Six Night Stand (The Lexingtons Book 3)

by Kevin Sean

I can’t think of what to say, no, but I can look Ben in the eye. That’s the way I started to fall for him, after all—looking him in the eye. So I lift his drooping chin up and we lock gazes. We stare at each other for what could be forever or no time at all.

  Look at that face, those eyes. What a beautiful, special person. Ben.

  See, this entire situation has already been fucked up. Why the hell do I know his name? I would have been happy to refer to him as “Bakery Boy” in my brain forevermore. Knowing his name doesn’t change how green his eyes are or how many dimples he has when he smiles. But it sucks out the air of mystery and new-ness from our first fuck and adds a level of… familiarity between us which I hadn’t prepared for.

  It strikes me that now he also knows my name. I don’t know how to feel about that. I never tell my hookups what my name is if I can help it. I prefer to remain anonymous.

  He’s wandered my house alone, too. No one else has ever done that. They’re escorted to the door and ferried back to San Francisco an hour after we’ve tossed out the last used condom.

  “It’s okay.” Ben replies. His beautiful eyes look deep into mine, making my cock shoot up straight and stand at attention. “I didn’t mind it at all. It was funny.” He smirks. He’s adorable. I bite my lip and wonder what to say next.

  Why the hell am I so nervous? I’m a corporate CEO, not a schoolgirl. I need to get a hold of myself.

  “I love that hat.” Ben redirects our conversation with ease by pointing towards a decorative woven cone-shaped hat hanging from the opposite wall. It has been hand-painted with dozens of tropical blossoms whose petals are every color of the rainbow.

  “Thank you!” I can’t help but beam. “That’s one of my most prized possessions. I picked that beauty up on my most recent boating trip in Fiji.”

  Ben’s eyes widen. “Fiji! Wow! That sounds amazing. But I have to admit, boats make me nervous. Something about being out in the water in a vessel which might flip over or sink…” he shudders.

  “Really? I’m sorry to hear that, but I understand your fear. I assure you it’s very, very safe once you’ve got the hang of it. I have my boating license, I’ll take you out on my pilothouse boat once the weather’s better. I’ll even let you steer!”

  He blinks back at me. “That doesn’t sound legal.”

  “Right, okay, I’ll handle navigation. But it’s fun, I promise!” I continue. “It’s the best feeling ever to cruise beneath a sunset over the Golden Gate Bridge.

  “That sounds fun,” Ben concedes.

  “I’ll take you out myself when this horrible storm is gone!” I don’t realize what I’m saying it’s too late, but Ben’s smile is so big that I can’t regret it.

  “I would like that very much.” He replies.

  I remember that one more part of the meal awaits us. “I’ll be right back,” I say. I rush into the kitchen and pick up a tray with two cupcakes on top of it. I’ve decorated each of them with cream cheese frosting and makeshift cookie unicorn horns and eyes. It’s my version of the same fateful cupcake which started it all.

  “I made these… please don’t get mad.” I caution as I place the dessert on the table.

  Logan’s adorable smile gets somehow even bigger. “Unicorn cupcakes! How could I get mad? They look amazing!” He takes a giant enthusiastic bite. “And delicious!”

  I can’t help but grin while I watch Ben enjoying the cupcake. “This momentous occasion calls for a drink,” I say, thinking and deciding out loud. I take out a bottle of port wine and pour us each a glass.

  Before I know it we’re both tipsy and exchanging the names of our favorite paintings by Mondrian, Basquiat and Georgia O’Keeffe. This transitions into a ranting and emotional conversation about the love lives of my cousins Charles and Liam, which morphs even further to me ranting about Photogram stealing all of my company’s ideas. Ben is taking my messiness like a champ—he’s a great shoulder to drink on.

  “I’m sure you don’t care about this stupid drama between tech companies,” I mutter. “Do you even have a ConnectMe account?”

  “Of course I have an account. I’m not big on social media though. The entire cycle just got stale,” Ben answers.

  “Cycle?” I’m curious.

  “You know, the vicious cycle of social media. It’s not exclusive to ConnectMe. I feel like all we do is see people post pictures of how fake happy they are and feel bad about ourselves. So we post pictures of how fake happy we are and make other people feel bad about themselves. And around and around it goes.” I’m tempted to sing Joni Mitchell’s song The Circle Game.

  Ben’s not wrong. For all the good social media does in revolutionizing human communication, it can also spread misinformation and worsen depression and body image issues. I can’t deny this.

  We’re both silent for a moment. “You know… I’d like to end that cycle,” I respond.

  “How?” Ben wonders. “I don’t think anyone, not even the CEO of ConnectMe, could fix the problem.”

  “And why is that?” I ask.

  “Because the problem isn’t just social media,” Ben replies. “It doesn’t help, of course… but it’s also not inherently evil. I mean, we met on social media…” He pauses and blushes, which makes me smile. He’s adorable. “What I’m trying to say is, we’re all part of the problem. All these apps and social media sites are designed for profit and enable the worst human qualities: greed, anger, sloth.”

  “Well, how do you suggest I do my part to disable these negative qualities as opposed to enabling them?” I ask.

  “Maybe I just don’t understand this industry, but it seems to me like a true tech revolution would involve an app which isn’t just for profit…. Something which does good in the world would make people respect your company and make a difference. Plus, if you’re right about Photogram being so corrupt and only profit driven, then they wouldn’t copy the idea,” Ben concludes.

  I’ll admit, that last point holds water.

  I clasp my hands together. “I think you just ushered in a new era of civilization with your revelation, oh wise one…” I tease him.

  “Hey, no fair! You asked for my opinion!” Ben laughs.

  “You’ve got me there. And I enjoyed hearing it,” I respond, raising my glass. “To doing good.”

  “To doing good,” Ben murmurs, appearing deep in thought. He pauses for a moment, then continues. “Maybe don’t take my advice on success, though.”

  “Why’s that?” I can’t help but ask.

  “I used to think I would be a world-renowned artist. Then a year ago I got dumped, and I lost all my creativity, inspiration, and productivity. I haven’t painted anything half decent since.” This is the saddest I’ve ever seen Ben.

  “Hmm. Well, how did you used to get inspired? What kind of art do you make?

  He hesitates. “Honestly? I paint… painted portraits of my ex boyfriend. Nude portraits.”

  That isn’t what I was expecting. But I don’t want Ben to think I’m judging him, because I’m not. Art is subjective, right?

  “Hey, there’s no shame in that! Have you ever looked at the greek classical art section of any history museum? You aren’t alone in wanting to capture the beauty of the male form.”

  This seems to make Ben feel better, as his expression softens. I’m struck by an idea.

  “Here, I know what you need,” I say, surprising myself.

  I’ve never brought someone one else to the place we’re about to go. I take Ben’s hand and bring him with me through hallways, up stairs, and across corridors until we arrive at my favorite corner of the mansion: the hideaway. It’s a private creative space which I designed myself. My concept was to combine elements of a greenhouse and a library.

  Two walls of the room are made of stained glass panes of varying shades, while the other two walls are composed entirely of bookshelves. The room is overflowing with books, plants, paints and easels, telescopes, microscopes, sculptures both big and small, and even a miniature wat
erfall in one corner.

  The stained glass makes even the dim light of this stormy evening look iridescent and gorgeous. One ray of opal light casts across Ben’s sweet face, which turns upwards in admiration. “Wow,” my guest murmurs.

  “I had this room built many years ago when I flew to Florence for a tech summit about artificial intelligence. It was one dreadfully boring meeting after another,” I explain. “A nightmare vacation. Imagine, being in the heart of one of the most artistic and historic cities in the world and spending the entire trip trapped inside conference rooms with mundane tech executives.”

  The memory makes me feel claustrophobic. Ben nods along while I speak, listening intently.

  “I got lucky on the third day. The conference organizers delayed a seminar on improving SEO for social media websites for two hours. That was when I saw my chance. I ducked out of the hotel we were holding the meeting in and hightailed it over to the Uffizi gallery museum. All I wanted was to trade my boring tech counterparts for the more pleasant company of Bernini and Rafael.”

  “I wouldn’t have pegged you for such an art fiend,” Ben muses, his eyebrows raised.

  “Well, when I was a boy I wanted to be a sculptor or a painter. But it became clear that I just didn’t have the artistic touch. So I moved on to STEM and the world of tech… but I never lost that love for the arts. I can nurture that love and find peace of mind here in the hideaway.”

  I’m ranting, but Ben doesn’t seem to mind. Not only does he not mind, he’s in such an excellent mood that he’s almost glowing. I can tell Ben is more interested by this conversation than he was by anything else we discussed at dinner.

  I love that because I love passion. I respect people who dedicate their lives fully and unapologetically to a pursuit which is close to their hearts. I don’t care if you’re painting peonies or selling seashells by the seashore, I just care that you care.

  Ben cares—with his whole heart. This devotion is seen with a mere glance in his curious eyes, which are scanning this creative haven filled with art supplies. Steam is practically coming off of him, he’s so excited.

  “This place is amazing. You’re so right that it’s the perfect spot to reacquaint yourself with a love for art. The room just emanates good vibes,” he marvels, spinning around.

  “I guess it’s for the best that I never went through with the plan to renovate this into a laundry room,” I joke. Ben is too distracted admiring every inch of the space to hear me. “You know… the storm won’t be letting up soon, which means you’ll be bored out of your mind again tomorrow while I’m working. If you’d like, you’re always welcome to use this room, hideaway. You can read, write, paint, whatever you’d like. Help yourself to any of the materials and art supplies.”

  Ben’s eyes get wider than I thought possible. “Thank you so much, Logan! That would be a dream come true!” He’s practically skipping, he’s so excited. He steps forward, as if he’s about to hug me… and then hesitates.

  I hold my breath, willing him to carry through. I shock myself with this desire to hug Ben. Not only that, I want to hold him tightly again. I want to feel under his shirt: his taut skin and heartbeat.

  He’s so close, I could just… I take a step toward him. He responds in kind, pulling himself all the closer to me. It’s as if Ben and I are compelled together by some sort of magnetic force.

  We’re about to be close enough to touch when my phone starts emitting a sound I know all too well by now: the ringtone which means Sue is calling with news from the office. Fuck. I can’t ignore something urgent happening at work… especially not because of a guy. No matter how sexy he may be.

  “Listen, Ben, I’m so sorry—”

  “—But you need to take this call for work,” says Ben, chortling as he finishes my sentence. “It’s fine, go do whatever you have to do. I can find my way back to my own room tonight.”

  I nod, surprised by the disappointment bubbling up inside me. I was enjoying this mini tour of the hideaway. “Don’t forget what I said about using this room. It’s all yours,” I remind Ben.

  “Thanks again,” he says. His voice is soft, but his joy is radiant.

  I have to get out of here already… if I don’t get out soon I’ll never be able to take my eyes off of this gorgeous man again.

  “Right then, I’ll be going now,” I state and dash out the door before I can be tempted to stay.

  I call Sue back while I speed walk back to my home office. She answers on the first ring. “Good evening, Mr. Lexington.” Her perennially professional voice is like a soothing balm.

  “Hi Sue. Something’s up, right? What’s wrong?”

  “Unfortunately, sir, it’s an issue with… Photogram.”

  I groan. “Fuck. What have they done now?”

  “They’ve stolen our color scheme for ConnectMeet. In a press conference today, Photogram’s CEO announced that their dating platform is called FEELagram, and then he presented mockups of the app which looked almost identical to the mockups you approved 2 days ago.”

  “FEELagram? That’s a terrible name.” That probably shouldn’t be my principal concern, but it really is preposterous branding.

  “I know sir, I know. All hands are on deck and trying to track this leak and plan how we ought to move forward.”

  “Knowing you’re dealing with this situation in person makes me feel much better, Sue. We’re in expert hands under your watch. Keep updating me as this develops, okay? I will do some… research of my own,” I tell her.

  “Affirmative, Mr. Lexington. We’ll talk tomorrow. Sleep well, sir,” says Sue before hanging up the phone.

  The second my call with Sue ends, I scroll through my phone’s contact list until I see the number I’m looking for. I have it filed under the contact name Evil Gay Demon—DO NOT TRUST.

  Ah, of course. Dalton Elijah, Photogram CEO and known snake.

  I click call and wait for the asshole on the other end of the line to pick up.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?” says a smarmy voice in my speaker. Ugh. Dalton.

  “Cut the crap, Dalton. You know why I’m calling. Your company needs to stop stealing information from my company and presenting it as your own ideas. I’m getting sick of this shit. We will find out who’s leaking insider info to you. You will not get away with this much longer.”

  “I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about, Lex,” Dalton purrs. I can just imagine his shit-eating grin. “Can you blame me for having such fabulous ideas and being so goddamn successful? This is America, baby. I assure you, the only pieces of information I’ve been gathering are some very interesting accusations a man named Aaron has been making against you. Ring a bell?”

  My eyes go red with rage. “Anything he says is a lie,” I retort. I don’t know why I’m surprised Aaron is talking to Dalton. Of course the two worst people I’ve ever met are in cahoots.

  “Listen, Lexington, this has been a fun chat and all… but no, it hasn’t been. I’m bored. I’ll be going now. Ta ta.” And just like that, Dalton’s gone. I can’t say I’m sorry to hear him go. I’m sure Dalton only brought up Aaron to trigger me and piss me off… and it worked. I’m infuriated.

  I need to channel the rage building up within me before I break something or punch a hole in the wall. Breathe in. Breathe out. That doesn’t do much, so I turn to another tried-and-true method of stress relief: I pull down my pants and roll out a bottle of lube. In times of desperation, it always helps to turn to self-pleasure.

  My plan works. Once I focus my energy on stroking my cock instead of obsessing over work, my spirit is much more at ease. Now I’m not thinking of photogram or dating app mockups… all that’s on my mind is the image of beautiful Ben Carpenter on his knees, sucking me dry and then holding me tight until we fall asleep in each other’s arms.

  9

  BEN

  Each shade of paint which Logan has at his disposal is so rich and luxurious—just like every other thing in this home.<
br />
  There are cans of every color imaginable from India, handmade canvases, and paintbrushes constructed from things like strands of fine horsehair and state-of-the-art synthetic carbon bristles.

  When I arrived to the hideaway this morning, Logan or Katarzyna had already prepared and laid out painting supplies for me. I’m still touched just thinking about the kind gesture.

  I can’t believe the ease of painting with these materials: every single brushstroke I make causes me to feel as though I’m drawing with strands of hand-spun silk. In all my days as a full-time professional painter I’ve never used such fancy acrylics, oils or brushes.

  I appreciate the prime quality of the paints Logan has provided, but having such fine materials at my disposal makes me nervous. What if, even when I have the best paints and brushes on the market, I still can’t feel any inspiration to paint a picture? Or even worse… I manage to produce something, but it’s a framed square of unartistic garbage? If I can’t pull this off, it’ll be even more clear that the reason for my lack of productivity has been me—and only me—throughout this entire rut.

  I will not let that happen. Depressing thoughts and fear of failure be damned, I will paint something today. And who cares if it ends up being a shitty picture? No one has to know. If I hate my painting then I’ll just tell Logan I was watching movies in the private cinema all day again and didn’t have the time to paint.

  I crack my knuckles and position the canvas until it’s just so on the easel. I double-check that I have all the right colors and brushes. I adjust my seat.

  Okay, enough postponing. Let’s just do the damn thing.

  Years of painting have taught me that the hardest part of the creative process happens before I ever even crack open a tube of paint. The most difficult aspect of creating art is sketching the rough draft. Committing to an idea and taking that first step. I have so many images I could paint floating around in my head, but it’s impossible for me to pin one down and commit to realizing it.

  I need to avoid falling into this past year’s endless cycle of starting on a painting and then changing my mind and searching for new subject material. So I pick up the pencil and sketch something—anything—before another doubtful thought can cross my mind.