyway, he was distantly aware that if he came back to his body, he would do something radical. Hurt himself in some way that would match how he felt on the inside. He didn’t know. His brain was not doing any thinking. He was trapped.

  *

  “Boss! Boss!” Bishop’s voice made Graves snap the radio up, adrenaline coursing through his system. He surged to his feet, already in motion.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s our Nick, Boss! Something’s happened!”

  “What?”

  “He’s on the south patio. Something ain’t right, Boss. I don’t dare go to him! I can’t find Ms. Jeanne. You gotta come now!”

  “I’m on my way.” The gardens ended in a wall, with stairs climbing to the south patio. Graves made his way up but froze at the top. Nick was standing on the wall over the drop. He was straight as a spear, his fists clenched at his sides, his face turned to the sky. From where he stood, Graves couldn’t see Nick’s face to confirm, but every line of Nick’s body radiated pain and suffering.

  Graves bit down on a shout of fear, his eyes scanning the empty patio. He saw Bishop on the other side, beyond the fence, clearly ready to leap over. Like Graves, he didn’t want to startle Nick though. Graves closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Not this. Please not this. Not Colin again.

  “Nick,” he said gently, moving around the side of the patio so he could get into Nick’s line of sight. Nick’s head straightened, and he turned to look at Graves. His eyes were flat, barely visible in the dark. His body swayed, and Graves’s heart clenched in terror.

  “Nick? Can I come close to you?” Graves said. He could feel sweat trickling down his back. Please no, please no. Thoughts of Colin returned, but Graves shoved them away.

  Nick nodded before facing back to the sky. Graves covered the ground between them in three lurching strides. When he was standing beside Nick, he turned his back to the sea so he could look up at Nick’s face, or rather the underside of Nick’s chin, at the moment.

  “Nick? Will you say something to me, please?” Graves asked, still keeping his tone gentle and soft. He felt better now that he was close enough to snatch the boy if he showed any sign of jumping. But adrenaline and fear were still making him shake, the servos in his artificial knee whirring.

  “I’m not going to jump, Graves,” Nick said, his voice flat and hoarse. “I already decided I’m not going to jump. So you can let go of whatever kung fu krav maga thing you are planning.”

  “Well I’m glad to hear that,” Graves said, not believing a word of it. “You gave me a bit of a scare. Could you come down, so I can stop craning my head up at you?”

  Nick spun and jumped lightly down onto the patio, sitting back on the wall next to Graves. Graves saw Bishop sag against the fence, face in his hands. Thinking of Colin, too, no doubt. Bishop picked up his radio—probably to call off the search for Jeanne. Graves focused on Nick.

  “Twenty minutes ago, you were ready to beat me up, Nick— What happened?” Graves asked. Nick didn’t say anything. He barely seemed present, his body limp and listless. He wasn’t even blinking. He shook his head, but Graves didn’t believe him.

  “Do I need to have Roger Yeung killed?” he asked. He kept his tone light and conversational, but Nick jerked. He turned to look at Graves, shaking his head. He saw the red handprint on Nick’s face, clear as day. Rage seared up his spine straight to his fists. It was so intense he felt a twinge of phantom limb in his right foot. He didn’t dare react.

  “Did he hurt you?” he asked as calmly as he could. He is a dead man, he and his entire family, everyone who has ever even—

  “No,” Nick said, his tone still flat and emotionless. “Roger is fine. Roger is a good man. He is…a decent person. Someone respectable and…and…” he trailed off. Graves turned and crouched in front of Nick, looking him full in the face. The mark on his face had a faint scratch from a ring.

  “What is going on, Nick? You’re scaring me, and when I get scared, I tend to burn things. So why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  *

  Nick started to shake. He couldn’t seem to stop himself. It started in his hands but quickly spread up his arms and down his legs until he was trembling head to foot, his teeth chattering. What is happening to me? Oh God, oh God, please no. But he couldn’t stop shaking. Far, far away, he realized he wet his pants, and panic began to set in. He started to suck in huge gulping breaths, his muscles cramping.

  Graves stood and pulled Nick into his chest, curling a hand on the back of Nick’s head and wrapping the other arm all the way around his torso. At first, Nick pushed, but then he seemed to convulse. He forced his hands into Graves’s jacket and wrapped his arms around him in a frantic grip. He shoved his face into the big man’s chest and to his shame and horror began to cry. He tried to stop, beginning to hyperventilate, pulling Graves in tighter, his fingers wrapped around the leather harness of his gun. He was making high-pitched screaming sobs, shuddering with adrenaline.

  “Nick, Nick, Nick,” Graves said, rocking him side to side. “It’s all right. You’re safe. You’re with me. It’s all right. I have you. Whatever it is doesn’t matter now. You’re safe.”

  Nick shook his head, feeling panic closing in. The party, the people, everyone seeing him, Roger told them, his soiled suit, his face
, seeing him, knowing what he was…

  “I am taking you out of here,” Graves said. Nick realized he had been speaking out loud and clamped his mouth shut with a moan. Keeping one hand firm on Nick’s head, Graves hauled out his radio.

  “Get the car to the back patio, south side—get me through that gate—quietly, but use any means.”

  Before Nick could quite understand what was happening, Graves’s armored SUV appeared. The Range Rover backed into the flower beds and bumped up against the fence. It paused and then slowly, inexorably, shoved backward—flattening the fence and crushing it under its heavy tires.

  Then Nick was in the back seat, and they were pulling away with no one inside the wiser. Nick’s body had stopped shaking and he felt sick, dragging him away from the edge. He had a vague sense that he had been rescued. Physically and mentally rescued, the heavy car bounced out of the garden and sped off. He kept his eyes squeezed shut—his body curled over.

  “Good thing David Bishop is used to having to improvise me an exit,” Graves said cheerfully. He still had his arm firmly around Nick’s shoulders but was texting rapidly with his free hand.

  “There was this one girl,” Bishop said from the front seat, “in Vietnam. She almost cut out the boss’s—”

  “Okay, thank you, David; that will do,” Graves snapped and pushed the button to raise the barrier between the front and back seats. Nick opened his eyes. He felt dizzy and nauseous. His body was sweat soaked and cold. He stank of piss. He sat up and saw they were pulling up to Jeanne’s.

  “No! Wait! Can we go to the boat?” he asked. Graves tapped on another button.

  “The marina, please” was all he said. Nick curled over again and closed his eyes. Jeanne’s house was empty, dark and empty. He couldn’t go there.

  It was depressingly similar to the last time. Nick, sick and humiliated, peeling off sweat-soaked clothes and showering, pulling on one of Graves’s enormous T-shirts, soft and redolent of the man’s skin, Graves forcing him to drink water before they went to sit on the couch in front of the TV.