by Chase Potter
It turns out that wounded pride is a small price to pay for daily gourmet meals. Now at seventeen, I’m pretty sure he could get a job at an upscale restaurant if he really wanted.
My eyes wander from the stove to Carson, enjoying the way his every movement is precise and measured. Even the specific way he tosses his head to get the hair out of his eyes seems intentional.
“Your hair wouldn’t get in the way if it were… shorter.” I try to make my suggestion casually.
Dark eyes shoot an equally dark glare at me before his attention returns to the stove. “Good try, but I told you I’m letting it grow out.”
“Are you going for an undercut or something?”
“You know what an undercut is?” He sounds genuinely surprised.
“How old do you think I am?”
Carson shrugs. “Just old.”
An annoyed grunt is all the satisfaction I’m going to give him. Carson ignores me for a moment as he flips the fish over, and the raw side hits the pan with a hiss. He glances over his shoulder to find me still looking at him. His eyes are big. “What?”
“Just watching. Something smells really good.”
Carson’s cheeks are tinged with pink, and he points to the smallest sauce pan. “It’s a port reduction with heavy whipping cream. Easy.”
“Port, as in… port wine?”
“What else would I mean?”
I frown. “Where did you find a bottle of port?”
This time Carson’s glance is peppered with nervous notes. “I was going to buy some, but…”
“But you’re not old enough,” I remind him.
He waves a conciliatory hand in my direction. “Right. So I sort of… used the bottle behind the bar.”
I try to sigh but it comes out as a laugh. “Carson… that was a two hundred dollar bottle of wine.”
“I know,” he whines, and the last word gets dragged out into a high-pitched noise. Then he puts on a smile for me. “But that just means it’s going to be really good.” He holds my eyes, begging me not to be upset with him.
I should probably be worried that a teenager I’m responsible for has no qualms about raiding the fine liquor and wine I keep in the bar in my den. Then again, it’s not like he’s drinking it.
“Nothing I can do about it now,” I grumble. “But in the future if you need me to pick something up for you, just let me know, okay?”
He dumps the water out of the pot with the potatoes before setting it on the counter. “You’d really buy alcohol for me?”
“To cook with? Sure.”
He brightens. “I can make you a list.”
“But,” I say pointedly. “Don’t get too casual with the taste testing.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He smiles innocently.
I glance away from him and his teenage snark to the shelf on the far side of the living room. Getting up from the island, I cross the room to the solid wood shelf lined with masterpieces, both rare and beautiful.
I gingerly lift each one and appreciate them individually from several angles. I move down the line from the Millennium Falcon to a TIE interceptor, then to an Imperial Star Destroyer, and next to —
“Enough playing with your toys,” Carson calls. “Dinner’s done.”
Quickly setting down the Lego facsimile of the Rebel Blockade Runner ship, I feel heat rising in my face as I return to my seat at the kitchen island. I have one real hobby. Just one. Is it such a crime to be a little passionate about it?
Carson plates up his creation and sets it down in front of me as he takes the other seat beside me. Neither of us touches our food, and Carson just watches me.
“I’m kidding you know,” he finally says. “About your Legos.”
The knot in my chest loosens, but I still correct him. “The plural is Lego.”
“Right, sorry. I think they’re cool. I’m just giving you a hard time.” He holds my eyes, insisting that he’s sincere.
“Okay,” I concede. I shouldn’t be so uptight about my collection, but I can’t help it. It’s important to me, and when someone makes fun of it, I get annoyed.
Turning my attention to dinner, I have to admit that I’m impressed. The spinach is mostly hidden beneath the fish filet, while the deep purple reduction sauce is drizzled over the top of both. The potatoes are on the side with whipped butter.
“Damn,” I say. “You’ve outdone yourself.”
He takes a bite and shrugs. Talking with his mouth full, he admits, “It’s not perfect.”
* * * * *
Sunday morning sunlight stabs at my eyes, and it’s far too bright. Memories from the night before sift into my mind as I blink away the blinding light. After dinner, Carson turned me down for homework help, so I fooled around on Tinder.
I wasn’t surprised to find so many matches, but what I didn’t expect was for one woman in particular to convince me into a night out. It’s not my scene, but I was on edge since the football game, and it seemed like something I needed.
One by one, bits of the night resurface. Going to the bar, drinks, then to a club, more drinks, dancing, even more drinks, and then nothing. I swallow, and immediately I regret the night. The back of my throat is burnt from alcohol and dehydration, and my whole head is wrapped in a dull ache. Hoping to find a glass of water on my nightstand, I roll onto my side and promptly bump into a person.
I brought her back home?
At the edge of my mind, I remember distant images drenched in laser lights and pounding music. Vague memories of me dancing with someone. And… making out with her. I think.
I groan as the events put themselves in order. I’ve always been careful to keep Carson out of my personal life, because he doesn’t need to see things like… this.
Her hair is a dark blob on the pillow, and she’s curled up and facing away from me, still completely asleep. I wrack my memories for what we did, but I can’t come up with a damn thing, much less her name. Lifting the covers, I glance down at myself and sigh in relief. I still have my briefs on, that’s a good sign.
“Uh… morning?” I say. My voice sounds like gravel tripping over rocks.
She doesn’t move, so I prod her lightly in the shoulder. She stirs, and a hand appears from beneath the blankets to push the hair out of her face. She looks at me, blinks, and now it’s her turn to groan. Her eyes close briefly, and I suspect I’m not the only one trying to pretend that last night didn’t happen. “Not to be rude,” she begins. “But… you mind giving me some space to get dressed?”
I almost laugh, and it comes out as a smirk and a cough. She makes a face, and I assume my breath must be awful. Turning to the side, I say, “Um, sure, you can have the room.” Grabbing my phone, I hop to the floor and pull on a pair of basketball shorts before leaving her alone.
I traipse into the living room, unsure what I’m going to find. Everything is in its place, and Carson is alone on the couch with his feet resting on the coffee table. Why couldn’t he have slept late this morning?
He brings a mug to his grinning lips before saying, “Looks like you had a good night.”
“I have no idea if I did. And get your feet off the table.”
He pretends to be offended. “Is that any way to thank your little brother for bailing out of the living room the moment you guys got home? I had to sprint to my room. Sounded like you two were having a good time.”
My eyes snap up from the cup I’m filling with coffee. “Oh shit, you were awake?” Then I glare. “Feet.”
Carson finally puts his feet on the floor. “This coming from the guy who warned me away from excessive taste testing,” he makes finger quotes in the air. “How much did you even drink last night?”
I ignore him and massage my forehead. The girl picks that moment to come out of my room wearing last night’s clothes. “Morning,” my brother says. “Coffee?”
“I’m leaving.” Her voice is flat.
“No problem,” Carson says, stealing my chance at making conversation. �
�Quick question though.”
She looks annoyed as she slips on her shoes. “What?”
“My brother Matt here can’t remember if you guys slept together or not. Care to remind him?”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “Carson!”
The woman brings a hand to her forehead, as though just talking to Carson is giving her a headache. I understand the feeling. “No,” she says, and then she sighs. “I mean, he tried.” She glances at Carson, then back at me. “Look, normally I give guys the benefit of the doubt, and maybe you just had too much to drink. But it was awful.”
Carson bursts into laughter and a mouthful of liquid sprays across the coffee table.
Redness burns hot in my cheeks. “Um… sorry?”
She shrugs as she opens the door, and Carson peals into more laughter. From over her shoulder, she glances back at Carson. “You’re too young of course, but you’re cute.” She winks at him and then she’s gone.
Scowling, I pad across the carpet with my coffee, ignoring the splatters all over the table. Carson is wheezing from laughing so hard, and when he tries to make words, it comes out in a falsetto and utterly unintelligible. Tears are running down the sides of his face as he tries to gesture with his coffee mug and free hand, signing a vague but rather vulgar resemblance of how terrible a lay I must actually be.
I ignore him and brood over my coffee.
“You…” he gasps for breath, and I don’t understand any of the next words until he manages to wheeze out the words awful in bed before he descends into laughter again.
I send a death glare at my little brother, and I get the sudden urge to cross the space between us, wrestle him to the ground, and fart on his face. At least that’s how I might have handled it if I were just his brother. But I’m also his legal guardian, and so I’m far more concerned that Carson has seen this side of my life than I am about defending my honor.
For what it’s worth, I did drink too much, and her opinion of the night isn’t one shared by my other late-night partners. But I would never tell Carson that.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I seize the opportunity for a distraction. The screen displays the name James. As if this morning could get worse. I swipe to accept the call.
“What’s up?”
“We have —” he stops. “You sound like hell.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You went out last night? Why didn’t you call me?”
“I was out with a girl.” Also I don’t like drinking with you.
Amusement coats the edges of his words. “So shouldn’t you be feeling great?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Why did you call?”
“Oh.” James’s voice dips to a more serious note. “You might have a problem. A reporter called me this morning and was asking questions about zoning variances.”
I feel everything in my chest drop an inch, but I keep my voice steady. It’s always important to find out the damage before jumping to conclusions. “Who’s the reporter?”
“Linda something. I didn’t catch her last name. She’s with the Tribune.”
“Did you tell her anything?”
He snorts. “Of course not.”
Silence fills the line. “It’s probably nothing,” I assure him. “I’m sure she’s just bored and trolling for a story.”
“Yeah.” He doesn’t sound convinced.
“Let me know if anything else comes of it,” I tell him.
“Will do.” The line clicks off and once more I’m alone with Carson.
“What was that?” Carson asks.
“None of your business.”
“You’re prickly this morning.”
I roll my eyes. “Can’t you find someone else to terrorize?”
Chapter Three
In contrast to the gleaming light of Monday morning, the droning greeting of my thoroughly disinterested secretary announces “Good morning” as I pass through the glass doors of Archer Development. My company used to be Archer Design, and it operated out of my apartment. I’ve always hated sprawling company offices. Too many cubicles and too many people. So when I was forced to upgrade my office as the big contracts started to roll in, I kept it minimal.
“How was your weekend, Edith?” I ask.
She looks up as I approach her semi-circle desk. Edith is large and rather old. Like actually old, not the kind of old that Carson thinks I am. “Could have been worse,” she says, and her tone is something you’d expect to find at a funeral. She lifts a hand to push her square glasses up on her face, and her arm jiggles as she does. “You’ve looked better.”
“Careful, Edith.”
She shrugs, and her neck bunches up with wrinkles and lines. “Just calling them like I see them.” Edith puts on half a smile as she coughs up a gravelly chuckle. “Sports reference,” she explains unnecessarily.
“Yeah, I got that.”
Lips pressed together as she rotates her chair experimentally, she swivels her eyes past the edges of her glasses to keep sight of me. “I’m just trying to keep up with your modern clientele, you know.”
“I… appreciate that.” I can tell that Edith is trying to smile again. It’s a disconcerting expression on her. “This morning will be quiet,” I say quickly. “Feel free to take a break, walk around the skyways, whatever you’d like.”
“I could use a cigarette.”
Jesus, Edith. “Sure, you do that.”
Finally closing myself behind the glass door to my office, I set my briefcase on the center of my desk and take a seat. The morning sun blazes over the horizon, washing my office in golden light. Like my condo, my office overlooks the city. If it was possible to have a back alley office in a skyscraper, this is it. Out of the way, tucked behind an accounting firm with far too many starched shirts. To me, it’s the crown jewel in this tower of steel.
In reality, it’s an odd little office, and I don’t actually keep anyone but Edith on payroll. If I need design or other work done, I just hire it out. It keeps my company lean, and it keeps up the façade that I don’t do many deals. Tiny office, tiny company, tiny profits.
Pulling my laptop out of the briefcase, I open it up and set my leather case on the floor. My desk is clean, organized. It’s the only way I can work. There are always exactly four things on my desk during the day. My laptop, a framed photo of Carson and myself on a canoe trip before he started ninth grade, and two Lego minifigures of Luke and Princess Leia. I used to have Yoda here too, but it just seemed like too much, so I moved him back home.
My gaze moves back to the photo of me and Carson on the canoe trip. It was my least favorite vacation. Carson kept leaning over to look at things in the water and we tipped the canoe more times than I want to remember. But he loved that trip, so the photo stays.
I press the power button on the laptop and wait. Resting my hands on the edge of the desk, I admire the dark caramel color of the wood. In contrast to the modern lines of glass and stainless steel that frame every inch of my company’s office, this desk is two hundred years old. I suppose it’s a bit incongruous, but I like to think that there is beauty in contradictions.
My computer’s desktop finally appears, and without delaying longer, I dive into the day’s work. On the other side of downtown, there’s a stadium that needs some condos built near it. With a nice commercial space too.
* * * * *
The brilliant sunlight has long since spilled from my desk and gathered itself into the corner of my office when I see movement at the edge of my vision. Frowning, I turn in my chair just as the sound of knocking on glass echoes into my workspace. A man in a suit stands at Edith’s desk as she pokes her head in to my office. “Mr. Archer, there’s someone here to see you.”
I smile tightly. “I’m swamped, Edith.”
Despite the look I’m giving her, she says, “I’m not going to kick him out.”
My teeth clench, but I wave my hand in permission. Edith holds the glass door open wide, and the man steps into my
office. The dark suit fits him well, and I have to admit that he might actually look better in a suit than I do. That throws me off, but only for a second. Because the next moment, I realize the guy standing in my office is Alex Price. It’s one thing for him to let himself into my car, but this is something else entirely. Still, I can’t completely stop a rogue smile from appearing.
The door thuds shut behind him. “I’m here in a… somewhat official capacity,” he states.
The question I was planning to ask gets stuck in my throat, and I swallow it away.
“May I have a seat?” he gestures to one of the chairs on the other side of my desk, and I nod.
He sits down, and the city is outlined behind his shoulders. My gaze catches on his jawline and the short stubble. Then it moves upward to the green eyes flecked with gold, the ones staring back at me.
“What can I do for you?” I ask.
“I didn’t realize you were the Matthew Archer,” he says, sidestepping my question. He sounds intrigued, and I’m not sure what to make of that.
Keeping my words light, I joke, “I don’t have that much of a reputation, do I?”
“Not at all,” he says quickly, and I think he’s lying. For a moment, he’s silent, and indecision tugs at his expression. “Your office is smaller than I expected.”
“I get that a lot.” The walls are made of glass, but what I do here is the furthest thing from transparency. I appreciate the irony for a passing second.
When Alex speaks next, the guarded edge of his voice is gone. “To be perfectly honest, I’ve been trying to quietly follow up on something of a tip I received.”
“Oh?”
He concedes a nod. “It’s out of my wheelhouse, and I was wondering if you could help me understand something.” He sends a hand to the back of his neck, and the movement drags my eyes with it.
“Sure.”
His shoulders seem to relax, and he withdraws a file from his briefcase. Leaning forward, he pushes the document across my desk. As he does, I notice the scent of his cologne. Something designer with a masculine edge, but I can’t put my finger on it.
