by Kent, Julia
While he understood her friend’s protectiveness (which he shared), he wished he could reassure her that he wasn’t going to take her home and fuck her when she could barely stand without help. He was long past any of that and, frankly, he had never been into any of that. The walk back to the booth gave him a chance to breathe and relax.
Barely.
“Next round's on me,” he said to the booth, and all eyes fixed on him, peering at him in confusion. This wasn’t the reception he’d expected.
Finally, someone said, “They must be paying you a hell of a lot more than they’re paying the rest of us if you can afford that!” A few derisive laughs, a few genuine laughs, and a couple of shouts of “Thank you!” and “Awesome!” and a few of women talking about the overpriced fruity drinks that they would get.
Joe, one of the mail clerks said, “So, Matt, you putting this on the company tab? Bournham is gonna love that!”
The tone of the laughter that came from the crowd told him that Mike Bournham was not a well-loved figure. Ouch. He took this as a chance to find out just how not-well-loved Mike Bournham was. “We’ll see. I mean, you think I can get away with it?”
More full-throated laughter, the women whispering to each other and glancing at him. “No way, man. Do you know what Bournham did to me – to our whole department?” asked Joe. He looked like he was about nineteen with an Adam’s apple the size of a baseball. Blonde hair, bright blue eyes that seemed a little too small for his face. He had that thick Southie accent that still made Mike want to grin with how stereotypical that was – and yet everyone he knew from Southie had it. Stereotypes are true sometimes, right?
“Yup. Bournham. I was told that this is a ‘culture where bonuses go out for merit.’ Know what my bonus was, Matt? 0.17% of my pay.”
“Did it fill your gas tank?” said some guy.
“I think I was able to buy a couple cups of coffee. So, that’s my ‘merit bonus.’”
Matt frowned. “I don’t know, Joe...”
“Those stupid rankings HR does, where they evaluate you and tell you which quartile you fit into? Exceeds expectations, meets expectations, that shit?” Joe shook his head ruefully and opened his mouth to say more.
“Where were you, Joe?” A slow simmer started in Mike as he looked at each person, really looked at their faces, their features, engaged in the conversation.
“Yeah, I fell into the top quartile in the company – and that’s how my work's rewarded?” More laughter, but this time not as infused with energy, more of a cynical, sickly sound from the group.
Someone else said, “I heard Bournham made $42 million last year. And then another $17 million in bonuses.”
“I get 0.17% and he gets – what’s that? Thirty-eight percent? Something like that. I don’t know, I’m too drunk to do math,” Joe said. “But that’s some fucked up math, Matt. Anything you can do to screw that guy and screw the corporation, I’m there. I’m there, man.”
Mike nodded, not so much in agreement but in acknowledgment. Boy, was he glad that Jonah’s cameras weren’t rolling right now. ‘Mike cam’ would have been a disaster. But even without ‘Mike cam,' this was a bloodbath. When he’d told HR to set up that bonus structure it had never occurred to him that managers would do that. “Joe, who is your boss?”
“Dave.”
“Dave? Dave, as in communications director Dave Crawford?”
“Yup.”
The gears started turning in Mike’s head. “And when he told you you were in the top quartile – ”
“Oh, no, man, Dave didn’t decide that.” The music picked up, a new song beating a thrumming that made it very hard to talk and listen. Slowly, the rest of the group stopped paying attention to them, a few women straggling out onto the dance floor, most guys ordering another drink.
“No, HR decides which quartile you fall into. It’s your boss who decides how much the bonus is worth.”
The final tooth in the final gear wheel clicked into place. “Gotcha. Drinks are on me this round, no matter what. I’m the new guy and I’m trying to suck up to all of you, so have fun and don’t be too mean to me.”
“Just don’t go into the supply closet with him.” Lydia’s voice cut through the crowd, but Mike could tell the rest of them couldn’t hear her. Joe was already walking away, so it was just him. Her sloppy voice in his ear made him rock hard instantly as she leaned against his shoulder. “Because he might kiss you,” she whispered, her voice low and quiet now, her hands reaching down to his hips, one sliding into his pocket, searching for – she found it, the play of her fingertips on his cock making him groan. “And you might like it,” she hissed.
“There you are!” Krysta shouted, ruddy-faced and out of breath. “She slipped away from me when we were trying to find the bowling alley.”
“Mike Bournham can suck my left tit,” she added. Oh, if only she knew how much he wanted that right now. Lydia had sobered up on her little walk, but not nearly enough, and apparently could finally stand on her own two feet, no longer in need of leaning on Mike or Kristin...Krysta...Kristie.
“What is your name, by the way?” he said to Lydia’s friend.
“Krysta.”
“Krysta, thank you.”
“I already said that,” said Lydia.
“Sure you did, hon,” Krysta said, patting her shoulder, looking at Mike and rolling her eyes. “We need to get her some water.”
“No problem,” he said, grateful for the break from all the eyes on him from the office. Weaving his way through the pounding throng of dancers, he was surprised to get groped twice on the hundred-foot walk to the bar. It was three people deep at every inch of the surface and twenty minutes later he was able to weave his way back, head throbbing, the techno beat permeating every cell in his mind, heart, soul, and unfortunately, cock.
“Here,” he said, shoving a glass of sparkling water at Lydia. She gulped it down gratefully and then screamed, “I want to dance!”
And so she did. He decided to sit as the booth emptied out, four people remaining, all of them paired off into couples, their mouths so intertwined and hands so deeply into each other that they might as well have been conducting a medical exam.
Mike ignored them and searched the crowd for Lydia. Her body stretched out to the beat with complete abandon, her ass rubbing against the front of some male dancer who had cozied up to her and Krysta. A small smile spread across his face as Krysta intervened, shoving the guy away. He liked Krysta already.
The scent of rancid beer and old, sticky drinks, of sweat, of nineteen kinds of cologne and forty-seven perfumes all swirling together with contraband cigarette and pot smoke made him nostalgic and a little sick. The bar reminded him of college, of his first year out, of time spent in groups having fun, of social activity that involved nothing more than investing time and a little bit of one’s paycheck, and spending that time with other people. Of laughter, jokes, talks, sharing hopes and dreams and plans. Of having few responsibilities other than showing up – and just paying attention.
As he let his mind drift he could think of fifty-three things that needed to be done: of phone calls that he needed to make to his assistant, to members of the board. If he let his mind drift even further, he could think of more than a hundred things in his personal life – from needing to get the trash compactor fixed, to the tremendous guilt that came from not talking to his mother for six weeks for no other reason than just not thinking about it. Drifting just a tad further, there was a part of Mike that wanted to join Jeremy, that wanted to do nothing more than sit on a beach for three weeks, who would love to experience the challenge of being a nobody again so that he could find his somebody.
Of complete abandon with Jeremy and Dana.
His eyes drifted back into the crowd to catch Lydia’s fevered exuberance, how her hips swayed, how her legs powered her body up and to the side and down, how her bosom heaved, how her lips spread into a grin. How she could be wild and free. He stood, needing to touch t
hat. Needing to connect with that somebody.
The music faded just as he made his way through three or four layers of people in the crowd, and most of the dancers peeled off one by one to go and sit, grab a drink, run to the restroom, or – who knew? Pair off and go home and do what people did after they found inspiration in a bottle at a bar.
Mike wasn’t sure what he was doing at this point. He was in full Matt Jones mode and, although he knew he had seven hours of work sitting at home for him, and probably ten times that in messages, emails, texts, and whatever from Joanie, with major decisions that needed to be made now, all he knew was that he had one decision that needed to be made and that was in his face.
She was cheerful, glowing, and out of breath. Lydia's hands were on him – and it was time to make a completely different call.
“Come here,” she whispered in his ear, her fingers floating along his neckline and touching his collar. “I have a question to ask you,” she said, grabbing his hand, tugging him away from the handful of work people who were staggering back to the semi-circular booth. Krysta shot him a look of warning and he reached up with his hand, a gesture of don’t worry. She arched one eyebrow and mouthed the words, “Don’t even think about it.”
Too late, he thought. He signed okay with his thumb and his index finger, three fingers shooting up to the sky, the best signal he could think of. Lydia yanked hard, practically pulling his shoulder out, surprising him with her strength, and with her energy – and with her insistence.
He took charge as she pulled him back into a small hallway where, to his surprise, a payphone sat. A relic that really took him back fifteen years ago to his college days. All they needed now was a cigarette machine and he would feel like he’d been transported back in time.
Her hand in his felt like an electric wire. As she pulled him closer to whisper something in his ear, he lost all restraint and pushed her against the wall, leaning down, hands hot, her face tipped up to receive him. The kiss in the supply closet, their moment in the elevator, all of it flooded his head, his nerve endings, his overpowering sense of need.
Everything coalesced into a pinprick of a second, of now.
Her body fired up against his, every inch of flesh seeking out his own, her hands multiplying and seeming to be everywhere at once, stroking his cock through his trousers, his back muscles, trailing fingers down his biceps, one hand pressed against the bare skin at the neckline of his shirt. Soft curves met his own hands as he took in her hips, running up her waist and ribcage to find a handful of breast, his thumb tweaking a nipple that responded with a beaded hush, her breath hitching in her throat, a low purr like a gift as he kissed her, catching her lip between his teeth and breathing hard against her cheek. One hand slid down her leg to slither back up her thigh, seeking –
“Ahem,” a voice said, not even bothering to pretend to be discreet. Breaking away from Lydia, he turned to the left to find Krysta standing there, her hand in an “OK” gesture. “This is how you don't take advantage of her?”
“Then I want him not to have sex with me. Not to go down on me, not – ”
“I get it, I get it,” Krysta said, annoyed as she stepped between the two of them.
“You're not getting any,” Lydia snickered.
Mike stepped in. “Why don't we get something to eat? Lydia looks like she could use it.”
Standing on tiptoe, she whispered in his ear, “I know something I'd love to have in my mouth.” A rush of blood to his face – and cock – made the nightclub's heat unbearable.
“Let's go to Jeddy's,” Krysta suggested. Except it was an order; Mike could tell she was just about done with the two of them.
“Jeddy's? God, I haven't been there in...forever,” he said. Jeddy's was a Boston icon, a hangout where everyone practically lived after bar crawling. More a college-crowd place this time of night, it was a ratty old diner that had recently changed chefs, giving the menu a new lift that he liked. As he recalled, their Boston Cream Pie was magnificent. Jeddy's was absolutely, positively not the kind of dive Mike Bournham went to.
Which made it perfect for Matt Jones.
“Jeddy's!” Lydia cried, sprinting for the stairs.
He guessed they were all going down.
“Touch the balls, Lydia. Touch the balls,” the old waitress at Jeddy's croaked as he, Krysta and Lydia entered. The place smelled like maple and stale feet. Lydia did as instructed, cradling them in her hand and grinning like a fool.
“Grandma!” Lydia screamed, lunging at the woman, who looked like a raisin impersonating a human being. Mike did a double take. Hold on, Madge was Lydia’s grandmother? Years of popping in to Jeddy's in college and beyond meant he knew exactly who Madge was – who didn't? She'd probably served him enough bacon waffles to last a lifetime.
As the old woman tenderly hugged her limp granddaughter, she pulled Lydia back, hands on her shoulders, and took two sniffs. “Ah, God, Lydia you smell like you’re pickled.” She glared at Mike. “What the hell have you done to my granddaughter?”
“Nothing,” he protested, hands up.
“She did it to herself, Madge,” Krysta said. This was obviously a relationship that Mike didn’t quite understand, but he was quickly putting two and two together.
“This,” Lydia said, her hand slipping about his waist, making him hard instantly for the nineteenth time that night, “this is Matt. Matt Jones. He’s my new boss.”
Madge eyed him with suspicion, looking him up and down, surveying him in a way that women often did with his body. Sometimes he liked it, but right now it felt a bit like being looked over by Voldemort himself. She pursed her lips and cocked them to one side, talking out the other side of her mouth. “I know you,” she said.
“Yeah, I’ve been in here a million times. It’s kind of a Boston institution, you know?” he answered, hoping to God she didn’t realize who he really was. Of all the times to have his cover blown, this sure wasn’t it, and this sure wasn’t the place.
“Touch the balls,” she said and reflexively he reached over and fondled the warlock's balls. “There you go. Now come in and have some pie.”
Krysta laughed and she, too, reached over and fondled the most over-touched piece of plastic on the planet other than, perhaps, the letters on Perez Hilton’s keyboard.
His mouth started to water as he inhaled. “Pie night?”he asked. Madge nodded curtly. She didn’t even bother to grab menus and threw three glasses of water down on the chipped, Formica table top. The glasses were pebbly, beige plastic contraptions that somehow managed to persist well into the twenty-first century but that looked like something out of 1960.
Then again, so did Madge.
“We’ve got six kinds of pie. And all of it can come out nice and warm, with a big scoop of ice cream or a hunk of cheese, depending on what you want.”
“I want both,” Lydia demanded, chugging down her glass of water, banging the empty on the table, and moving on to steal Mike's. He didn't argue. She needed the hydration. Tomorrow morning she would have one hell of a headache. Too bad he couldn't wake up next to her to make it all better.
And now he was hard again, imagining her between fine, cotton sheets, her nude body pressed against his, hands –
“You can have both, Lydia,” Madge said, patting her on the head as if she were nine. It made Mike laugh; the easy familiarity between the two was cute to watch. He was still reeling from the fact that Madge – cranky old, bitter, dried-up Madge – was tender and sweet with Lydia, of all people.
“So...you guys – ”
“Hold on there. I’m taking your order. Order first, chit chat later. We’ve got Peanut Butter Toffee Coffee Crunch Pie.” Mike groaned. “We’ve got Coconut Cream Banana Lime Fennel Pie.”
“Ooh,” said Krysta.
“We’ve got boring, old Apple Pie with Cranberries and Lemon Glaze on top. Boston Cream Pie, of course. And then finally, we have a Key Lime Pie made with a crushed, flaked coconut crust.”
“Th
at’s five, Grandma,” Lydia said, chugging back Krysta's glass of water.
“You’re right. I can’t do math at two in the morning, so there you go. Five kinds of pie.”
She took their orders, Mike opting for boring old Boston Cream, Lydia going for the Key Lime, and Krysta indulging in two pieces, one of the Chocolate Toffee Coffee thing and one Key Lime Pie.
As they waited, Krysta began to pepper him with questions. “Why are your eyes so green?” she asked.
“Yeah, why are your eyes so green?” When Lydia said it still sounded a little boozy, but when Krysta said it it sounded like an accusation from an NSA agent.
“They just...are,” he fumbled. This was a question he wasn’t prepared to answer. “Why are yours so brown?” he asked Krysta.
“That’s a stupid question.” He just stared at her, silent, his own volley obvious. She made a sour face and turned away. Having her like him wasn’t top on his list of priorities – getting Lydia home safe was, and this detour through Jeddy’s was really unexpected.
Madge brought the pie, covered in more ice cream than he could eat in three days; he found himself unloading the scoops off to the side so he could tackle it. Besides, ice cream with Boston Cream Pie? That was an odd one.
When he took a bite he understood. This was no regular ice cream. This was a Toffee Salted Caramel ice cream, and the flavor matched perfectly with some element in the pie. Was it a special kind of vanilla? Something exotic and spicy and just strangely unique enough to set his taste buds alight.
Madge flew past in a flurry of legs and arms and apron, and her little electronic ordering thing that was half iPhone, half magic wand. “Pie any good?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Lydia answered through a mouthful. “You ‘ave a oo-ah a ee?”
