Private

by Xavier Neal

  I slide my hands into my sweat pants pockets and shrug. “I don't know. More of a grilled cheese man.”

  “Communist.”

  Her comment furrows my eyebrows.

  “Everyone knows PB and J is classic American. But.....there is this adorable diner that serves the best and craziest sandwiches. We're talking anchovies on peanut butter and banana kinda crazy.”

  “People actually eat that?”

  “Probably communist like you,” she jokes again. “But we should go. We can even eat outside on the back patio. It's right by this adorable little duck pond. I like to throw my bread crusts out there for them even though bread isn't exactly nutritional for them.”

  Her suggestion changes my entire demeanor. “Why don't we just have Lucky make them for us? He's an amazing cook. World-class chef. I'm sure he could handle grilling a couple sandwiches.”

  The expression on her face hurts more than the fact she's not verbally responding. Her eyes hold mine hostage despite my desperation not to be drenched in their heartbreak.

  “We can have him deliver them to the aquarium room.”

  Still, no reply.

  “Or we can eat them out by one of my ponds. I've got at least four on the property. There are always ducks at the southeast one. You can feed them. I'm sure they'd adore the company.”

  All of a sudden, her arms folds firmly across her chest. “You won't go out with me?”

  I fight the urge to snap. “You know I can't.”

  “No...I know you don't want to, not that you’re incapable.”

  My firsts curl tightly as the rest of my body tenses uncontrollably. “Brynley, we've talked about this. I don't go out in public. I don't leave the estate grounds other than to put fresh flowers on my parents’ graves. That hasn't changed. That won't change. And just because you were kind enough to drop to your knees and give me a pity suck doesn't mean I have to try.” Rage and regret simultaneously engulf me. Knowing the last remark was callous and uncalled for, ripped out of me more by unexpected distress than anything else, I make a swift attempt to apologize, “Brynley I-”

  “No.” She lifts a hand to hush me. “Don't worry about it. It's cool. While it's definitely not the best thing a guy's ever said to me less than an hour after I was deep-throating him, I can honestly say it's not the worst.” My mouth twitches to try again just as she innocently announces, “I'm going to grab lunch and feed the ducks at Mo Mo's Diner. Do what you want.”

  With that, she spins on her heels and struts off the way she came.

  Frustration fills my system until a barbaric bellow burns my lungs. I don't know if I hate her more for asking or for my inability to go. She has to understand not everyone is going to look at me like she does. In fact, most people are going to look at me like the freak I actually am. Light their fucking torches and grab their pitchforks. I'm an atrocious anomaly that belongs exactly where I've spent the last ten years. As much as I would love to do whatever it takes to see that light stay in her eyes, I can't do that. I won't.

  Tossing another packet of anniversary promotional information to the side, I stifle the urge to growl in irritation. For some reason, I don't remember having this much trouble picking out the last special collectors design. Come to think about it, I don't remember having this much trouble with anything work related since that first year my parents died and I fought the wolves to assure them I could do this. That I could keep my parents’ legacy and make it flourish. What the hell is wrong with me?

  I run a hand through my short brown hair at the same time J.T. cheerfully drops onto the black leather couch in my office. Immediately my eyes zone in on the object missing. “Where the hell is your tie?”

  “This is more casual.” He insists with a wave of his hand across his outfit. “This is a social function not a business meeting in a stuffy downtown building.”

  “It is a business meeting. Just because it's being conducted out of a cigar club doesn't mean you should be any less professional.”

  J.T. rolls his eyes. “And I don't plan to be. There's just a subtle difference between wooing people around a long wooden table and wooing them over a glass of whiskey. Are you actually questioning my capability to do my job?” He doesn't leave a chance for rebuttal. “Because if so that's new and kinda makes me wonder what the hell is going on.”

  “Nothing.” I drop my attention back to the papers spread across the desk. “I just...I know what a big deal this is for you. It's not every day one of your ideas gets to appear on the front lines. I just want it to have every possible chance to survive.”

  There's a small lull before he sighs, “Bullshit.”

  The reply shifts my attention back to him. “Excuse me?”

  “That's bullshit, Wes.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yeah. You know as well as I do, this idea was too good to pass up. That's why you backed me for it rather than shot it down like several of the other ideas I've had over the course of our time together. This whole up my ass thing about my choice in wardrobe is clearly something else.” When I don't counter he accuses, “Is it about Brynley? Or possibly the fact you haven't seen her since your little lunch spat a couple days ago?”

  They have been the longest two days I've had in quite some time. What's strange is it's not a misery I'm sure I know how to cope with. Death is a particular type of sadness. It comes with the many stages of grief. You cycle through them and eventually deal with the very bleak reality the person or people you love are gone. But this....this feels more difficult than that because the person I want, the person I...care for is not only very much alive but adamant about behaving that way. Other than avoiding me and wearing tiny shorts I'm sure she blames on the warming weather as opposed to trying to punish me, she hasn't changed any of her behaviors. She smiles just as bright. Laughs just as hard. Cheerfully greets everyone and does whatever it takes to enjoy the life she lives. The fact we went from zero to hundred, then back to zero doesn't seem to have phased her. Why would it? I'm sure men like me come and go all the time. The pathetic truth is even if everything that happened between us was hollow to her, it wasn't to me. That pain still resides. The emptiness still echoes. It's a heartache that I can't seem to make stop. How the hell can I feel like this after just a brief moment in time with her?

  “I'll take your silence as an admission of guilt.”

  “I'm fine,” I lie through gritted teeth and try to refocus on the papers.

  “Want my opinion?”

  “On?”

  “Brynley.”

  Her name alone sucks the air out of the room.

  “I understand where you were coming from,” he says to my surprise. Meeting his stare again, I patiently wait for him to continue, to make me feel like less of a selfish prick. “I understand the magnitude of what you felt like she was asking.” A bit of relief prematurely settles on my shoulders. “But you were wrong. PB and J beats grilled cheese hands down, any day of the week.”

  “Why do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Always side with my girlfri-” The sentence stops short.

  As if I played right into what he wanted, J.T. leans forward and questions, “Always side with your...what?”

  My mouth refuses to continue. A few days of fooling around and pillow talk doesn't make us a couple. Or does it? Unsure of the basic guidelines only further frustrates the fuck out of me.

  “You can't have it both ways, Wes. You can't hide from the past while trying to make a future. And I know you've grown quite accustomed to hiding. To protecting yourself, but if you really want the end of that sentence you're going to have to let her see more than your scars. Otherwise, you're nothing more than a convenient dick behind closed doors.”

  There's a small knock that grabs both of our attention. Penny politely states, “I...I brought you a cup of coffee. You....looked like you needed it.”

  I try to smile. “Thanks.”

  “You look pretty with your hair up like that,” J
.T. sheepishly compliments.

  His words are meant with a very brief smile before she places the cup on the edge of the desk. “Do you need anything else, Wes?”

  “No.”

  “You should ask Penny her opinion,” he pushes to keep her around. “She's a woman. I'm sure she can give you valid insight.”

  Her green eyes linger in mine. “I can give you anything you want...”

  The blatant attempt to flirt only peeves me more. Here I am contemplating over a woman who probably doesn't give a shit if I still want her or not, while another is so eager for my attention she's damn near pledging her virtue to me in front of an audience. Why is it the easy things are rarely the things we truly want or need? Why is it the easiest paths in life aren't the ones that lead us to our true happiness? Staying behind closed doors, developing some sort of calculated relationship in which I can determine the outcome is the simplest decision, yet the part of me that Brynley's managed to set free knows how unfulfilling that is. I crave the chaos she creates in a day. Despite the security in predictability, it's the one thing I don't want with her and that I know she'll never deliver.

  “Thanks again for the coffee, Penny. That'll be all.”

  Her look of disappointment is obvious to me and denied by J.T. He gives her one more hopeful word that she delivers a polite smile to once again.

  After she's disappeared, I drop down into my leather seat, and state, “Shouldn't you be going?”

  With a flick of the wrist, he checks the time. “I guess. Maybe I'll convince Brynley to have a drink with me before everyone shows up.” My best friend stands, buttons his jacket, and sighs, “Enjoy your evening, Wes. I'm gonna go bring us home a win.”

  Knowing the truth in that sentence I give him a smirk. J.T. isn't just my pain in the ass best friend. He's the entire reason my company can function in public. He's more than just the face. He's the pure embodiment of what I feel we've always been about. Innovation. Class. Desire to persevere despite the drawbacks or dangers we stumble upon. Before Brynley burst into my world, I had forgotten the guilt that came with letting him live on the legacy of my family for me. I hope all this shit passes soon. I'm not sure how much more havoc my mind can take.

  Leaning over J.T.'s shoulder I whisper in his ear, “If you're wondering what color her panties are, I'll let you in on a little secret. She's not wearing any.”

  His face instantly flushes as he turns around to face me.

  “And I know what that makes you wonder, so I'll go ahead and tell you. Neither am I.”

  The color in his cheeks reaches pomegranate and he quickly denies, “I-I-I wasn't thinking that. Either of those things.”

  My caustic look is followed by my hand dropping onto my hip. “What did I say about lying to me?”

  He chuckles a little and lifts his hands innocently. “Fine. The first thought did cross my mind, but not the second.”

  Unable to resist the natural urge to pour fuel on a fire, I pretend to pout. “And why not? You don't think I'm as sexy as her?”

  “I didn't say that-”

  “You don't think my ass looks as good in my dress?”

  “Definitely didn't say that either-”

  “Is it because I'm not a bleach blonde with an innocent school girl look?”

  “Brynley I-” My eruption of giggles is met with a scowl as well as a shake of the head. “You're fucking with me, aren't you?”

  “Duh.” After he glares again, I smirk. “You really think I give a shit if you think I'm attractive? Puh-lease. I know how good my ass looks in this dress and more importantly, for every guy who prefers vanilla to the swirl, there are at least a dozen willing to get their double dip on if you get what I'm saying.”

  His jaw bobs in bafflement before croaking, “I don't have any problem with....swirl.”

  Another snicker slips out, which causes him to huff. “You're a pain in the ass, Brynley.”

  “Prefer to have a little pain in the ass, personally.” The sight of his mouth being floored again pushes me to ask, “Are you sure you want me to be the one serving this event? I'm not exactly the best at biting my tongue.”

  “I know.” He grins proudly. “It's part of the appeal. Besides, Wes insisted you be allowed to serve. Even paid the owner extra to insure that it happened.”

  “That's sweet in a Pretty Woman remake kinda way.”

  However, Wes' thoughtful gestures mean shit in comparison to what I really want. He could buy me my own private island and it wouldn't mean shit because he wouldn't walk along the beach with me. He's like having a fucking vampire for a bed mate. Ugh. Not even a bed mate since he pumped the breaks on that too. I'm not even sure what terrifies him more. The idea of his losing control or enjoying the fact he lost it.

  “You do know he really likes you, right?”

  “Like every other man who strolls into my life, he likes parts of me. There's a difference.”

  J.T. resists the instinct to smirk. “I'm serious, Bryn. He really does like you. You've just gotta be patient with him.”

  “Yeah, patience isn't exactly my strong suit.”

  “And changing isn't his.” The retort lifts my eyebrows. “But he's trying. He really is. You've gotten him to do more in the past few days than I've gotten him to do in the last ten years. That's gotta tell you something.”

  “Tells me if you liked sucking cock it might've gone faster.”

  He frowns. “I set myself up for that one.”

  “Little bit.” With a wink, I prepare to saunter off. “I'm gonna go grab a few select cigars that I think will pair nicely with the whiskey selection you let me sample earlier.”

  “You smoke cigars?”

  “Not much, but I know my shit. They teach us a few tricks to work here plus my dad loved to smoke a good one after a big win. Once he actually won a box of Gurka Black Dragons.” J.T. waves his hand in question, so I add, “They're about 23,000 a box, but we sell them here individually for about 5,000 grand.”

  “A cigar?!”

  “What can I say? The rich enjoy feeling rich and it's our job to make them feel even richer.”

  He starts to smirk. “And that's why I want you working our private room. You grasp the concept that lies at the heart of this idea.”

  I smile at the flattery, strolling away. For someone who not only has access to millions but makes them for himself, he lives a much more modest lifestyle than people would guess. While the luxury guest house he resides in is full of tech savvy shit and an endless amount of overpriced furniture, it's mostly covered in childhood toys I imagine he never had alongside autographed posters from his favorite movies. It's as if during the day he takes on the role of nerd in zillionaire's clothing. Hm. Wes is similar in a sense, but I assume that's from the years of punishing himself for an accident that wasn't his fault. He actually spends more time maintaining his parents’ extravagant purchases than ever making new ones for himself.

  The allure of the mystery known as Weston Wilcox burrows even deeper than it has over the past couple of days. Regardless of my best efforts to move past the tiff and return to whatever normalcy is my life, at the moment most of my thoughts are hostilely taken over by him. His laugh. His smile. His cologne and how I fucking love the way it envelops me when he's kissing my neck. As much as I wanna hate him for being an equally equivalent amount of stubborn as I am, I don't. To make it even worse, I feel shitty for pushing too fast. No one changes overnight and not everyone is comfortable in their skin like I am. In his case, physically as much as metaphorically.

  After internal deliberation, I finally settle on three high priced samples I plan to pitch, grab a display box to place them in and make my way back towards the private room. I take my time during the route back knowing how to build anticipation for my inevitable jaw-dropping arrival. Never fails. Sure, they're used to attractive women parading around in tight outfits, but more often than not it's the opposite of a coffee colored minx with bright blue eyes. I'm like tasting something that's
not allowed in inner circles that high. We can all sit back and pretend race isn't an issue anymore, but I prefer not to live in lies. Facts are facts just like temptation is tempting.

  The piano player switches to a slower song and Phoebe, one of the club's favorite dancers runs her fingers seductively through her long blonde hair, commanding the attention of every man within an immediate radius. Ricky brought out every big gun he could for this. He's hoping these whiskey nights become a more open, regular occurrence to attract the even higher dollar traffic. He's all but willing to beg on his knees for it. Bet if the price got high enough he would.

  I appear in the doorway, making sure to seductively pose against it as the small, dark room filled with ten additional men aside from J.T. starts to settle. The secluded area has a long black leather couch against the far wall, which is currently occupied by three men. There's a small high top square table in one corner and a couple low circular ones close to it. In the opposite direction is a miniature stage for the private dancer who will soon be joining us. Phoebe may be giving the regulars a show now but it's these gentlemen she's actually here for.