by Quin Perin
As usual, Donovan walked into the meeting last with Monica on his heels. As usual, the room quieted when he arrived … except Sam kept talking. He was always talking. From what Donovan had seen of the guy, he’d already befriended the entire office.
Donovan grumbled when he sat but did notice Sam had put a bit of effort into his appearance. He wore the usual black skinny jeans with, shockingly, shiny dress shoes, plus a black sweater with a white collared shirt underneath. Sam looked passably adult-like as he started the meeting.
Again, Donovan noticed Sam’s voice didn’t fit the rest of him. Raspy and rough, he had the timbre of a villain in an old Western despite his runway model appearance. Also unexpected: the guy was eloquent, a good public speaker, even though his day-to-day speech was littered with sentence fragments, stutters, and profanity.
However, when he started talking about sinking bottles of beer to the bottom of Lake Erie, he went too far.
“Wait,” Donovan said. “You’re telling me you want to photograph Great Lakes Brewing bottles underwater? The metaphor there is ‘sunk.’ That they are ‘sunk.’”
“No, Don, they’re part of Cleveland’s landscape.”
The room collectively gasped.
“Don’t call me Don,” Donovan (thank you) hissed.
His expression must have been homicidal, because he felt Monica’s foot nudge against his ankle—a silent entreaty to “calm down, good buddy.” Except he didn’t want to calm down. Everything about Sam Shelby ate at him, from his clothes to his demeanor to his stupidly perfect looks.
“Sorry,” Sam said, even though he didn’t sound sorry. “But listen, Great Lakes Brewing Company, it’s an institution now. Locally and nationally known. It sits on a lake. I think it would be really cool if we could do some underwater photography for this, especially …” He clicked the clicker, and the PowerPoint jumped. “For the Lake Erie Monster Imperial IPA. We could even have a—”
“It’s stupid,” Donovan said. “We’re not doing it.”
“You didn’t let me finish.”
“I know you’re trying to be all cute and creative, but Cleveland Indians baseball fans don’t care about fine art. This is an ad for Progressive Field—”
“Yeah, no shit.” Sam barely moved. His calmness was galling. “The vision I have for this would look amazing on the outfield wall. It’s not gonna be murky and ominous but bright and beautiful. Make people thirsty. Make people think, ‘Gee, I want a beer.’”
“Don’t cut me off.”
“Back at you.”
They glared at each other down the length of the long conference table, although there was more than a glimmer of mischief in Sam’s blue eyes. As the meeting continued, Donovan suspected Sam was having fun.
An hour after the meeting (an hour spent being harassed by Monica: “You will apologize to him immediately”), Donovan sought Sam—but his office was empty. Donovan let himself in to wait. The desk was overrun with half-finished sketches, as were the walls. From the look of it, Sam’s brain was a loud, colorful, wonderful place. As Donovan plucked a particularly stunning sketch of the Cleveland skyline from the wall, he thought he might like to visit the world Sam saw.
He gently sifted through a few hand-drawn logos on the desk and froze when he found a crudely drawn sketch of … himself. Sam must have done it during a meeting at some point, perfectly capturing Donovan’s close-cropped hair, wide jaw, and severe expression.
Jesus, was this what other people saw when they looked at him? Did he really look so miserable?
“Make yourself at home?” Sam leaned against the doorframe with one ankle crossed over the other.
Donovan dropped the picture and stood up straight at the sound of his voice. “I didn’t mean to snoop.”
The office door closed as he stepped inside. “Sure you did.”
Sam circled the desk, so Donovan circled the other way, although he noticed Sam Shelby did smell good—like clean laundry and cedar. “I think we started off on the wrong foot.”
Sam snort-laughed and flipped through some files on his desk. “More like wrong continent, man.” When he found whatever he was looking for, he stood up straight and tapped the file’s corner against his palm. “I can handle guys like you, you know.”
Donovan shifted back on his heels. “Guys like me?”
“Mm. Corporate assholes. All you see are dollar signs. You take no pleasure in your work. Advertising is money to you, not art, but without the artists, there wouldn’t be advertising, so …”
Donovan wanted to tell him it wasn’t true. Donovan loved art. He … used to love art. When was the last time he’d been to the museum? When was the last time he’d made time to paint? He thought it might have been before Anna walked out.
“I know I look like a six-foot-two Disney princess, but you’re not gonna rattle me.” To prove his point, Sam got right up in Donovan’s personal space until Donovan took a step back. “And I’m right about the Great Lakes ad campaign. If you’d pull your head out of your ass, maybe you’d notice.” He turned away abruptly.
“Sam.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry.”
Sam’s rebuttal: “Prove it.”
“How?”
He rested a hand on the desk and cocked his hip out. “Listen to me in meetings.”
“I was listening.”
“Nope.” He shook his head before running a hand through his unkempt, unprofessional hair. “No, you were hearing. I need you to listen. There’s a difference. And I know I’m just some fucking kid to you, but I was interning in New York City when I was sixteen. I know what I’m doing, Donovan, so let me do it.”
“Fine.” He’d had enough. He’d apologized, okay. He didn’t owe Sam anything else.
He didn’t run for the door, but he definitely moved with speed.
Donovan barreled down the hall. Luckily, no one got in his way, or they would have been flattened. Outside his office, Monica opened her mouth to speak, but he just held his hand up and glowered until her mouth snapped shut. He practically swung around the doorframe and into his office, closing the door behind him and leaning against it for good measure.
In the privacy of his own space, he could acknowledge the unexpected fact that he had a boner.
Christ, Donovan Cooper had a boner, which—outside of the occasional morning wood—was definitely not a usual occurrence. Now, he sported a throbbing erection in his fancy dress pants, and there was no other reason than his argument with a certain Sam Shelby.
“What. The. Fuck.” He bashed his head back against the door with every word.
Confusion was one thing. Donovan felt confused often enough. For instance, why did people still watch American Idol? Or why did people use turning signals in turning-only lanes? This erection was more than confusing. It was one of the great mysteries of the universe, considering not only was Donovan straight but he also hated Sam.
Wait, did he hate Sam? Hate was a strong word. Sam annoyed him. Sam was … annoying: annoyingly brilliant and, well, annoyingly good-looking, perhaps. He stood up to Donovan, and no one did that. Maybe Donovan liked that Sam stood up to him. Maybe he liked Sam?
Oh, God.
He pressed his palm against his misbehaving dick.
Last week in the shower, had he …
Oh, no, no.
He’d pictured Sam Shelby, hadn’t he? Jerking off alone in the shower, he’d pictured fucking someone—hard. He’d pictured a body under him with pale skin and thick, dark hair that was perfect for pulling. Had the person had breasts?
Nope.
Due to his irritation with life and his need to relax, Donovan had unknowingly taken his frustrations out on Sam, pinning him to that imaginary bed and destroying him with kisses and bites, hair-pulling and rough, angry thrusts. Thinking back, he suspected he’d even heard Sam’s voice throughout, begging.
God, he wanted to hear Sam beg.
And this was not helping his erection—at all.
> Donovan felt like he was going crazy. He basically waddled to his desk and sat because if he spent one more second thinking about Sam’s mouth (it would look amazing wrapped around his dick) … No!
He’d jerked off while thinking of a professional colleague—a male colleague who was frustrating and arrogant and so goddamn pretty. He would never admit to it. He would wrap his feelings for Sam away and hide them with all his other stagnating emotions. Sometimes, he felt things rotting inside: his artistic aspiration, his dreams of being happy. Add Sam Shelby to the list, because there was no way Donovan would ever admit to wanting the guy on his knees.
Seeing the envelope on his desk Wednesday morning made it real. He was about to become a “divorcee.”
The early sun still low in the orange sky outside, Donovan circled his desk and couldn’t believe Anna had sent the paperwork to his office and not to their … his home. By then, Monica would have seen it. She’d probably carried the offending document inside. Christ, had a courier brought it? Who else had seen it? Had the gossip mill begun? Did they all know?
Without breaking the law office seal, Donovan slid the big manila monster into his desk drawer and folded into his chair. As so many great men before him, he decided to suffocate the pain with work.
Nearing lunchtime, he realized he’d barely thought about the envelope in his desk—which was a lie. He thought about it; he merely denied its presence. He decided to stretch his legs and get more coffee.
When he heard whispers and waves of laughter from the Stoker and Steele break room, he really should have known better than to approach. Nobody laughed when he was around. In fact, they probably laughed behind his back … which was precisely what was going on.
Donovan couldn’t be sure how they had reached that particular point in the conversation—probably a gossiping morning courier—but he stepped into the doorway just in time to hear Sam Shelby say, “No wonder his wife left him.”
The small circle of women flocking him giggled then stopped abruptly. Within seconds, their expressions of evil glee morphed into horror.
For his part, Sam still smiled when he turned toward the door, but his expression dropped when he saw Donovan.
Without waiting for a forced apology, Donovan rapidly vacated the area.
Even when he heard Sam’s voice behind him, he kept going—kept going until Sam put a hand on his shoulder and pulled. “Donovan, I—”
He pointed a finger in his pretty face. “Don’t. Just don’t.”
Sam opened his mouth, a frustrated wrinkle between his brows, but Donovan didn’t give him a chance to continue. He just stalked away. Even if Sam had said something else, Donovan wouldn’t have heard. All he heard was his angry pulse pounding in his ears.
At six PM, Donovan was still at work, alone in his office. He sensed the envelope in his desk but wasn’t going to touch it. Nope, he would work the whole night through. Work until he buried his pain. Work until it killed him.
Of course, Sam Stupid Shelby had to ruin everything by walking into his office without knocking and standing there in perfectly tailored black trousers and a bright yellow jacket that, of course, suited his quirky style just wonderfully.
Donovan didn’t even pause in his typing.
“Come on,” Sam said. “Please? I’m sorry. I really am. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Donovan typed with aggression. “I looked at your new layouts for the Progressive ad, and they suck.”
“Uh …” Sam crossed his arms over his chest. “No, they don’t. You’re just pissed at me and taking it out on my work.”
“Maybe if you dialed back on the whole ‘artist’ thing and thought a little about money and profits, you’d see the layouts are trash.”
Sam threw his hands in the air. “Why do you hate me? You’ve hated me since I walked into this fucking office, and I have no idea why! Jesus Christ, you helped hire me!”
What with the envelope and people knowing and all the cruel cackles—and Sam in his office after-hours—it all piled up until, suddenly, Donovan stood right in front of Sam without any memory of moving. He did remember yelling, “You are a disrespectful, spoiled brat who knows nothing about real life because your nose is always stuffed in a sketchbook.”
Probably to get some distance, considering Donovan was practically up his nose, Sam shoved Donovan in the chest. “Well, you’re a miserable, grumpy son of a bitch who hates the world, and nobody fucking likes you!”
Donovan stood up straight and blinked just as Sam dug his hands into his chestnut curls.
“Oh, my God, shit, I’m so sorry. That was a terrible thing to say.”
Donovan felt the lump like vomit in his throat. Do not cry. Not here, not now, not in front of him. At least, those were his initial thoughts, which changed when he really thought about it because—if he was honest—he really … needed … Sam.
He reached out and grabbed Sam’s ugly yellow coat. In fact, he went one better. He pressed Sam against the closed office door and kissed him.
For Donovan, relief was instantaneous. He gripped Sam’s collar and kissed some more. Surprisingly, Sam moaned and kissed back, mouth open wide as his tongue came out to play. His hands clung to the back of Donovan’s head as he made the most delicious sighing noises, and Donovan noticed Sam’s lips were so fucking soft.
They kissed and kissed. Donovan would have kept kissing, a man flailing blindly away from heterosexuality, but Sam eventually tilted his head to the side and said, “Whoa, okay, pump the brakes, big chief.”
They ended up sitting side by side in Donovan’s guest chairs. Neither man spoke for a good five minutes. Donovan stared at the floor while Sam tapped his fingers on his knees.
Finally, he said, “Hello, I’m Sam Shelby. Who the fuck are you?”
Donovan chuckled so he wouldn’t cry.
“You don’t hate me, do you?”
“God, why do you have to smell so good?”
Sam leaned forward in his seat. “It’s Gain laundry detergent and some French cologne my sister bought.”
“I’m sorry I kissed you,” Donovan whispered.
“Don’t be. It was a good kiss.”
“Look, I’m getting a divorce, which apparently the whole office knows about. I haven’t felt anything in months, not until you showed up.” He lifted his head but still didn’t make eye contact. He wasn’t sure he could handle Sam’s baby blues just yet. “You’re so talented. It’s disturbing how talented you are. I hated it at first. I hated you, or at least I thought I did.” He rubbed his hand over his face. “Who gave you the right to come into my life and be so talented and passionate? Who gave you the right to be a light in my dark?”
“Depression is easy, Donovan. It’s the other shit that’s hard.” He sighed and clapped his hands together once. “So. You wanna go fuck?”
Now, that got Donovan’s full attention. “What?”
“We live in the same building. The walk of shame would be really short.”
Donovan stood and backed away from the wily creature he’d erroneously allowed remain in his office. “Sam, I’ve never … well …”
“Fucked a work colleague?” He waggled his dark eyebrows.
“No. I mean, yes, I’ve never fucked a colleague, but I’m saying I’ve never …”
“Been with a brunette?”
“Been with a guy.”
“Oh,” Sam said. “Ohhhhh,” he said again. “Oh?” He leaned back in his chair. He half-chuckled, only part of his mouth curling up in amusement. “But we …” He waved at the office door. “I figured you must—”
“Just you,” he said and ground his teeth together.
“Huh?”
“You’re the only man I’ve ever been attracted to, which might explain some of my early animosity because I was confused. I’m still confused. Massively. And if you would like to tell the entire office about it and laugh behind my back, fine.” Rejection was Donovan’s new expectation, so when he turned to gather his things and p
romptly go home, he did not expect to feel Sam’s warm hand on his arm.
“Hey,” he said. “Donovan. I’m an asshole, but I’m not, like, an asshole.”
He couldn’t help it; he reached out, cupped Sam’s jaw, and ran his thumb over his bottom lip. “Nobody looks like you. You’re like a work of art.”
Sam grinned. “You’re not so bad. Maybe if you smiled once in awhile.”
His fingers still tickled the side of Sam’s face. “I don’t remember what smiling feels like.”
“I could show you.”
Donovan pulled his hand away. “Why? I’ve been nothing but horrible to you.”
“I could say the same, but you still want me in your bed.”
Donovan took a huge step backwards. “Whoa, I don’t know what I want from you, okay?”
Sam latched onto the lapels of Donovan’s suit. “Well, I want to know what you look like when you come.”
That zinger went right to Donovan’s cock, and the way Sam just preened? Oh, he knew it. “You can’t talk like that.”
“You ain’t heard nothing.” He leaned in for a kiss, but Donovan backed up. Sam’s expression changed from one of playfulness to concern. “Hang on, you’re serious, aren’t you? You’ve really never done this before.”
“Of course, I’m serious.”
Sam’s hand went to the back of his neck and mussed his shaggy curls as he stared at the floor. “Shit, I thought maybe it was just some kinky role play, but you’re for real.” He melted into the nearest office chair. “Wow, gay-for-you is a thing.”
“Gay-for-you?”
He chuckled without humor. “Yeah, it’s like a joke in the LGBTQ community. It never ends well. The straight guy usually goes back to his wife or some shit.”
“I won’t have a wife much longer.”
Sam waved the comment away. “Okay, then, you’ll go back to … The Pussy.”
Donovan winced. “Don’t use that word.”
“What, not a cat person?” He winked, and Donovan groaned.
“Let’s just pretend this never happened.” He circled his desk and started packing up his things. “I never kissed you. I never tried having a conversation with you. This never happened.”
