No Tears with Him

by K. Webster

“I’m going to step out and smoke a cigarette before our guy shows up. I’ll be back in a few,” I tell Wade. “Keep your hands off my secretary.”

  He laughs and holds his palms up in an innocent gesture. “I’ll be a good boy.”

  Rising from my seat, I stride out of the conference room and into the main lobby of Hawkins group. I can hear Sorro cursing in the kitchen and figure she’ll be hard at her newest creation for a bit. Grabbing my coat from the rack by the door, I slide it on and shove my hands into my pockets to make sure my smokes are inside.

  Fuck, I need to quit.

  I keep saying I will, but some habits are hard to break.

  Pushing out the door, I brace myself for the January chill. It doesn’t disappoint. Crisp, sharp air stings my face and I squint against the harshness of it. We’re located in the historic downtown district of Boulder on Pearl Street. Our building is small—jammed between a little sandwich shop named Cleto’s and a record store. One day, we hope to move to something bigger, but I can’t quite get Wade to see my vision. He’s old school being ten years my senior, and I’m a little more daring when it comes to business. As a result, we find a not-always-so-happy medium.

  I pull open my pack of Marlboro Reds and tug out a cigarette. After lighting up and sucking down a drag of air, I admire the Pearl Street businesses that are my clients. It’s amazing what a little marketing and advertising can do to a dying business. Most of these places are thriving because of Hawkins Group. It makes me proud to know I’ve done my civic duty to help inject life and energy into downtown Boulder.

  The bass of a car thumping catches my attention. A silver sports car—a suped up Pontiac Firebird Trans Am—rolls to a stop in front of me. At the wheel is a big black guy and his passenger is a scrawnier dude. The scrawny dude is flustered, flailing his hands in the air as he speaks to the driver, who simply laughs. Finally, the passenger flings open the door. Something familiar—Ja-Rule maybe—croons through the speakers, adding a little musical flair to the morning Pearl Street visitors’ experience.

  “What time am I picking you up, Mal?” the driver asks the kid.

  The kid, Mal, drops a leather portfolio folder on the sidewalk and immediately falls to his knee to retrieve it. “I’ll catch a bus. Just go, Madden. Please.”

  “Whatever, man. You’re welcome.”

  Mal slams the car door closed and Madden peels out, leaving black streaks on the pavement. Well, that’s annoying.

  The kid closes his eyes and sucks in a deep breath of air. Then, he proceeds to cough. His big brown eyes from behind his glasses dart my way, pinning me in an accusing way. Guiltily, I drop the cigarette and mash it with my dress shoe.

  “Eh, sorry about that,” I mutter, not having the faintest fucking clue why I’m apologizing.

  His nostrils flare and he quickly looks me over in a dismissive way. Not at all what I’m used to. I’m good-looking and charismatic. People are drawn to me. They like what they see. This guy, apparently, can’t get past the smell.

  He breaks our stare to look down at his portfolio folder as he opens it. His brows furrow as he reads something. Something about him pulses into the air, giving life to the area, much like the music did. But he does it in a quiet, unassuming way. No less powerful, though.

  “You lost?” I ask, eager to hear his voice again.

  Again, those intense brown eyes latch onto mine. “Kinda. I can’t read my writing.” He fidgets at that admission and squints again at the paper.

  Walking over to him, I peer over the paper. He’s right. It’s shitty and scribbled carelessly onto the paper.

  “Can’t help you there, kid. That shit is horrible.”

  His head lifts again, but this close, I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. My chest tightens in response. I dare to let my gaze drift along his brown nose to his full, pink lips. I’m alarmed that my body responds to this guy. Goes to show I need to get laid. It’s been far too long.

  By him?

  The thought is fucking enticing, that’s for damn sure.

  “I, uh, I’m looking for Hawkins Group. You heard of it?” he asks. “The lady on the phone said it was by a sandwich shop. This building could be it, but I don’t see any signs.”

  Holy shit.

  This guy is Malcolm Shaw, our late interviewee for the production artist job?

  I suppress a groan. He looks every bit of seventeen and fresh out of high school. Sure, he’s attractive in an innocent way, but I’m hiring for a job, not looking for a date.

  “You’re in the right place,” I say in a husky tone before motioning behind me.

  He cocks his head to the side and frowns. “Why wouldn’t they mark their building?”

  “I hear the owner’s a real asshole,” I jest.

  This makes him tense. “Everything I’ve read says he’s nice and business savvy. Don’t believe rumors, believe facts. Those articles are facts.”

  Both my brows lift in surprise. “Facts, hmm? I’ll consider it.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’m running late for an interview for a position I really want. My asshole brother thinks being a dick is his job.” He lets out a frustrated sigh. “Thanks for pointing me in the right direction.”

  As he starts up the steps, I follow after him. “Wait!”

  He peers over his shoulder, confused. “Did I drop something?”

  “I just thought maybe, you know, after we could have a coffee or something.” I point lamely next door. “My treat.”

  His smile is breathtaking. Free and happy. It makes me stand straighter. I crave to lean in and inhale this fucking kid.

  “You want to have coffee with me? Why?” His smile is cute as fuck. He’s clueless about his magnetism.

  “Because I want to. Come on,” I plead, waggling my brows at him. “We could bitch about your brother together.”

  At this, he laughs. “You know he played for the Cincinnati Bengals?”

  “Shitty team,” I say with a snort. “See, we’ve already got something in common. We both don’t like your brother.”

  His smile turns shy and then panic glimmers in his eyes. “I, uh, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  I take a step closer to him. He’s on the bottom step and I’m below that, but I’m about eye level with him now. “Why isn’t that a good idea? Coffee is always a good idea.”

  His face sours. “I hate coffee.”

  “They have baked goods too. But, I have to say, if you say you hate sweets, then this friendship is over before it started.”

  He relaxes at the word friendship. This is the problem with being bisexual. I’m attracted to people, not sexes, and half the time, it’s the wrong people—guys—because they want the opposite of what I am. But, I can’t let this kid walk away from me without the promise of more. Chasing after the butterflies in my gut is something that’s made me successful in life. I just wish it had the same effect when it comes to love. No matter what happens at this interview, I still want to spend more time with the kid with big brown eyes and a beautiful smile.

  “I don’t have many friends,” he blurts out and then cringes. His eyes drop down and if he were fair-skinned like myself, I know I’d see an indicator of his shame in the form of crimson. “I’d like that, though.” He chews on the inside of his lip in what looks like a nervous way. It makes me want to lean forward and tug on his bottom lip with my teeth so he won’t hurt himself.

  “I’d like that too,” I tell him softly. “After your interview, meet me here. We have a lot to talk about.”

  He laughs. “We do?”

  “Your brother drives a Trans Am, played for lamest team in the NFL, and made you late to an interview of a job you really want. He’s a total dick and we need to gossip about that shit like a couple of schoolgirls. It’ll probably take us through lunch. I hope you like sandwiches. That place has the best turkey and Swiss in Boulder.”

  “I could go all night about him,” he says absently.

  When he realizes that his
words imply we could hang out together all day and into the night, he looks as though he might pass out from embarrassment. A visible tremble shakes through him and his eyes go wild with panic. The urge to calm him is overwhelming. Gently, I brush my fingers over his and smile.

  “However long it takes,” I promise with a wink.

  He nearly stumbles as he scrambles up the steps without looking back. As soon as he slips inside and the door closes behind him, I feel the tug, as though we’re connected. Like when I have a yo-yo in my hand—the string looped around my finger.

  Now that he’s walked away from me, I have the urge to flick my wrist and pull him back toward me. To hold his hand in mine and marvel over the fact he’s caused a stir inside me I haven’t felt in a long time.

  You certainly don’t walk away from feelings like that.

  No, you chase after them.

  I take the steps two at a time.

  Malcolm

  Flustered doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel right now. Tipped off my axis is more like it. The threat of rolling into unknown territory has me panicking. It started with Madden’s dumb ass making me late, but then…

  Him.

  The guy outside whose name I was too awkward to even ask.

  This is why I don’t socialize.

  I’m terrible at it.

  My skin heats as I fidget in my seat inside a cozy conference room at Hawkins Group. Papers are stacked at two other spots at the table, but both seats have been vacated. Probably because I was late. Ugh. This sucks. I can hear the secretary lady who showed me in telling someone in the kitchen how she used honey instead of cinnamon because it gives it a different taste but is still gourmet. I don’t know what it is or who she’s talking to.

  This place is small.

  Fancy, but small.

  In my head, based on all the articles I located about Hawkins Group, it was a large corporation. If I’m being honest, I feel slightly calmer knowing there are only two voices in the other room and there is silence everywhere else. They clearly don’t have much of a staff, but still make a killing and are successful. I can work with that.

  If…

  If they like me.

  If they give me the job.

  If they don’t laugh in my antisocial face.

  “Here’s some water, honey,” the secretary says as she enters the conference room. “You look like you could wet your whistle. The name’s Sorro if you need anything.”

  I graciously take the paper cup of ice water and gulp it down. “Is the interview still on?” I squeak out, my stomach clenching in knots.

  She lets out an unladylike snort. “Mr. Hawkins is going to eat you up. He doesn’t let good help go.” She waves at herself as to prove said point. “Just get your panties out of a bunch and relax.”

  I make a sour face at her until I hear two men talking nearby. My spine stiffens and I shoot her a panicked look. She rolls her eyes at me.

  “I said loosen those buns or they’re gonna be tighter than mine.” She tosses her long blond hair over her shoulder and juts her jiggly boobs out. “I would like to keep the running award for best ass around here.”

  “I, uh, I don’t know what to say.”

  She laughs. “You’re cute as a button. If only you were my type, we could have a ton of fun, honey.”

  Of course I’m not her type.

  I’m no one’s type.

  Who wants a short guy who wears glasses and has severe social anxiety? I could never land someone like the stunning and oddly tall Sorro.

  “For what it’s worth,” Sorro says with a kind smile, “I hope they hire you.”

  At this, I balk. “What? Me? Why?”

  “What do you mean why?” she asks, cocking her head to the side and frowning.

  “I just…you don’t know me. Why do you want me to get the job?”

  She leans forward, her cleavage dipping close to my face, and pinches my cheek with her acrylic nails that remind me of Mom’s. “I have a natural talent for gravitating toward people with good vibes. You’re a good one, honey. I can feel it and there just aren’t enough of the good ones out there. Luckily, Mr. Hawkins is better than good. He’s great.”

  I let out a sigh of relief when she releases me. “Thanks,” I mutter. “I’m just nervous.”

  “You’re sweating like a whore in church,” she sasses. “That much is obvious. I won’t hold it against you and neither will he.”

  After she walks off, I crunch on a piece of ice and then read over my résumé for the millionth time, obsessively checking for typos. I’m just wondering if I should have reworded a certain section when a man’s voice booms. He saunters into the room and plops down in a leather chair. The man has salt and pepper hair and shrewd blue eyes. Despite the smile, he regards me as though I’m not what he expected and is disappointed.

  I break from his stare to nervously straighten the tie Madden forced me to wear. It feels too tight looped around my neck like a noose. Despite it being cold as shit outside, I’m sweating. My hands have a slight tremble that I hide by fisting them. Someone else walks into the room, the scent of cigarette smoke wafting into the air making my nose itch.

  This is a bad idea.

  I never should have come.

  What was I thinking?

  I don’t even have a consistent ride to work. Relying on Madden to get me here seems like a nightmare. Plus, it doesn’t even matter if the world’s going to end on December 31. I should just go.

  But I’m frozen.

  Crap.

  “So, Mr. Shaw, I was told by Mr. Hawkins you were late because your, and I quote, ‘brother is a dick.’”

  I snap my gaze up to the salt and pepper dude to find amusement in his blue eyes. Then, as though I have no control, my eyes find the other man in the room.

  No.

  Not green eyes from outside.

  Oh my God.

  Heat flares up my chest and burns my neck as I gape at the man before me. The guy smoking was Mr. Hawkins?

  No. No. No.

  I’m going to die.

  Right here in this office.

  A whine of humiliation crawls up my throat, threatening to break free. My eyes sting and my tongue feels sticky in my mouth.

  Mr. Hawkins leans back in his leather chair and effortlessly flings out a yo-yo, an amused smirk on his face. His handsome face. More shame sears through me for more reasons than I can count.

  “My, uh, my brother…” I trail off, my words barely a whisper. I don’t know what to say.

  “More about your brother later,” Mr. Hawkins says with a wink that makes my stomach muscles clench. “Tell us about you and what makes you a great fit for Hawkins Group.”

  I fidget in my seat as he sends the yo-yo sailing again. Oddly, the up and down action calms my erratic heart.

  “I, uh, sir, I…” I chew on the inside of my lip, humiliation threatening to drown me.

  Mr. Hawkins narrows his stare on my lips. “We’re all friends here. Relax.”

  “If this child over here makes you nervous, we can send him elsewhere,” the other man says. “I’m Wade Sedgewick. Let’s have a look at that résumé.”

  I pluck it from the portfolio folder so hard that it tears it. I’m stunned at what a freaking loser I am in the presence of a real opportunity. A job I want so badly. I hate my brother most days, but today I wish I were more like him. People eat out of his hands because he’s charming, sure of himself, and likable.

  “Wade,” Mr. Hawkins says. “I think he feels outnumbered. We were getting on just fine before you showed up. Weren’t we, Mal?”

  I swallow and shoot him a helpless look. “I’m…I’m sorry.”

  “I need to make that call to Tokyo anyway,” Wade says as he gathers his papers and stands. “Nice meeting you, son. Don’t let Scott intimidate you. He’s just a kid wearing fancy clothes and pretending to be a grown-up.”

  Scott.

  Green eyes.

  Marlboro man.

&nbs
p; My coffee date.

  Crap. Not date. Coffee meeting that might lead to sandwiches and if we’re really on a roll, go late into the night.

  I’m so screwed.

  Wade pats my head on his way out and closes the door behind him. Scott’s intense green eyes bore into me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was attracted to me. But that’s just dumb. People like him are not attracted to people like me. Not in a million years. I bite down on my inner lip again, unnerved as I’m caught in his stare.

  Plus, we’re both guys.

  Guys aren’t into each other like that.

  Well, at least none that I know of.

  My mind tries to go there, but I force it out. Mom would skin me alive if I even entertained thoughts of liking a man.

  “Let’s take a look,” Scott says gently, rolling around the table in his chair until he’s right next to me. His long fingers brush against mine as he pulls the torn résumé from my grip. A tingle of excitement zings through me at his touch. I expect him to roll away, but he remains close enough that I can still smell the lingering smoke.

  Gross.

  I hate smoke.

  And yet…I don’t hate it on him.

  Sure, it still bothers my nose and makes my eyes water, but mixed with his familiar cologne—a scent I’m too flustered to pinpoint at the moment—it takes on an intoxicating quality.

  “Graduated last spring from high school. No college. No work experience,” he says, his eyes trained on the paper. “But you have hands-on experience with Windows 98 and Adobe Photoshop?”

  I nod, but no words come out.

  “I like that,” he says, turning his head to look at me again.

  At this, I frown. “You like my inexperience?”

  His green eyes flare and he smiles. “I like that I can train you myself. Teach you how to do everything my way. I’m possessive like that.”

  I blink at him in confusion. This man unnerves me in an unusual way. I feel like he’s hinting at more than just a job. But is that me reading into things? Hoping for something I’m not allowed to hope for?

  He’s hot.

  Stop.

  I blink several times and tug at the knot on my tie, forcing myself to speak. Why am I having so much trouble forming words?