by A N Bond
But whatever. They can gossip if they want to. He’s used to the bitchiness and backstabbing of the theater world, so a few whispered comments and dirty looks don’t mean anything to him. Besides, he’s too busy to stand around trading gossip over the water cooler. As far as he can see, the only real negative side of his current pariah status is that nobody’s shown him how to work the state-of-the-art Gaggia coffee machine in the break room yet. He’s sick of the weak shitty stuff from the regular vending machines.
“Hey, look. Like this.”
He steps back as Fiona, one of the few people who doesn’t seem to have decided he’s on a mission to fuck himself into a better job, steps forward and presses a couple of buttons. The machine immediately whirs into action and starts to dispense thick caramel-colored liquid into his cup.
“Oh man, thanks,” he says. “Thanks so much. At my last place we just had vending machines, nothing like… this.” He waves a hand at the machine. “Whatever this is, it’s like something from the Space Age.”
She laughs and he smiles in relief. Finally someone is not giving him the stink eye. She makes herself a cup and they take a seat at one of the chrome bistro tables in the break room. She’s working on the same assignment as he is, only she’s gotten the IT department. “I guess that means we’ll have to work together,” she says. “I think the COO had ultimate jurisdiction over IT.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Phil Cartwright. Yeah, he’s a strange one. He’s not part of the lawsuit, though according to the records, he’s lost a lot more than most. He probably knows a lot about what exactly went down there too. He must’ve been pretty close to McNeil at the time.”
“Oh yeah, I think Joseph already has him as target numero uno,” she says.
They finish up their coffee and she walks with him back to his office. “So you got Brad’s office, huh?”
“Brad? I thought it belonged to someone called Emily before me,” he says.
“Yes, that’s right. Brad was the one before her. No one seems to know what went down with Brad. Just one day he was here, next, he was clearing out. I guess you got the speech from Estelle about how we work here?”
“I did.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “It’s good advice. We all thought Brad would be a keeper, he seemed to play everything right. Joseph was real friendly with him too, put him on his special team.”
“Joseph’s special team?”
“He likes to groom certain people,” she says. “You can always tell. He’ll give them extra assignments; take them along with him on business trips or whatever. Like he did with you for the Liza Show thing.”
“Oh, I see,” he says, suddenly feeling overwhelmingly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation is going.
“Listen, Ryan, you seem like a nice guy, and I get it, you want to do the right thing, be the model employee Joseph wants. But if you really want all this then you have to make sacrifices. I’ve been here three years and I’ve had to give up a lot to stick around. I’m not saying that I don’t like it. This is the place to be, and Joseph is… well… he’s Joseph. But just—” She taps the doorjamb again. “—don’t get too attached.”
He gives Fiona a friendly smile and watches her leave, feeling the smile freeze and slide off his face as soon as she slips into her own office. He’s not sure exactly what kind of game she’s playing, but he’s not naïve enough to assume that there’s no game. Of course, she might be genuine, giving him a friendly warning. But then again, she has been here three years; she can’t have lasted this long if she didn’t know how to play some sort of a game.
The news comes in around 3:00 p.m. that the defendant’s agreed to settle out of court for $150 million.
“That kid didn’t even have a fucking case,” one of the senior attorneys, Sean, scoffs, as they gather around the TV in the kitchen to watch the news scroll across the screen. “Joseph really skewered that bastard, Jelf. We’d’ve been lucky to get twenty-five out of his ass if they’d let the jury rule on it. But Jelf never had any balls. That kid should be fucking worshipping Joseph after this, 150 million, lucky asshole.”
There’s a smattering of laughter. Ryan hangs back, watches the high-fives, sees the toothy, bullish grins and macho posturing. Sean and his group of cronies are acting like they’ve just walked off the set of Wall Street. He leaves them to it and goes back to his office to call Daisy. The phone rings, then cuts through to voice mail. He hangs up without leaving a message. Daisy hates listening to voice mail messages and she’s probably busy at work anyway.
He’s getting ready to call it a night when a knock on the door startles him as he’s logging off his computer. He looks up in surprise to see Joseph Van Aardt leaning against the doorframe, regarding him with the sort of look in his eyes that makes Ryan instantly want to check for his wallet and keys.
“You got any plans for tonight?” Joseph says.
He has got plans, as a matter of fact. He and Daisy are supposed to be meeting up with the usual crowd for beers and nachos at one of their favorite Mexican places. But that’s not important, not when Joseph’s here in person, asking him if he has plans.
He gets to his feet, shakes his head. “No, no plans. I’m all yours.”
Joseph’s mouth twitches, like he’s trying to repress a laugh. “Right,” he says, drawing the word out. He takes a step forward, hand brushing against the door. “I’m being given an award by the Whitehall Foundation. It’s bullshit of course, though it’s good PR for the firm. You should come along.”
“Me?”
He blazes past Ryan’s interruption like he hasn’t spoken. “Do you have a tux?”
“Yeah, yeah, I do. But it’s at home. Do you need me to go get it?”
“In Brooklyn?” Joseph snorts. “I don’t think so. Get yourself down to Bergdorf’s, ask for Alexandre. He knows what I like.” His gaze lingers on Ryan, runs up and down him like he’s trying to mentally calculate his inside leg measurement. He turns to leave. “You should go now,” he says over his shoulder.
“Oh, wait, Joseph!” Ryan calls out.
Joseph spins around, already looking irritated at being called back, but thoughts are buzzing around Ryan’s head, fragments of overheard bitchy conversations, Fiona saying Joseph was real friendly with him too….
“Why… I mean… sorry, just, why am I going to this awards thing? Why do you need me there?”
“I need someone who looks good in a tux,” Joseph answers smoothly. “And remembering the lilac ruffles, I have a feeling you’d fit the bill perfectly, Ryan.”
Ryan freezes, gaping after him, feeling the color flood into his cheeks. He swallows and glances at his watch. Six p.m. already; he should get moving.
ALEXANDRE IS professional, immaculately groomed, and a little insulting. He tuts and groans over the state of Ryan’s hair and skin, and insists on having one of their senior stylists wash and cut his hair, shave his face, cleanse and moisturize, and generally treat him like he’s on one of those terrible daytime makeover shows, before he’s allowed anywhere near the formal wear. Once Ryan is ready (and Jesus, they plucked his freaking eyebrows; he’s never going to rag on Daisy again when she complains that women have it so much harder than men), Alexandre leads him to a rail of pants, dress shirts, dinner jackets, vests, shoes, and, to Ryan’s immense embarrassment, underwear.
“How much is this going to cost?” he asks, as the guy holds out the fourth or fifth pair of dress pants against him and commands him to: “Don’t be shy! Tuck everything in!”
“That’s not your concern,” Alexandre says, squatting down to grab onto the waistband of the dress pants and drag them up Ryan’s legs. His face is right in front of Ryan’s junk, which is carefully encased in some really fucking sculpted boxer briefs.
Ryan lets his head fall back, stares up at the ceiling, and counts to ten while Alexandre zips up his fly.
Alexandre finally pronounces him done, stepping back and nodding approvingly, eyes raking up and do
wn Ryan’s body in a way that he’s not even finding uncomfortable anymore. Ryan finally allows himself to look in the mirror and he has to agree that, yes, perhaps Joseph is right, Alexandre does know what he’s doing. He looks… good. Successful and rich and professional, like the sort of person who regularly attends prestigious awards dinners alongside Joseph Van Aardt.
Joseph’s driver picks him up in the town car and takes him uptown to Joseph’s apartment. That is, one of Joseph’s apartments; he apparently has one uptown and one downtown. Ryan thinks of Daisy, of how much she’s always wanted to move to Manhattan, and the tiny boxy rooms they’ve looked at in their price range. She was annoyed when he called her to say he couldn’t make it tonight, but changed her mind when he told her why not. “Oh wow, Ryan! Just think of all the people that are gonna be there. He must really like you, baby, to have asked you to something like that! He must really think you’re something special.”
Her words don’t make the queasy feeling in his gut any easier to bear, neither does the way his brain seems unable to stop fixating on the look on Joseph’s face when he said, I have a feeling you look good in a tux. It’s not the first time a guy has commented on how he looks, but he’s never felt comfortable being objectified in that way. He tries to clear his mind and think of some suitable topics of conversation as he strides up and down the lobby of Joseph’s impressive uptown apartment building.
The sound of Joseph’s voice wrenches him out of his thoughts. Ryan turns around to see Joseph stepping out of the elevator, phone to his ear. He pauses in front of the elevator as the doors slide neatly closed behind him while he finishes up his call, all the while his eyes raking over Ryan in a manner that seems as intrusive as Alexandre and his damn tape measure. Ryan feels like he’s back doing the audition rounds again, standing in front of directors, producers, and casting people, and willingly letting them scrutinize and judge and inevitably find him wanting. He hated that part of the life back then, and he really doesn’t like it now.
Joseph finishes up his call, slips the phone into his inside pocket, and strides forward, the heels of his dress shoes echoing on the marble floor. “Well, what do you know? I was right. You do look good in a tux.”
“Thanks, and thanks—for inviting me, I mean,” Ryan says. He’s starting to feel like he’s on a date, a date that’s also like a weird mixture of an audition and a job interview all rolled into one.
“We should go,” Joseph says.
He puts his hand on the small of Ryan’s back to propel him forward and Ryan resists the urge to squirm away. Joseph’s palm feels stiflingly hot through the material of his dress shirt and jacket, and he’s terribly aware of Joseph’s proximity and the smell of his aftershave and shampoo. He’s also becoming uncomfortably aware of the sweat beading under his own armpits and in the small of his back, the exact place where Joseph is still touching him.
Joseph cocks his head, catches his eye. “Ready?”
“Yes,” he says, forcing a smile.
THE AWARD is for “Outstanding Achievement,” though no one bothers to explain exactly what Joseph’s outstanding achievement is. Perhaps just being Joseph Van Aardt is enough of an outstanding achievement in itself. Apparently, Joseph is the youngest person ever to be honored in such a fashion by the Foundation; at least that’s what the organizers say when they make the big announcement.
They announce Joseph’s award, and he gets up from his seat with a rehearsed look of surprise on his face. He beams at everyone at the table and squeezes Ryan’s shoulder as he brushes past in a way that’s a little more intimate than Ryan expected. It makes him freeze in place as he watches Joseph thread his way through the tables toward the stage.
“Your boyfriend’s very impressive,” the judge’s wife sitting next to Ryan remarks to him as Joseph bounds onto the stage. “So young to be so successful. And very handsome too.”
“He’s not my boyfriend. We just work together,” Ryan says.
“Oh right. Of course,” she says with a wink. “I understand, honey.”
Joseph accepts his award with a speech that Ryan almost buys, if it weren’t for the fact he’d heard Joseph call the whole thing bullshit only four hours earlier. But the guy’s good, really damn convincing. He certainly seems to have everybody in the room convinced too, unless they’re all equally good at bullshitting, which is not that unlikely given the audience here. Joseph bestows smiles all around—for the host, the panel, the photographers, the audience. It’s the smile that makes his eyes crinkle, the one Ryan saw in close-up on the TV screens a few days earlier, and if it is false, then the guy’s a damn fine actor.
There’s dancing once the speeches are finished. Ryan dances with the judge’s wife and two of her well-groomed, immaculately dressed friends who flock around him, giving him scary smiles and touching his arm a little too often for his liking. Still, he puts on his best smiles and makes elaborate small talk and generally acts like the courteous Texas boy his mama raised him to be.
Joseph doesn’t dance. Instead, he takes a spot at the bar and a succession of people line up to congratulate him on the award, which sits on the bar beside him in all its plastic, kitschy glory. Ryan watches him surreptitiously as a tall, dark-haired, and extremely attractive woman approaches him. She’s zipped into a tight midnight-blue dress that shows off her assets to their best advantage, and she has the kind of smile that wouldn’t be out of place in a toothpaste commercial. He can’t help watching Joseph and her together, how she leans in really close to hear what Joseph is saying, the way her fingers run over the award, the way she tips back her head when she laughs.
He drags his gaze away from them and glances down at his watch. It’s 1:00 a.m. and he suddenly wants to be away from here more than anything. He wants to be back at home in bed with Daisy, feeling her warm, soft body pressed up against him and her hair tickling his face. It feels like he hasn’t seen her in months, and it’s making him feel strange and unhappy and discombobulated.
He lifts his brandy glass to his lips to take a sip. He’s been drinking steadily all night, and he’s feeling a little dizzy right now. Some of the older couples are starting to leave, the women taking their wraps and coats from the staff, the older men exchanging last-minute small talk.
Does he have to wait for Joseph’s say-so before he can leave too? The guy’s been practically ignoring him all evening and it’s getting late. It’s going to be hard enough to get a cab at this time of night, and he doesn’t really want to take the subway. He looks back toward the bar and freezes in surprise. Joseph is looking at him, right at him. The attractive girl in the blue dress is still next to him, leaning into him and whispering something into his ear, her back to Ryan, but Joseph is not looking at her, he’s looking over her shoulder and directly at Ryan, something hot and dark and compelling in his gaze.
Ryan blinks and brings his glass up to his mouth with shaky fingers. He’s staring unblinkingly back at Joseph and not paying attention. The ice cubes clink against his teeth, taking him by surprise. The cold sticky liquid dribbles down his chin and onto his collar. He curses under his breath and wipes his mouth with the side of his hand, his cheeks flushing red with embarrassment. He’s feeling ridiculously flustered, a stupid klutz making a fool of himself right where Joseph can see him. He takes a breath, drops the glass onto the nearest table, and crosses the room toward Joseph.
“Hey,” he says.
The girl acknowledges him first, turning around to eye him curiously. “Uh, hey?” she says.
“I’m Ryan,” he says. He holds out his hand. Her eyes drop to it, like she’s not sure what she’s supposed to do with it. She glances over her shoulder at Joseph, who just shrugs, looking infuriatingly amused by the entire situation. Finally, she takes Ryan’s hand.
“Wow, you have really big hands,” she says. She drops her hand from his and holds it up, palm side out. “Look.” She nudges Joseph in the side. “Look what big hands he has.”
Ryan feels the absurd urge to lau
gh out loud as he raises his hand to press his palm against hers. He really does have big hands; he knows that, and he’s heard all the jokes about it, too. He glances across at Joseph, who’s watching them both with an inscrutable look on his face, his eyes dark when their gazes cross.
“Can you pick up a basketball with one hand?” the girl asks. “I have this friend who can do that? He’s, like, six foot seven, though, so he’s taller than you. How tall are you?”
“Six four,” Ryan says, “and no, I’ve never tried picking up a basketball with one hand.”
She nods. Her eyes are glazed, her cheeks pink, and Ryan realizes that she’s actually pretty drunk. She’s listing into Joseph a little, her other hand resting on his arm, more to steady herself than as any real attempt at groping him. “So, did you, like, come over to talk to me, or him?” she says after a moment, gesturing vaguely at Joseph.
“He came with me, sweetheart,” Joseph says, leaning into her from behind, his lips almost brushing her ear.
“Oh, oh, oh,” she says, jerking away from them both, her legs unsteady in her high heels. Ryan puts out a hand to help steady her, and she leans into it gratefully, looking between them both with a look of dismay on her face. “I didn’t. I mean, I didn’t realize that you were”—she gives Joseph a reproachful look—“gay.”
Joseph raises his eyes to Ryan’s; the smirk has dropped away and that hot dark look is back, the one that made Ryan spill his brandy down his chin. He licks his lips, keeps looking at Ryan. “It has been known,” he says.
Ryan feels the breath catch at the back of his throat. He can’t fool himself over what this is. Joseph is admitting something out loud; Joseph is deliberately letting Ryan know that he’s into guys.
“Though, I have also been known to prefer my partners more girl-shaped,” Joseph adds, and he’s looking away from Ryan once more, teasing smirk back on his face as he places his hand on the back of the girl’s neck and draws her in. She goes willingly, smiling goofily and letting him cup the back of her head, his fingers in her long, glossy hair, pulling her down into a kiss.
