by A N Bond
An abrupt flood of guilt hits him; his chest feels tight and constricted. He swallows, picks up the phone, and presses the button to accept the call.
“Ryan? Where are you?” She sounds annoyed. She should be. She deserves to be. He should’ve called her when they landed at JFK, but he’d turned his phone off for the flight and only remembered to turn it back on again an hour ago and he’s been busy ever since, engrossed in his reading.
“Uh, I’m at work, honey. In the office.”
“What? Why didn’t you call me when you landed?” She sounds rightly annoyed now, angry even, and Daisy doesn’t usually get angry.
“We only landed an hour ago,” he says, the lie slipping off his tongue before he’s really had time to make the conscious decision to lie to her.
“Why didn’t you come home? You’ve been away one night already! Please tell me you’re coming home tonight.”
He hesitates, gets up from his desk, pausing in the doorway of his office. At the other end of the corridor, Joseph’s private office is lit up. His heart skips a beat and for a second he’s panicking, imagining that she’s reading his mind, sensing something in his hesitation—the guilt, the truth of what he did last night, screwing around with someone else, cheating on her with someone else, with a guy.
His hand flutters up to his throat before he’s aware of it. His fingers brush over the spot where Joseph had nipped at his skin, not hard enough to leave a mark—Joseph knew better than that—but enough for the sense memory to linger, for the pulse to flutter in his throat when he touches it, the memory surging back, vivid and lingering.
“Ryan?” she repeats. “Are you reading something? Why do you always do that when I’m trying to talk to you?”
“I don’t!” he protests. “And I’m not ignoring you! Of course I’m not. I just—it’s this case, baby. I mean, we knew it was gonna be intense when I got the job, but this case is huge. It’s crazy, and we just got all this new evidence, like, just got it. Earlier today. We have to go through it right away—”
“So you’re not coming home tonight?” she interrupts, her tone flat and accusatory.
“I don’t know,” he says. He pulls his hand away from his throat, feeling self-conscious, the guilt burning hot and nauseous in his belly. “I’m sorry,” he says and the words catch in his throat. They’re true, so damn true, but they’re easy too, as easy as the lie that slipped off his tongue just before. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise. But we knew… we knew it would be like this.” He looks up again, and this time he knows that he’s looking for Joseph, for his distorted shadow in his office window, magnified by the lamplight like a black-and-white Hitchcock image.
She’s quiet for a beat. Then she sighs. “Okay. But you’d better make it up to me. Maybe with new clothes.”
He chuckles. The sound rings false in his ears, though she doesn’t call him on it. He feels an abrupt burst of affection for her, his girl, making it easy for him, trusting him so damn easily. “Yeah, of course. Whatever you want.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” She hangs up. He stares down at the phone, then sighs and pockets it. He thinks about walking down the corridor, past all the empty offices and knocking on Joseph’s door, and Joseph letting him inside. His skin prickles at the thought, snakes in his belly coming alive. An entirely different type of churning sensation than what he’d just felt speaking to Daisy.
Daisy. The thought of her is sobering. He pictures her face, thinking of what she’d say if she ever knew what he’d done. She doesn’t deserve it, and he doesn’t deserve her, and whatever the hell possessed him when he was with Joseph yesterday must not happen again.
The words on his computer screen swim in front of his face as he sinks back into his chair. He blinks them back into focus and concentrates on reading, trying to get the sentences to run together and make sense. He flicks to the next page in the report and freezes in shock.
The words flash in front of him, standing out from the page as if they’re in bold, highlighted type. He grabs for his phone.
The phone rings five times, then his mother’s voice comes on the line, tired and suspicious. “Hello?”
“Mom, it’s me.”
“Ryan? It’s nearly eleven, honey, are you okay? Is Daisy okay? Is everything—”
“We’re okay,” he interrupts. “Is Dad there? Can I speak to him?”
“He’s in his study, but honey, it’s really late. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” She sounds reproachful, still that note of suspicion in her voice. People don’t call after 9:00 p.m. in her world, and they definitely don’t call after 10:00 p.m., except in emergencies.
“No, Mom, I need to speak with him now. He’s not in bed, is he?”
She sighs, “No, he’s on his computer of course, playing that stupid chess game. I’ll just go get him.” She puts down the receiver and he waits impatiently for his father to come on the line.
“Ryan, what is it? It’s nearly eleven, you know.”
He resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, I know, Dad, but this is important.”
“What is?”
“Why didn’t you tell me that you’ve done business with Jack McNeil?” he says.
There’s a moment’s hesitation on the other end of the line before his father says, “What do you mean?”
“Just what I said, Dad. You’ve done business with Jack McNeil. In 2008, you consulted with him and his senior executive team on investment and insurance policies on behalf of your old firm. That was you, wasn’t it? That was your division?”
He hears his father clear his throat before he asks warily, “What are you getting at? What does this have to do with anything? That was years ago, before I retired.”
“Yeah, I know, I realize that. But why were you never called in to give evidence in the government case against McNeil? Why did the prosecution never call you?”
“I have no idea,” his father answers irritably. “Are you going somewhere with this, son, because it is late and—”
“Dad!” he interrupts, surging to his feet and pushing his chair back. “Dad! You need to tell me what exactly you did with Jack McNeil. Who you spoke to. This could be very important to our case.”
“Oh don’t be ridiculous, Ryan.” This time it’s his father who interrupts him. “If it was important then I would’ve been summoned to give evidence at the government trial.”
“What did you sell them?” he asks flatly.
“Ryan.”
“Tell me. What did you sell them? It can’t be that big a secret.”
“You know I can’t discuss client confidentiality with you.”
“Dad, come on. You don’t even work for Freeman anymore. They made you take early retirement.” His mouth snaps closed over those last few words, and he hears the stony silence on the other end. His father’s forced retirement from Freeman Associates is still a very sore and bitter point with him. “You don’t owe them anything,” he adds quietly.
“They still pay my pension,” his father insists, that stubborn tone that Ryan is familiar with creeping into his voice. He grits his teeth and paces around his desk, turning to look out at the night sky.
His father sighs; then finally he gives in. “It was just life insurance, Ryan, there was nothing sinister about it. The top executives were reviewing their portfolios and they decided that they needed better insurance cover, so they called us.”
“The top executives, so who did you meet with? Did you meet with McNeil?”
“Yes. And three other guys.”
“Was one of them called Phil Cartwright? He would’ve been the Chief Operating Officer at the time.”
“Yes, that’s right. McNeil and Cartwright and the CFO, Greg Martin, and the VP for HR. I can’t remember his name, Lazaridis or something like that.”
“Jim Lazaridis,” Ryan says.
“That’s right.”
“So you only met with those four guys?”
“Yes. We had a couple of meetings, but i
n the end it all fell through. They decided not to take the policies. I’m not sure why; they never gave me a reason. But it was a big waste of my time. I spent ages putting those quotes together and the presentations. This would’ve been a big account for me, the commission would’ve been enormous.”
“But you didn’t sell them anything?” Ryan repeats.
“No, that’s what I said. And I retired a couple of months later. Maybe one of the other guys got a sale from it, I don’t know.”
“But you definitely had two meetings with McNeil himself? In April 2008.”
“Yes.”
Ryan blows out a breath, raises one hand to tug at his hair. “Dad, that’s the exact time period that we’re investigating. Our whole case hinges on what McNeil claims to have done or not done at that time. That was when he made the speech and gave incentives to the staff at McNeil Holdings to purchase stock in that part of the company, only to sell his own stock two weeks later, right before they crashed. Why did they call in you guys at that exact time to talk to senior management about an insurance policy?”
“I don’t know, Ryan.” His father sounds tired now. “I was just doing my job, following up on a lead. Your mom and I could’ve gone to the Seychelles with the commission from those sales, but it didn’t work out, so….” He breaks off and Ryan can almost picture him shrugging, his mouth pursed in irritation.
“Okay, but will you let us interview you? Let Joseph interview you?”
“Joseph? Who’s Joseph?”
“My boss, Joseph, Joseph Van Aardt. I have mentioned him to you.” He resists the urge to roll his eyes again—and his parents dare accuse him of never listening. “He’s leading the case against McNeil for our firm.”
His father sighs again, “Ryan.”
“Please. You might not know anything, I’m pretty sure you don’t, but retracing everything that McNeil was doing in that month is crucial to our case. His meetings with you might be important.”
“I have an obligation of confidentiality to my clients,” he insists.
Ryan sets his teeth. “But they weren’t your clients; you didn’t sell them anything.”
“That’s not the point.”
He sighs in heavy exasperation, but his father is stubbornly silent on the other end of the phone. He licks his lips, tries for a more pleading tone of voice. “Dad, listen. This could make a big difference to the case, to all those people who lost their jobs and their savings and their pensions.”
“I realize that,” his father says, and his tone is brusque now, snappish. “But I have a duty of confidentiality to every one of the people I dealt with. Besides, I’m not even sure that you have a case here. From everything I’ve read it seems that it’s more of a case of your firm trying to make a name for itself. If Jack McNeil is so bad then why didn’t the government find him guilty? Why is he still in business? And you can’t deny that he’s done a lot for our state, son. He runs the homeless program over in Dallas and he’s put up scholarships for under-privileged kids, and you won’t remember this, but it was one of his companies that sponsored the little league you used to play in.”
Ryan rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay, fine. Jack McNeil is a saint and we’re just evil lawyers out for the money and publicity. And Jack McNeil didn’t fuck over all those poor bastards who worked for him for so long.”
“Ryan, you know how I feel about you using language like that.”
“Yeah, I know, I know, Dad,” he snaps. He grits his teeth. “Look, I get it; this obviously isn’t a great time. And I’ve got work to do, and you’re probably going to bed soon. So, I don’t know, how about you say you’ll think it all over and I’ll call back at a better time?”
“I can’t promise I’ll change my mind,” his father says.
“Yeah, okay, fine.” He bites his tongue on any further retorts and says, “I’ll speak to you later.”
He hangs up just as his father’s saying good night. He smoothes his thumb over the photo of Daisy on his phone wallpaper, the one taken on the back porch at her parents’ place with her hair in her face and her smile big and happy. He drops the phone back onto his desk and strides out of his office. His stomach is doing laps by the time he makes it to Joseph’s office. He raps on the door and pushes it open.
Joseph is sprawled out on the couch that sits against the back wall of his office. His shoes are off and his head is propped up on one arm of the couch. There’s a glass of whisky on the coffee table by his hand and a pile of papers balanced on his chest.
He rolls his head toward Ryan as he enters the room, and frowns. “Why are you still here? I thought you’d gone home.”
Ryan’s heart sinks in disappointment. He was intending to talk to Joseph about what he’s just discovered—his father’s possible involvement in the case—but he doesn’t feel like doing that now. He feels like the kid who’s been called out on being a teacher’s pet.
“I just wanted to get a head start on all that reading,” he says. He hates the way he sounds, sort of wheedling and ingratiating, like he’s trying too hard to impress Joseph. He shouldn’t be here at this time. He should be back at home with Daisy, though that thought just makes his stomach clench up with guilt—and maybe that’s it, he thinks dismally. He’s still here because he’s too chicken to go home and confront the fact that he’s a jerk and a cheater.
“Save it for tomorrow,” Joseph says, sitting up. He gathers up the papers lying on his chest and places them carefully on the coffee table. “Go home, see your girl.”
“I told her I’d be working through the night,” he says.
There’s a pause and the air seems to hang laden and heavy between them. Ryan keeps staring at Joseph, the realization dawning that he’s not just still here because he’s too pathetic to go home; he’s still here because Joseph is here.
Joseph cocks his head, the corner of his mouth quirks up a little. “Did you?”
“Yes, I thought that I’d—”
“C’mere,” Joseph says, interrupting him. “Shut the door.”
Ryan reaches behind blindly to close the door before he approaches the couch. Joseph watches him intently, his tongue coming out to slick across his lips in that unconscious revealing gesture that makes the knots in Ryan’s belly get tighter and hotter.
“Those new pants look good on you,” Joseph says. “You should take them off, don’t want to spoil another pair.”
Ryan huffs out an awkward, nervous sort of laugh and fumbles to unbuckle his belt and tug down the zipper. Joseph is still watching him with the same intent interest that he remembers so vividly from the night before. His pants slip down his legs and pool around his ankles, over his dress shoes, and he thinks dumbly and too late that he should’ve taken his shoes off first. He bends down to untie the laces, his face blushing bright red at the ridiculous picture he must make. He kicks his shoes off and finally steps out of his pants.
Joseph gets up off the couch and walks toward him. He pauses in front of Ryan, knots his fingers in Ryan’s tie, and tugs him in. The kiss is surprisingly soft; Joseph’s lips part to let him in. They kiss for what feels like a long time, the two of them standing in the middle of Joseph’s office, making out like they’ve just discovered how to do it. But it does feel different from any other kissing Ryan has done in the past. It’s harder and more heated; Joseph’s face is scratchy against his own, his body firm and muscled. His fingers dig into Ryan and pull and press, on the edge of being painful.
They ride each other down to the floor, sinking together in a tangle of limbs. Joseph pushes and tugs and Ryan goes with it, surrendering control to Joseph. Joseph slides his hand into Ryan’s boxers and grips his cock, squeezing it hard between his scorching hot fingers. He slips his other hand under Ryan’s head, cradling it in a curiously gentle way as Ryan lies back on the floor. He jerks Ryan off slowly, with a steady, calm pace, leaning over to stare down intently into his face. Ryan cranes his neck up, trying to catch him in another kiss, but each time Joseph shakes
his head and pulls back a little more out of Ryan’s reach.
He closes his eyes when he comes, lets Joseph bring him through it, wringing every last drop from his aching cock. When he opens his eyes again, Joseph is already getting to his feet, brushing down his pants and smoothing down his slightly crumpled shirt. Ryan sits up, tucks away his cock and looks around for his pants, a moment of déjà-vu hitting him when he thinks of doing the same thing in Joseph’s hotel room just that morning. Just like then, Joseph looks unruffled, the pink tinge in his cheeks, his mussed hair, and slightly creased shirt the only indications that he was rolling around on the floor a moment before, jerking another guy off.
“What about you?” Ryan says.
Joseph shrugs. “Let me worry about that. You should go home.”
The words thud into his head like a cold reality check. The thought of going home and getting into bed beside Daisy makes him feel nauseated. He’s not built for cheating and lies and betrayal. Sure, he can bullshit with the best of them, put on the fake act—acting is what he used to do anyway—but this….
“Ryan,” Joseph says. His voice is soft, almost understanding. “It will be okay. Go home, get a shower, then get into bed. You can’t stay away forever, you’ve got to go back and confront things at some time.”
Ryan blushes a furious red and bows his head, concentrating on zipping up his pants. “Okay, I know. I mean, I know you’re right. It’s just. She’s my girl and I’ve never… not before. I’ve never….” He trails off and shrugs awkwardly, feeling Joseph’s eyes boring into him.
“I’ve got something for you,” Joseph says.
Ryan blinks in surprise at the change of subject but waits patiently for Joseph to cross the room to his enormous desk. Joseph picks up a yellow Post-it note and holds it out to Ryan. “Here, take this.”
Ryan takes the note from him and glances at it. It’s an address uptown, a phone number, and a guy’s name. “What’s this?”
“An apartment. I know you’ve been looking to move to Manhattan.”
He glances at the address again, then back at Joseph. “But… that’s the Upper East Side; we can’t afford that.”
