by Daisy Allen
Xavier
The Men of Gotham
~ Book Two ~
Copyright © 2020 Daisy Allen
Printed 2020
Xavier: A Men Of Gotham Novel
By Daisy Allen
All rights reserved.
This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. All characters and storylines are the properties of the author and your support and respect is appreciated.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
For my band of misfits,
who make their own unique shapes,
rather than conforming to the world’s.
ONE
Him
I can’t tell if it’s his blood or mine.
But there’s an unmistakable metallic taste tainting my tongue.
Not that I care. I barely even notice the rivulets of sweat stinging my eyes and the smattering of bruises I know are slowly blooming against the right side of my rib cage and left thigh.
There isn’t time for worrying about the collateral damage.
He is circling me; I’m pivoting on my right leg following him. The air between us is thick, palpable, pulsating with the rhythm of our elevated heartbeats. I’m not looking at any particular part of his body, but rather, focusing on the space around him. The slightest twitch of his bicep, the tiniest shift in the angle of his foot tells me everything I need to know.
So, I wait. And he’s not giving anything away.
The thumping in my ears is almost deafening but I’m finding an almost nirvana-level clarity in the chaotic drumming of blood and adrenaline streaming through my body.
One-one-hundred, two-one-hundred, I count silently, three-one-hund- and there it is. The toes of his right foot curl into the ground, gripping for traction and I know what’s coming. My head tucks into my chest as I duck just as his left leg whips around towards me and I block it with my forearm before hooking my wrist around his ankle and twisting his leg into an inhuman angle; defense and attack both at once.
Just like he taught me.
The jarring of our limbs shudders through my whole body but I hold position until I hear the thud of his chest against the ground. I follow him to the floor, my knee digging into his back, my hand wrapped around the sweat drenched curve of the back of his neck.
Again, I hold and count. One-Mississippi. Two-Mississippi. Three-Mississippi. Four – it’s almost interminable. And then I hear it. The ding-ding-ding of the bell rings into existence, just as I’ve been expecting it to.
One hundred and eighty seconds sure is a long time when you’re counting them one by one.
My hand relaxes on the neck and I feel my body being pulled into an upright position. It takes a hard slap against my bare back, though, to jolt me back into the moment.
“Holy fuck, man, that was brutal,” a raspy voice growls at me from the sidelines, as the hand that slapped my back now steadies me while I take a long, deep breath, the first in minutes. “You trying to get back at him for sleeping with your girl or something?”
I roll my eyes, my drenched palms leaving damp stains on the sides of my shorts as I wipe them before reaching down for my opponent’s hand. He turns over onto his back and grips my hand with his giant one and almost drags me down onto the mat with him as I pull him to his feet. My friend and sparring partner for more than a decade. Ram, both in name and in physique. It takes a lot to take him down.
“Please, I wouldn’t touch one of his dirty trollops with a ten-foot pole, even though the closest ten-foot pole is right here in my pants,” he says, letting go of my hand and patting me on the side of my tenderized torso, making me cringe. He grins in response to my pained scowl, a little consolation for losing the fight. “But yeah, good fight, man. Guess that means I owe you a round at the bar.”
“No, man, I’ll buy you a round to cheer you up for losing to this little white boy,” I say, taunting him back and digging my own hand into his rib cage, making him groan and bend over, clutching his side and letting out a stream of what I can only imagine are the absolute worst cuss words that exist in his native Thai tongue.
I laugh and hand him a bottle of water which he takes, gratefully. “Sounds good to me, but I am on a strict no alcohol diet until after my fight this weekend. It’s a big one. I gotta be ready.”
“One drink. Come on.” I reach out to poke him in the side again, but he’s ready for me this time and twists away.
“Nah, you know how I have a propensity to overdo it.” He crushes the empty bottle and throws it into the trash can in the corner.
I cock an eyebrow. “’Propensity,’ huh? That’s a pretty big word for such a tiny brain housed in such a thick skull.” I grin at my 6 foot 6 giant of a friend who somehow manages to look a little embarrassed.
“Shut up. My niece gave me some word of the day toilet paper for my birthday.”
I laugh, but don’t push it. I know how much his niece means to him. She’s probably the only one who can reach his heart through all the layers of muscle and protein shakes. “Fine, how about I buy you a vat of boiled pasta and fifteen steamed chicken breasts?”
“You’re on. Meet you out front in ten?” Ram’s words are muffled by the hoodie being pulled over his head.
“What the fuck? You’re not going to shower?” I can feel my face showing my horror.
“Why? Do I need to?”
“My burning nostril hairs say ‘in all that is good and holy, fucking hell, yes!’”
“Get fucked!” He lifts his arm and takes, what I can only hope, for his olfactory nerves’ sake, is a long, deep, fake sniff. “Mmm-mmm. Like orange blossoms.”
“If they were recently fertilized a with truckload of chicken manure!”
“Hey, I’m Thai, we don’t have the same propensity for paying for and dousing ourselves in glorified flower water with the names of celebrities printed on the bottle, ‘mkay?”
“Jesus. Again, with the ‘propensity’? What, you only use one square of toilet paper a day?”
“What can I say, maybe I just have a propensity for ‘propensity’?” He grins and gives me a look of pity. “Don’t feel bad because I’m becoming more educated than you.”
“Yeah, I think my law degree can handle your overuse of one word. Now get your ass in the fucking shower!” I grab our bags and walk to the changing room in the back, satisfied with the sound of his canoe-sized feet dragging behind me.
“Fine, but don’t be getting any tawdry ideas when you see my naked body in there. Like I said, I’m on a strict, no pleasure diet until after my fight.”
I turn around, just in time to see him whip his shorts and underwear off and twirl them over his head as he tries to run past me.
The last thing I hear as he pushes through the shower doors is the sound of him squealing as the shoe I fling at him leaves a big red welt on his left butt cheek.
***
A gust of wind lifts the flaps of my shirt collar up against my face as I step out of the restaurant and onto the street. Ram jumps into a waiting Uber and waves to me as it drives off. As the car’s back lights fade into the distance, I can’t help but ponder his last words to me.
“There was something a little too dark in your eyes during the fight. You trying to exercise some demons?” he’d asked, uncharacteristically insightful for someone with a neck that’s bigger than his head.
I had brushed it off with a comment about spinach
in his teeth but now, walking the streets alone back to my apartment, it’s hard to pretend I didn’t know exactly what he was talking about. Why today, of all days, I was a little too focused on destruction.
Don’t go there, the warning voice inside my head tells me. And I know better than to ignore it. I shake my head, shove my hands into my trench coat’s pockets, and turn the corner, one block closer to my destination.
I had refused Ram’s offer to share the ride back to my building because I love this time of night. It’s not true that New York is a city that never sleeps; it’s actually the city that never rests. You can close your eyes, turn off the lights, and even drift off into dreamland. But the heart of the city never stops beating, never stops buzzing with life, with excitement.
Even now, if I look around me, front and back, it looks like there’s no one within a hundred feet of me. And there isn’t, not on the streets anyway, but the landscape of New York is not two-dimensional. All you have to do is look up. Laughter, tears, broken promises, sweet nothings, rise like hot air, up and up and up, tens and hundreds of feet reaching up to the sky.
Skyscraper after skyscraper. Housing an entire community made famous for its toughness, its tenacity.
I get to another corner and turn. Through the gaps of the other high-rises I can just make out the bright, neon sign spelling out ASH. The headquarters of ASH industries. It’s been my true north for almost five years now. I’ve lived and breathed it, from the purchase of the land to watching the two sides of the inauguration ribbon fall away when it was cut, the ASH building has been my life. And Kaine Ashley, the CEO and founder of ASH Industries, has been my home.
There is a sharp buzzing in my left pocket and I don’t have to take it out to know; it’s a case of speak of the devil.
“Yes, boss?” I answer.
“Quiet.” He’s not a man of too many words, my best friend.
“What? You’re not my boss? Who’s the one paying me all this money to be their bitch, then?
“Is that your official title now? Because you’re going to have to get new business cards made up.”
I can’t help but grin. He gives as good as he gets.
“Why are you calling me at 1:13 a.m.? Shouldn’t you be in marital bliss?” I ask, knowing his marriage isn’t the problem.
“My marital bed is currently occupied by my spouse and my new-born child. There is no room for me,” he replies. Seemingly grumpy but the voice is filled with pride.
“No wonder you’re calling me. Are there special bitch responsibilities you want me to take on?” I cross the street through a gap in the traffic.
“I need the Kensington contract signed tomorrow. He’s wavering, so we’ve got to lock it down. Address and contracts are in your suitcase. He leaves his house at 6:45 a.m. on the dot every morning. Your car’s going to pick you up at 6:20, don’t be late.” His voice is tense. I know how important this deal is for him.
“What contract in my suitcase? I didn’t put anything in there. And who booked the car?”
There is no sound on the other side of the line. But I can imagine some eye rolling.
“Oh.” It dawns on me. “Never mind. Patricia. I forget.”
“You forget that you have an assistant who anticipates your every need? That’s not usually something people should take for granted,” he scoffs.
“I guess I’m just that independent.”
“Get them signed, Mr. Independent, or the seven-figure loss is coming out of your bonus.”
There’s a click on the line and I shove the phone back into my pocket just as I cross the last street to my apartment building. From here I can already see Martin, the doorman, at his post by the door even though it’s past midnight.
"Hey, Martin," I say, pulling my hand out of my pocket to hold it out to him. "Busy night?"
He takes my hand and gives it a good pump and smiles.
"The busier, the better, Mr. Kent," he says as he lets go of my hand and reaches for the door, pulling it open for me.
Just as I step past him a golden glint catches my eye. My body pivots, involuntarily, following the cab that is hurtling down Second Avenue. I feel my legs move under me, running to follow the cab. What I doing? I'm just imagining it, it can’t be! But my legs don't listen. They’re just a blur against the night, chasing down a yellow New York taxicab at one a.m. As if they’re trying to break the light barrier and sprint myself into the past. Ahead, the taxi’s back lights glow red and it comes to a stop. I can’t believe my luck. I’m gaining. Only another hundred feet ahead. That's all there is between me and…
The door opens and a woman steps out, she flips her hair and for a moment, it’s like a golden silken fan over her face. I hold my breath. She closes the taxi door and straightens up, her hair falling down her back.
And I see her.
She is beautiful.
But a stranger.
I trace the lines of her face, comparing. And she comes up short.
I don’t realise I’m staring until she frowns, uncomfortable with the inappropriate social interaction.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” I say, holding up a hand by way of apology. “I thought… I thought you were someone else.” I force myself to look away.
Fatigue suddenly drags through every cell of my body as I slink back to my apartment building. A little older, a little wiser, and somehow, even though I thought it was impossible, a little bit more hopeless.
Two
Him
I remember the first day I sat behind the desk in my office.
It was a Monday. Of the last week of September. The Manhattan sky was still hanging on to the very last vestiges of an over-extended summer. 80-degree days, that felt more like 90, the heat and humidity stretching long after the calendar pages indicating fall should have arrived. The clouds hung low; from my 30th floor office, it looked like if I jumped out the window, I might be able to land on one and take it for a magic ride around the city.
Not my city of birth.
But my city of re-birth.
There was a black folio waiting on my desk that day, and two pens, both with my name inscribed on them. A small metallic desk clock, with three thin hands ticking away time, sat on the right side of the desk, next to a sleek black phone that had a flashing red button.
I’d pressed the flashing message button and Kaine’s voice spoke to me through the small speaker.
“Welcome to ASH Industries. Let’s get started.”
And that was it.
Short. Succinct. To the point. Just like Kaine. Well, not the short part. I can’t help chuckling at the thought of seeing how he’d hold up against Ram in a no-holds barred fight.
“What’s so funny?” A voice speaks up behind me, identical to the voice that had greeted me through the phone speaker all those years ago.
“Nothing much. Just thinking of you getting an ass kicking.” I spin around in my chair to face my boss. He responds with just the tiniest twitch of his left eyebrow.
“Other than fanciful daydreams, what else have you got for me?”
I slide the envelope on my desk towards him.
“Signed and delivered.”
“Not sealed?”
“If you want me to lick something, I’m going to need a raise.”
“That would have you getting paid more than me,” he growls, picking up the envelope.
“That is completely your prerogative. And still a bargain.”
He ignores me, and pulls the documents out of the envelope, flicking through them one by one, meticulous in everything to do with his business.
“What’s up for you today?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know.
“Ha. Ha.” I respond, glaring at him.
“I’m just saying, it doesn’t seem as if you remember, considering that,” he tilts his chin at me, indicating my blackened eye and split lip.
“Don’t worry. I remember.”
“Xavier.” He says my name like I’m 8 years old.
&n
bsp; I can’t believe I’m 30 and getting scolded. Not that I don’t deserve it. Today’s an important day. Not just for the company, but for Kaine, personally. I feel bad about appearing as if I hadn’t taken that into consideration before letting Ram pummel me.
“Sorry. Things got a little out of hand at training last night. I’ll take care of it.”
“See that you do.” He turns to leave, then stops. “You want me to send Jade over to see if she can do anything to help?”
“You mean, do I want your wife to come in and put make-up on me? Gee, let me think about it, and get back to you.”
I give him what I hope is my most withering look. The effect is minimal; there’s a miniscule twitch at the corner of his lips as he steps out of my office. I wait until he’s finished saying good morning to Patricia and leaves to make his morning rounds around the office before I call her.
“Patti!”
My assistant strolls through the door, shutting it behind her.
“How’d you know I wanted the door shut?” I ask.
Her look is similar to the one I gave Kaine before.
“I need help. With this,” I say, pointing to my face. She holds up a small pink bag she’s been hiding behind her back.
“I’m on it,” she says, pulling a chair up next to me, laying out on my desk an assortment of torture devices and rainbow-colored palettes.
“No one’s to hear about this, got it? Ever.” I warn her.
“Trust me. Now shush!” She grins at me as she descends on my face with something that looks like a spongy orange egg. “This isn’t going to hurt a bit.”
I wish I could believe her.
***
Fuck you, Kaine, I’m thinking to myself 8 hours later as my limo hurtles down 5th Ave. I’m looking forward to tonight the same way I look forward to the part in my annual physical when the doctor lubes up his finger, and something tells me by the end of the night, I’m going to feel just as violated. It’s the annual fundraiser for the ASH Foundation, and the aim tonight is to raise the money to build and run two new youth shelters that Kaine has planned.
