Bad Judgment

by Sidney Bell

  Brogan had never had a serious relationship at all, actually, which was a polite way of saying he usually wandered away with a friendly smile around the time the condom came off. Brogan said this was because he was the independent, lone-wolf type. Mario said this was because Brogan picked shallow, needy people to fuck and then wondered why he didn’t want to talk to them.

  Mario also said Brogan could do better, which was usually the point when Brogan changed the subject.

  Brogan knew he had his good traits: his face was respectable, even if his bottom teeth were sort of crooked, and he had a small but gnarly scar through one eyebrow due to a work incident with a shattered plateglass window (long story, and fuck pot-bellied pigs). He kept muscle on easily. He was capable of being charming, and he supposed he was loyal and giving with the people he cared about.

  That was pretty much where the list ended, though.

  His head was still a little fucked when it came to the war, and he wasn’t exactly going places—he didn’t have any goals beyond paying his bills and catching the Amazing Race marathon this weekend. He also had such a powerful aversion to small talk that he’d walked away from someone midsentence twice before (he was drunk both times, though, and he figured it was at least partially the other person’s fault if Brogan got so uncomfortable that he had to bail on a conversation) and yeah, that was more than a little rude.

  Perhaps worst of all, Brogan very rarely wanted things, which meant that when he did come across something he wanted, he had next to no capacity to resist. Which explained why Brogan kept biting holes in his lip when Ford ignored him. The fact that Ford could ignore him was proof that this pheromone insanity was one-sided.

  Brogan’s personality defects aside, there was also the question of Ford’s orientation. The obvious assumption would be that a man as meticulously dressed, and well-groomed as Ford would be gay, but Brogan was the poster boy for straight stereotypes and the thought of bare tits made him shudder. He was well aware that how a person looked had little to do with what was happening in their pants. And gay or not, Ford seemed the type to insist that the people he was dating took their trash out.

  Not that Brogan had put any thought into this.

  He knew this whole crush-thing with Ford was stupid. Brogan and relationships of any kind did not mix, and he’d learned that the hard way growing up. Brogan’s sense of self-preservation tended to get a bit thin on the ground when it came to the people he cared about, and that meant that the easiest way to avoid doing stupid shit was to avoid caring about people.

  Despite the occasional burst of loneliness, Brogan preferred it that way. His life was simple and painless. If it was also a bit empty, and if he sometimes wondered what it would be like to come home to someone...well.

  There was no such thing as perfection.

  * * *

  On the following Friday Brogan worked his first evening shift. He lingered nearby as Henniton greeted board members in the first floor atrium with Oriole Touring, the president and CEO, at his side. Touring was dour-faced and white-haired, shrunken next to Henniton’s hulking frame, but that didn’t keep Henniton from speaking to him with great deference. Brogan hadn’t met Touring and didn’t care to—he found the old man disquieting.

  Brogan was the primary escort and technically should’ve been right at Henniton’s shoulder, but Henniton had refused to allow Security Division staff into the confidential board meeting, which meant Brogan would wait in the lobby. Considering the alternative—dry fiscal conversation—he found it hard to mind.

  Several minutes before six, when the meeting was due to start, Ford arrived, looking as cool and composed as ever, passing a folder to Henniton with a nod. Henniton nodded back, saying something that Brogan didn’t catch, and then he went into the conference room, the door shutting behind him.

  Ford came over to the waiting area, laptop bag under one arm, a knee-length, black wool coat over the other, and hesitated when he saw Brogan sitting there. Ford glanced over his shoulder as if he’d rather go anywhere else, but Brogan didn’t take it personally. Ford didn’t seem to like anyone.

  “How’s it going?” Brogan asked, aiming for professional courtesy.

  Ford sat down on the loveseat next to Brogan’s so they were separated only by a small end table, but there was no friendliness in this—it was the only other seat near the outlet. He bent down to plug his laptop in and Brogan admired the long line of his neck until Ford caught him. One of Ford’s graceful black eyebrows lifted imperiously before he turned away, ignoring him and his question entirely.

  Rude.

  It didn’t piss him off—as Timmerson had noted when putting him on this detail, Brogan wasn’t, by nature, inclined to anger easily. He freely admitted, on the other hand, to being kind of juvenile, and Brogan couldn’t have felt more provoked to start shit if Ford had double-dog-dared him.

  “What a time for a board meeting, huh?” Brogan asked. “Six on a Friday? You’d think guys important enough to be on a board would be gearing up for the weekend.”

  Ford ignored this, too, pointedly tilting the screen of his laptop away before entering his password, the intended insult obvious enough that Brogan found his lips twitching against his will.

  “What are you working on there?” Brogan asked, and when Ford looked up, long-suffering and impatient, Brogan smiled back at him with empty-headed charm, so innocent and pleasant that a Keebler elf would look sinister in comparison.

  Ford was, impossibly, unmoved by this. “Do you often lurk outside of meetings to annoy people?” he asked.

  Brogan grinned. “I’m making friendly conversation.”

  Ford scowled. “You call this friendly conversation? You’re trying to fuck with me.”

  “I think you just called me a liar,” Brogan said, amused despite himself. No, Ford didn’t suffer fools gladly, and he found the sharpness refreshing. “That’s not very nice.”

  “I’m not a nice person,” Ford replied, and Brogan had to concede that to be a fact. Not that this bothered Brogan. Niceness, in his experience, was frequently a facade, easily stripped away in the face of prejudice or anger, and boring to boot.

  “I bet you could be, if you wanted to,” he said, still playing the simpleton, if only because it seemed to be keeping Ford’s attention. “Being nice is a good thing. It makes people think well of you.”

  “You’re like a fucking Care Bear,” Ford said, rolling his eyes.

  Brogan couldn’t help laughing, and now he had a problem, because in addition to finding Ford beautiful, it turned out that he liked this cranky little shit so far. Which put him in a troubling position, because this was no longer a case of messing with someone who had a stick up his ass.

  This was flirting.

  On the one hand, flirting with someone he was strongly attracted to wasn’t wise for a man who wasn’t out at work, but Brogan was starting to realize that Ford tended to make him rather stupid. After years of making fun of people in books and movies and songs for doing reckless things because of pants-feelings, it was a little embarrassing to realize he wasn’t so superior after all.

  On the other hand, if he was going to do something stupid, Ford was probably the safest option. Brogan’s first couple weeks at Touring had taught him that Ford was the definition of closemouthed. He didn’t complain to others when he was frustrated, didn’t make polite conversation in the elevator, and he never gossiped. Who would he gossip to? He never talked to anyone about anything less work-related than who had left the break room microwave smelling of fish.

  And the fact that Ford hadn’t told Brogan to fuck off and get back to work was reassuring in its way. The man certainly knew how, but instead of threatening to get Brogan fired, he was sitting here glaring and sneering and being downright adorable.

  “A Care Bear. Hmm. That’s one I’ve never gotten before,” Brogan s
aid. Then, carefully considering his footing, he added, “It’s not a classic sort of come on, is it?”

  “I am not coming on to you,” Ford said.

  “That’s a relief,” Brogan said, wondering what a come on from Ford would look like. Something pretentious and stiff and painfully sincere, no doubt. The man needed a substantial kick in the composure. “I hate turning people down in a work environment. It’s awkward.”

  He caught the tiny hesitation in Ford’s response—wait, you would’ve said no? Who do you think you are?—and Brogan nearly bit his tongue off trying to keep his expression bland. Then Ford huffed and returned to his laptop.

  “What do you like to do?” Brogan asked, as if Ford wasn’t doing everything possible with his body language to discourage conversation.

  “Sit in silence,” Ford responded promptly, and Brogan couldn’t help grinning again, because that was perfect.

  “Now you’re just spurring me on,” Brogan warned him cheerfully.

  Ford lifted his head and, for what might be the first time, really looked at Brogan. Those dark, dark eyes surveyed him from tip to toe, shrewd and slow and judgmental, and Brogan felt that gaze like a weight, warm and solid along every inch of his body. He had to swallow, because he’d had sex that was less affecting than this long, intense perusal. And when it was done, Ford met Brogan’s gaze, gave an indifferent shrug and said, “Let me take this opportunity to say that you’re wasting your time with this charming wastrel routine. It’s not my cup of tea, and frankly, you’re not that good at it.”

  Now that was evidence of same-sex orientation. A straight guy trying to put him off would’ve simply said that he was straight. Done and done.

  For the next minute or so, Ford stared at his laptop screen and Brogan stared at Ford, giving himself the freedom to study the crafted, masculine lines of his features, the way his hair was still neatly groomed after a full day, and the fact that the man must have a lint roller somewhere in the building because his trousers and suit jacket were spotless.

  He wasn’t flawless, Brogan decided. Ford was uptight, and he probably spent hours each week ironing, which in Brogan’s mind was sheer insanity. He had a slight bump on the bridge of his nose in profile, although it wasn’t large enough to distract from the aesthetic pleasure of looking at him. Brogan had already seen that Ford had a nervous tic of tapping his left thumb against his thigh or the table when he was thinking hard. He supposed it could get annoying given enough time. Ford was sort of an asshole, but Brogan was having fun with it, so he couldn’t call that a defect. So no, not flawless, but there was nothing that would make Brogan run screaming, either.

  “You’re staring,” Ford said finally.

  “So?” “So stop it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” Ford snapped, clearly aware that it was hardly a stunning comeback, but he was getting flustered now, something that Brogan appreciated. If firing a screaming incompetent from his job as facilities director didn’t faze the guy, it was flattering that some mild flirting did.

  “You like carnivals?” Brogan asked, thinking about the ad he’d seen in the paper that morning. Not that he had any intention of asking Ford to go, because trying to date someone from work was a horrible idea if he wanted to stay in the closet, and Ford seemed more likely to cut him with something sharp than say yes. Brogan was just running his mouth, but he couldn’t help enjoying the way Ford exhaled loudly and aimed a vicious glare in Brogan’s direction.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’re absurd and they abuse animals and the food is shit.”

  “Valid reasons,” Brogan acknowledged. “But there’s also rides. Ferris wheels, you know.”

  “I don’t like heights.”

  “He feels fear?” Brogan said, pretending to be shocked. “My illusions of you are shattered.”

  “You’re a dick,” Ford said, but his lips had quirked up on one side. It wasn’t a smile, not remotely, but it was the closest he’d ever gotten in Brogan’s presence. “I’m not afraid of heights. I just don’t like them.”

  “Have they been talking about you behind your back or something?” He didn’t give the other man a chance to respond. “Besides, carnivals have clowns. Everybody loves clowns.” He paused. “Actually, everyone hates clowns. Clowns are creepy. I don’t know why anyone ever willingly spends time with clowns.”

  Ford gave him a baleful look. “Do your conversations always proceed so ridiculously?”

  “In “Left 4 Dead 2” you can hit a zombie clown in the face and make its nose honk,” Brogan offered.

  “Amateur stuff,” Ford said coolly. “Talk to me when you’ve completed the gnome-carrying mission online. That takes skill.”

  Brogan’s heart thumped in his chest. Playing a survival-horror video game? It was an utter contradiction of everything Brogan had seen so far from this responsible, painfully serious young man, and Brogan liked contradictory people. They were never boring.

  He said, “I carried that gnome the whole damn way through the Dark Carnival.”

  “You must be at least halfway decent, then,” Ford replied, the chill in his expression finally beginning to thaw, even if his spine remained poker-straight. “It’s not easy.”

  “I don’t care how hard any of the secondary content is. I’ll take anything over the Hard Rain campaign. I hate witches.”

  Ford released a puff of air—not a laugh, not really—and quietly volunteered, “That’s my favorite campaign.”

  “You’re a glutton for punishment, then. Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t seem the type to play video games online with a bunch of teenagers and frat boys,” Brogan said. He thought for a second. “Or nearly thirty-year-old men who should have better things to do with their time.”

  Ford shrugged. “Everyone needs a hobby. When I was fourteen I set out to find an appropriate one and it eventually came down to Xbox or the violin. I figured video games would actually give me time to get laid. Shows what I know.”

  Brogan laughed. He realized he was leaning forward over the table between them and that it had been several long minutes since he even looked around the atrium. Thank God there were Touring guards in with Henniton or he wouldn’t even know if his client was still alive. He was starting to think that Ford might be his Kryptonite. He wasn’t sure he cared; his pulse was thrumming and he was having trouble tearing his eyes away from Ford’s profile.

  It felt good. Amazingly good. A million times better than anything he’d ever felt picking up some random guy in a bar.

  He forced himself to take a long sweep of the area before turning back to Ford.

  “You set out to find an appropriate hobby? How very systematic of you.” He tried to imagine a fourteen-year-old Ford and ended up with a skinny kid in a spartan bedroom debating the merits of various activities, his forehead scrunched up in serious contemplation. Brogan found the image absurdly charming. “Did you make a pro/con list with your choices?”

  Ford didn’t answer for a second. Then his lips twisted in a wry, embarrassed smile. “A spreadsheet of my criteria,” he confessed. But Brogan barely heard it, because Ford had fucking dimples. The frost had vanished, replaced with the warmth and approachability of... God, Brogan didn’t even have a word. He just knew his mouth had gone dry. Christ. As if Ford needed more ammunition to make Brogan crazy.

  Brogan stared at him, and after a moment Ford tipped his head, as if wondering what could’ve provoked Brogan’s startled captivation. Whatever he saw in Brogan’s face had the smile sliding away. For a second he stared back, his eyes deep and dark and uncertain. A pink flush stained his cheeks, and the blush was shy and lovely, and Brogan was hit with such a surge of want that he nearly stood to yank Ford into his arms, close enough to taste that mouth. Very nearly.

  And then something
almost like panic crossed Ford’s face before it was hidden. He swallowed and turned back to his laptop.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he said in a low voice.

  “How am I looking at you?”

  “Like...” He made an impatient, annoyed sound, as if he were struggling to find the right words. The sweet uncertainty was entirely gone, replaced by tight lips and a narrow glare. “You know how you’re looking at me. You have to stop.”

  “Why?” Brogan was self-aware enough to know that he was riding a line that he shouldn’t cross, but he couldn’t remember ever being this tempted to push. “I like looking at you.”

  Ford closed his eyes for a heartbeat even as his cheeks flushed again, and fuck if that wasn’t playing havoc with Brogan’s self-control. “I’m not interested, all right?”

  Brogan didn’t believe that for a second, so he said mildly, “Last I checked, I haven’t asked you out.”

  “I can’t talk to you anymore. I have work to do.”

  “At almost seven on a Friday night? Even you can’t be that much of a workaholic.”

  “What do you want?”

  Brogan smiled. “Now that’s a dangerous question to ask a man. Some might take it as an offer.”

  “No more bullshit,” Ford snapped. “What’s all this for? What do you want?”

  There was discernable apprehension beneath the anger in those three sentences, so Brogan shifted gears. “This,” he said truthfully. “To talk to you.”

  “To talk to me,” Ford repeated.

  “Is that a new one for you?” Brogan asked, legitimately curious.

  “You’re full of shit,” he said. “I don’t believe that for a second.”

  “Whether you do or not, it’s true. You’re pretty enough, that’s for sure. Kind of skinny,” Brogan added, biting back a grin when Ford’s head jerked up and a ten megawatt scowl emerged, though it wobbled as Brogan finished, “I’ll bet you don’t have a shortage of people who want to get in your pants. Not going to lie and say I’m not interested in that, because you’re too smart to think otherwise. Still, as much as I like to look at you, you’re far more entertaining to talk to.”