by P D Singer
“Be right back.”
When he returned with supplies, Geoff came to life. “What’s the price now?” he asked.
“Seventeen bid, eighteen asked, as of ten minutes ago.”
Something metallic rang off the door, then the floor, and a lot of smaller pings echoed. “You weren’t supposed to tell him!” Kate shrieked from a distance.
“You throw like a girl!” Jon retorted. Ricky braced himself for the follow-up.
“I am a girl, and staplers aren’t aerodynamic!” A louder crash suggested that tape dispensers might fly better.
“I was going to suggest that I swap places with Kate, but not if she’s in a throwing mood.” Ricky thought a door between Kate and himself was a good idea. “Even if I’m not your favored couch companion.”
“Nothing much to celebrate today.” Geoff might be too mournful to even take off his pants, which could be a shame.
“I don’t know about that—Kate’s probably covering all those short positions.” Ricky thumped his boss’s shoulder. “There might be a lot to celebrate, especially if you buy on the dip.”
“More like a black hole than a dip.” Geoff rejected the thought out loud but appeared to consider it.
“If Kate’s whispering, ‘Those bonds you bought cheap are worth 53 into your ear, that’s one hell of an aphrodisiac.” It certainly would be for Ricky, and he really wanted to get out and do something, anything—he wasn’t really even able to draw with Geoff sitting there like a storm cloud.
That earned him a sour look.
“There’s another silver lining to all this.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” This might be the best part of all. “Edgar didn’t get his morning blowjob in all the excitement, and now we’ve got the couch.” That earned Ricky a sharp look and a bitter laugh.
“I’d say he’d get one in his office, but he’s probably so mad he can’t get it up. Hey! Edgar!” Geoff suddenly yelled. “What’s the price?”
“Seventeen, you fucking moron!”
Geoff and Ricky met each other’s eyes and began to laugh. “No,” Geoff choked out, “that does not sound like a man who’s gotten blown.”
The laughter didn’t last. Ricky thought he’d never have a better opportunity than now to ask this question. “Geoff, why do you let him get away with it?”
“Because I can’t stop him, Ricky.” Geoff’s face went bleak. “He’s got the majority holding in the fund. I can’t fire him and I can’t buy him out. And he could force me out. I’d still be an owner, but I’d be out on my ass for all practical purposes.” He scrubbed at his face with one hand. “Going into business with him was such a mistake. He had the money, I had the contacts, I was supposed to be the marketing guy, but I can barely get an appointment with anyone who has the bucks to get into a hedge fund. I say, ‘We were up 78 percent last year’ and they say, ‘Tell me more!’ Then I say names, and the doors slam in my face. We could be four or five times as big as we are if I never had to mention that turd.”
“Great. The junior staff sure doesn’t have the power to stop him, not without blowing themselves up; he terminates everyone who objects. Bringing a sexual harassment suit is out of the question for anyone who wants to stay in this business.” Ricky’d thought about it, dreamed about it, through four years on his knees, and knew he’d be done on Wall Street if he even tried. “Why can’t you buy him out?”
“If I borrowed up to my eyeballs and caught him on a bad market day, I’m still short.”
“How bad of a market day?” Ricky pressed.
“Today isn’t nearly bad enough.”
There’d be whooping and screaming any time now, to praise Kate’s closing out of her short position at some huge profit. Today wasn’t a bad market day for everyone.
“That’s a really gorgeous ski condo in Wapiti Creek.” If Ricky hadn’t felt like he’d paid for that condo with “moments of his time” before, he did now. “And the new teak decking on the yacht must have run a pretty penny.” He’d take a nail to that decking, carve some opinions into the varnish.
Geoff grimaced and looked away.
“Do you ever feel like a pimp, Geoff?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
RICKY’D been very, very good all week, astonishingly good; Jon would have to reward him. Dwight left Jon’s office, a stack of paperwork in hand. Ricky sauntered in and propped his butt against the table where Jon was still making notes from flimsy booklets.
“It’s the weekend you planned to be with me on Fire Island.” Ricky grinned, putting his best happy invitation into the words. “And I’ve been monogamous all week, even past Wednesday. Let’s slip out of here early; we could have dinner in Cherry Grove.”
Jon rubbed his temples. Did the poor guy have a headache? “I can’t believe you do this to me, Ricky. I really can’t. We aren’t going anywhere this weekend. We aren’t seeing each other, remember?”
“What I remember best is that you wanted to be exclusive, and I haven’t been with anyone else since, well….” Ricky remembered a lot of other things, but mentioning them was only going to ruin his sales pitch.
“Since you got that enormous hickey, you mean?” The bruise had faded to a yellowing splotch on Ricky’s skin. “Or was there some other ‘since, well’?” Jon drummed his fingers on the table. “You haven’t been monogamous—” Ricky started to object, but Jon waved him silent. “Because that requires someone on the other end, where I am not. What you’ve been is celibate. If you have.”
“I have, and it sucks. I haven’t gone this long without sex since I can’t remember when. And I hate it.” He did; lonely nights and his own hand when it could have been any handsome stud he crooked a finger at. On his knees now beside Jon’s chair, Ricky tried to slip his arms around Jon’s waist. “Don’t make me do it anymore.”
“I’m not making you do anything.” Jon rolled backward, away from Ricky’s encircling arms. “You do what you please—you always have. Just not with me.”
“What if the only thing that pleases me is being with you?” Ricky got off the floor; he’d get on his knees for Jon anytime, but only if Jon was willing to unzip his trousers.
“Then you’re slightly out of luck, Ricky. Maybe if you’d decided this a year ago, or a month ago, but…. You’ll get over it, with all the willing comforters you find.” Jon rose to stand by the door, his hand on the frame.
“Or before Davis came along to comfort you, you mean?” Damn it all, Ricky was not the one getting any comfort for anything! “How was dinner at Allegra?” He drawled the name of the restaurant, making it an accusation.
“We ended up watching a ball game with Chinese takeout.” Jon paused. “Not that it’s any business of yours. And it’s certainly not your business that he went home without so much as a kiss, but you’re being such an ass that I’ll cut this short and tell you. And in the unlikely event I take him to bed, I’ll tell you that too; you’ll be the second to know, just so you don’t ever ask me these sorts of questions again. You don’t have the right.” With a tiny jerk of the head and a hard glance, he signaled “get out” and shut the door once Ricky was on the other side.
All right, he was out of here. Wolfe Gorman and everyone who worked here, the self-righteous jerk in the center office most of all, could just kiss Ricky’s ass. Fire Island looked fine in late September, the sumacs flaming red and the men flaming rainbow. He’d have a good time, and to hell with this noise. Ricky threw his suit jacket over his shoulder and stomped out past Liu, Chloe, and Logan, still flinching a week after getting chewed out, good, and Chubs, and wasn’t he so cute playing econometrics with that little weedy Dr. Dipshit from down the hall?
Once home, Ricky threw a few things into a big bag—this was the last weekend of the season’s lease and there’d be possessions to retrieve—and fretted through the train ride and the ferry.
He’d been sure Jon would relent and come after all. All the opportunities Ricky’d passed up, hoping he could lure Jon
back by giving him what he wanted. The drop-in art class hadn’t been as devoid of prospects as he’d told Jon; the gay couple had chatted afterward and let him know they didn’t think three was a crowd. He’d gone again last night, when thirtysomething and long brown hair had tried to strike up a conversation that had one certain destination. Or he could have changed his luck with no effort and gotten a bit of coaching on drawing hands in the bargain.
And Tuesday night—Ricky was quite sure he deserved bonus points for Tuesday.
TAD’S this time; he wanted different music and fresh faces, and he’d gotten some of both, more grunge and alt-rock, less techno, more fantastic hair and less cologne. Not one more thing to connect with—the offers of something to smoke or sniff didn’t sound much different even if there were more of them, the backroom was still full of writhing bodies even if there were little disco balls on the ceiling throwing flecks of light on skin. He’d done the grand tour, finding nothing he wanted to join with or instigate, declining the offers that came every few minutes. A few he turned down as been there, done him, with others, nothing about them even moved him to approach. Too shy, too brash, too ludicrous, although someone else scooped up the guy with a couple dozen piercings before Ricky’d even finished shaking his head. Too—something. Or not enough something. He’d try Sharkie’s.
Ricky’d danced, fed his little flock, and groped here and there, not intrigued enough to work his hands into anyone’s clothing, much less take someone to the backroom. Finally, he’d scrunched into a corner with Dustin tucked under one arm and sucked down a beer. The little guy had been warm but strangely unattractive. Ricky cuddled him absently, not wanting more. And then Dustin developed a mind of his own.
“Let go, Ricky.” Dustin struggled to get out of Ricky’s armpit. “Xander’s getting mad.”
So what if there were glowers from across the room? “You stay right where you are.” He tightened his grip across Dustin’s chest. He wanted something to hug on, and Dustin was just the right size to grab and ignore.
“Let me go.” Dustin tried peeling Ricky’s arm off but didn’t have the leverage, and Ricky didn’t feel like letting go. He pulled Dustin against his side more tightly.
“I want you right there.” Ricky smiled a challenge at Xander, who stopped dancing with a clump of the others and looked daggers back. “And why all of a sudden do you not want my arm around you?” This was the same Dustin who’d disappeared under the table for some “thank you.”
“It was okay for a while; I mean, we want to keep you happy….” Yeah, if Ricky was happy then he bought the food and the beer. “But Xander and I are seeing each other, and it’s getting more serious, and after the other night, when you didn’t even say he’d sucked you good, we decided….”
So Xander had been the mystery mouth. Not the first time, either. Dustin struggled harder to get away. Ricky let go. “Gonna set up housekeeping and be a cozy little couple?”
“Why not? He treats me right. Not like you.” Dustin scooted farther down the banquet seat and took a drink of his beer. Ricky lowered the glass away from Dustin’s mouth with one finger’s pressure on his hand.
“I bought you that beer.”
“I’ll buy my own beer from now on.” Dustin brushed Ricky’s hand away, took another deep drink, and crashed the mug on the table. “He treats me like a man. I’m short; I’m not a toy.” Dustin scooted away, leaving the booth and Ricky, running to Xander’s arms. They kissed and melted into the music, disappearing into the sea of bodies with their arms around each other.
A toy. Jon had said that—he wasn’t a toy. Ricky left the club alone, not in the mood for playing. He’d gone home, smelling of French fries and other men’s sweat, hitting the shower to wash the night off him before falling into a bed that still didn’t contain Jon.
THE beach house was lit up and loud when he got there: Christopher and Haden lounged on the fold-out sofa, drinking margaritas and chatting with Kevin and someone he vaguely recognized. Maybe he’d slept with the guy this summer. Or last.
The laughter stopped when he walked in. “Hi, Ricky,” Christopher finally said and craned his neck to see who might be following. “Where’s Jon?”
“Not coming.” Maybe his curtness would keep them from asking more. Jon should be here, damn him, but he wasn’t; he was probably off eating something unpronounceable and unidentifiable with Davis, who’d certainly give up a late evening at work to go somewhere with Jon, even if it wasn’t bed. Yet. He threw his bag in the bedroom with the king bed and came out in search of the pitcher and a glass.
“Nuh-uh!” Haden singsonged, unwrapping from Christopher. He retrieved Ricky’s bag and dropped it beside the sofa. “You’re out here tonight.”
“Like hell I am.” Ricky downed half the margarita and topped it off. “I’m not sleeping on ‘The Rack’.”
“Like hell you aren’t,” Christopher had the nerve to correct him. “Couple, couple, single. Single gets the couch.”
“I won’t be single for long,” Ricky snarled.
“You’ll always be single; you just won’t always be alone. And do it at his place if you don’t like the couch.” Christopher held his arms out to Haden, who settled back against him. If their contentment was any more palpable, Ricky could tear off a big wad and choke one of them with it.
“To good sex,” Kevin mocked him with his upraised drink and the toast Ricky’d used. “May you get some.” He turned to his companion and clinked their glasses, then sipped. “Jon too.”
“Fuck you!” Ricky yelled, slamming out the door. Good sex wasn’t ever his problem; he’d have some in less than an hour, and Kevin could just shove his jokes up his ass, where it would probably feel better than that other guy’s dick. Just fuck them all. Including Davis, who’d be elbowing everyone else out of the line so he could give Jon what Kevin had wished him.
An hour later, and then two, his prediction had not yet been fulfilled. Ricky trawled one club and left fast, finding it too much like Tad’s, and went to another down the street, recently opened and unfamiliar. Lots of preppie-flavored men dancing and drinking, and little doe-eyes here licked his lips when Ricky stopped to stroke his cheek. He was the first one to look right.
“You’ll do,” Ricky told him. “Come on with me.” He led his prize by the hand to the backroom and reached for his zipper. He stopped. Little Ricky needed to get with the program. He put his companion’s hand to his groin, encouraging him to roll and squeeze. Things were growing nicely when the young man tried to kiss him.
“No, no.” Ricky twisted his face away. “Just blow me.”
The young man stopped. “Isn’t that a little abrupt?”
The one-eye-squinted beady stare was the only possible response to this. “Are you sure you’re old enough to be in here, kid?”
“My name is Daniel.” He looked hurt.
Ricky cocked his head and did the beady look the other way. “I didn’t ask. Never mind.” He patted the young man’s shoulder. “Someone else will think you’re adorable.”
He left the bar, aghast. Give me someone who understands what’s what. And someone who doesn’t look like a twenty-one-year-old Jon.
His prayer could have been answered a dozen times over in the next club, but he left them all behind and walked instead on the ocean-side beach, listening only to the crash of the surf. It sucked in every way to be here without Jon.
Many more opportunities to contemplate the suckage of Jon’s absence arose over the next few days. Ricky ate his meals alone or with the dubious company of his housemates. Kevin had apparently found true lust, or his half hour of lust stretched out to days, because the fourth man lingered through the weekend, occasionally eyeing Ricky smugly. Ricky still couldn’t remember when or if he’d fucked the guy, and both the looks and the uncertainty annoyed him, driving him to the beach with his drawing materials. He spent so much time working on his art that he had to buy another sketchpad at the little gallery. That pad was filling up, too, as Ricky
shifted his emphasis to chests. Fortunately, models wandered the beaches, and some would stop to watch and be drawn. He didn’t try the clubs again on Saturday night, instead sitting in the Adirondack chair on the porch to sketch until the sounds of Christopher and Haden’s extended anniversary celebration drove him down to the sand. He slept under the stars again, this time by choice and with a blanket, because it was a lot more comfortable than the fold-out couch.
By Sunday morning Ricky was ready to go somewhere, do something else that didn’t remind him of days he was more and more horribly sure were over. He wouldn’t rent this beach house again; in fact he wouldn’t rent with Christopher, Haden, or Kevin again, or anyone else whose first question was likely to be, “How’s Jon?” There wasn’t much to pack: shorts, shirts, two towels and a pair of swim trunks, some casual shoes, all in the master bedroom closet. He’d collect them and get out.
Christopher and Haden had their backs to the door—they wouldn’t even notice him.
“What the hell, Ricky!” Haden’s head drooped while Christopher pounded him from behind, doggy-style, letting him look under his arm.
Christopher froze, his hands on Haden’s hips, and snarled, “Get out of here, Ricky.”
Ricky did, if disappearing into the closet counted. “You can’t be fucking him very well if he can pay attention to me, Christopher.” He dragged his clothes off the shelves and knelt to collect the shoes. “Better work on that.” He gave them a wicked grin and left, closing the door on grumbling and empty threats.
One more look around for his belongings, and then he could zip the case and go. A small blackish object on the side table caught his eye: the mermaid’s purse that Jon had collected on his last trip. Dry and wrinkled, with tendrils at its four corners, the egg case had intrigued Jon into bringing it home. Ricky wrapped it in a paper towel and parked it in a plastic food container lest it prove fragile. Remembering the wonder in his ex-lover’s eyes as he showed off his find, Ricky tucked it into his bag. He had so very little to show for their time together.
