The Rare Event

by P D Singer

  Jon said nothing. What could he say, now that Ricky was offering him—what was Ricky offering? His blood thudded so loudly in his ears that Jon wasn’t sure he was hearing right.

  “It’s been all about what I’ve wanted, Jon, and I know that isn’t fair.” Pleading a different tack, Ricky sat up a little straighter and scooted forward in his chair. “It has to be about what we want. What you want. Not just me.”

  It did. Jon reached for a deal-breaker. “What if I want to go to a baseball game?”

  “Then I’ll go with you, and you teach me about what actually makes it interesting.” Ricky had never promised more than he was willing to deliver. This sounded like a first time, until he finished with, “Maybe not every game, but I’d go to some. And not bitch about anyone else who goes with you, except….” His eyes darkened, and Jon didn’t have to hear a name to know.

  That sounded like a promise he’d keep. Jon picked a worse scenario. “Or the opera?”

  Ricky’s forehead hit the desk with a thump. “That would be hellish, Jon.” He raised pleading eyes, his horror something palpable. “I will make you promises about monogamy and baseball. If it’s really, really important to you, I will go to one opera a year, if I can make up my own lyrics.”

  Paybacks were hell—Jon found that he wanted to extract that promise, except—paybacks were hell. Ricky’s lyrics would probably cancel out the joy of making him go. “What’s so awful about the opera?” Jon expected some whine about screechy sopranos and fat tenors.

  “That I can just almost understand it. One word in five if it’s in Italian, less if it’s French.” He hunched his shoulders and shook his head, maybe to knock some vocabulary loose. “It makes me crazy.”

  “All right, your annual opera will be in German.” Jon would make some concessions, on the nonessentials. Ricky did have a point, but why had he never said? Jon stood up, his knees not quite steady. “Or English. If you’re really promising monogamy. Are you?” If all this has been for nothing….

  “I am.” Ricky heaved to standing, his hands on the desk. He seemed to be having trouble with getting totally upright. Jon didn’t know if he could get around the desk to Ricky without stumbling, or even, yet, if he should try. “You’ve said you wanted to be exclusive. I didn’t understand why before—now I do. Jonny, could you still want that? With me?” His last words were mere breaths, not sounds.

  Jon had to lick his lips to speak. “I always wanted it, even when I knew it was impossible.”

  “But do you want it now? After everything that’s happened?”

  Jon didn’t want to hear Ricky beg for the very thing he’d wanted most to give. “Yes, Ricky.” He took careful steps around the desk, wanting to be closer, afraid that he’d wake up.

  And then he was in Ricky’s arms, and Ricky was in his. Their mouths joined, the kiss so familiar, so new, so much more tender than ever before, and Jon wanted to never let go of this headstrong, brilliant man who’d finally offered him what he wanted most. And still he pulled back.

  “Say it, Ricky. I have to hear all of it in one speech.” He didn’t want to interrupt the kiss, but Jon needed, with the need of a drowning man for air, to be sure what Ricky was promising.

  Those deep brown eyes had the first hints of a smile since Ricky’d closed the office door. “I want to be part of a committed, monogamous couple, with you, Jonathan Chesley Hogenboom, because—” The crinkles left the corners of his eyes, which widened, and Jon held his breath as Ricky groped for a way to finish the pledge that Jon hadn’t dared hope would contain an explanation. “Because I love you.” Suddenly all the crinkles were back, and Ricky dipped to catch Jon in a crush of lips that lasted past the air supply.

  “You do?” Jon gasped once they surfaced. His voice broke even as his heart leaped. “It’s not bars in a cage?”

  “Bars keep bad things out.” Ricky brushed softly against Jon’s cheek. “That’s what you told me.”

  “They do.” Jon nuzzled back, his arms tight around Ricky’s chest. “Monogamy isn’t going to be dull?”

  “Not if we do it right.” Ricky’s tongue stroked a promise across Jon’s lips, and he repeated the words that Jon had never expected to hear, rolling them in his mouth like he was tasting them. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.” Jon could say that now—Ricky wouldn’t run.

  “I was scared you’d changed your mind about that.” Ricky hugged the breath out of Jon and tipped him back onto the desk. “Don’t ever change your mind about that.” As if he would, but he couldn’t say it with Ricky’s warm weight crushing him into the layers of paper and a calculator jabbing into one shoulder blade. Without his truly willing it, Jon’s legs came up to wrap around Ricky’s hips while he searched Ricky’s mouth for the lost weeks of kisses.

  Belly to belly, groin to groin, and damn all the fabric that lay between them, but Jon wouldn’t let go even long enough to strip away their suits and shirts. He thrust one hand into Ricky’s slacks to clasp a firm buttock, the other threaded through Ricky’s dark locks, the better to control the frantic licks and thrusts that had replaced their gentler caresses and nibbles. Bucking upward to meet Ricky’s frenzied strokes, Jon’s cock, hard, leaking, untouched for too long, rasped against the hard length imprisoned in his lover’s clothing. Long sweeping thrusts of tongue and hip drove them against each other, their desperate longing for each other’s touch kept their mouths joined, and Jon reveled in the joy of Ricky’s body crashing against his. Only his, only Jon’s, Ricky had promised….

  He might have held on, might have gotten them to the floor and some clothes out of the way, but Ricky licked a swath down to Jon’s neck and then bit gently on the big strap muscle, flicking his tongue on the ridge. The orgasm rushed from its hiding place, rolling through him and pulling Ricky’s name from his throat. Lifting his hips to Ricky, Jon pulsed, and with every spurt he held on more tightly, crushing Ricky against him. Ricky’s buttock clenched under his hand, then released, allowing a finger room to slip down, and Jon could barely tickle Ricky’s crack before the next clench imprisoned him.

  But it was enough to bring Ricky to climax, with the strangled cry Jon remembered and missed, now so close to his ear. Ricky throbbed against him, jammed so tightly that every jerk of his cock pushed through their clothing and played a tattoo on Jon’s skin.

  Ricky collapsed on top of him, and they panted together in the aftermath of their storm. “I’m lying on a lump,” Jon finally managed to say, and lifted a shoulder for Ricky to extract the calculator, still running his fingers through Ricky’s thick, dark waves.

  “Big number.” Ricky checked the calculator before tossing it aside. “Must be your profits today.” He let his head flop back on Jon’s shoulder. “If we ever actually make it to a bed, you’ll have to top for a week.” He started running his fingers through Jon’s hair.

  “You made some money today. Have to suck you off for that.” Jon turned his head enough to kiss Ricky’s fingertips.

  “Thanks to you. You never did collect on your Orewatt profits.” Ricky chuckled. “Two huge trades—I may not be able to sit down for some time.” The chuckle rumbled through Jon’s chest; he felt it more than heard it.

  “How about we make love however we like without counting the money first?” Jon rubbed his cheek against Ricky’s hair and very carefully pulled his hand from the back of Ricky’s slacks.

  “We could do that too,” Ricky agreed. “We could do it a lot. I’ve missed you.” He swept his lips once more against the line of Jon’s jaw and lifted himself off, pulling Jon upright.

  “And I’ve missed you.” Jon collected another kiss before producing a handkerchief that they both used to clean up. “This would be easier on the couch, but Geoff and Kate are probably still in there.”

  “Or the upholstery’s still warm.” Ricky dabbed at the wetness inside his briefs. “Wonder if Dwight and Iggy are done in my office yet.”

  Jon grimaced. “At this rate, probably Vaughn and Pram
iti had total privacy on the main trading floor, and we can’t open my door or we’d find them going at it. We have got to get a handle on bad behavior at the office before the new analyst starts, or he’ll think I’m worse than Edgar.”

  “If—” Ricky zipped his trousers and came close enough to embrace Jon again. “If you went to sleep next to me every night and woke up next to me every morning, we might be able to contain ourselves for eight hours a day.”

  “Even if we made some huge score?” Jon slipped his hands under Ricky’s suit jacket, feeling the lithe muscles through the crisp cotton, his mind racing at the thought of living with Ricky, never doubting where he was or what he was doing with whom, because Jon would know—he’d be the one there.

  “I reserve the rights to one kiss at the office for every fifty thousand bucks, but the rest could wait until we got home. I think. Another $19 million day could test my resolve.” Ricky bumped the tip of his nose against Jon’s. “Oh damn. I’ve committed to a two-year lease.” He dropped his head to Jon’s shoulder.

  That Ricky could consider an agreement with slime like Edgar binding even in the face of realizing his desires—just one of the reasons he loved this man. Jon nuzzled his neck. “Sublet it to Dwight at cost. It’s in his price range, and Edgar stays screwed.” Jon nuzzled again. “Then he and Iggy could behave themselves at work. More of my problem solved.”

  Ricky’s laugh was low and feral. “Good thought.” He turned to nibble Jon’s neck. “Can I draw naughty pictures on the walls?”

  “Maybe. I’d have to see the sketches first.” That portrait Ricky said he’d painted over was something Jon needed to find out about. He could ask at dinner. They could go out for something special to celebrate. So much to celebrate.

  “I’ll show you anything you like. Or you could pose for something new.” Ricky surveyed him, making Jon feel as naked as he wanted to be with his lover. But posing?

  “Uh—”

  “Don’t worry about it, I’m teasing. Sort of.” Ricky looked deeply into Jon’s eyes, and Jon liked what he saw there. “I needed something to avoid turning into creepy stalker ex, so I’ve been drawing like mad. I’ll have other things to do now.”

  “Don’t stop—you’re good.” Too late, Jon realized he’d admitted to insider information.

  “You know that how?” Radiating amusement, Ricky kept his eyes on Jon’s face, probably tracking the redness rising like mercury.

  “When I cleaned out your desk, I peeked.” Jon recalled a stack of sketchbooks, pages with single studies that had to have taken hours, other pages with a half-dozen small figures. Ricky’d kept busy.

  “Then you know I was obsessing about you.” Ricky planted a small kiss on Jon’s nose. “Come, object of my obsession, let me take you to dinner, and we’ll plan our future. We can finally have our meal at Marimba’s.”

  “No. Not tonight.” They’d eat there sometime soon, but Jon had another place in mind. He started digging in his pocket for his cell phone. Ricky sat down in the guest chair, his long legs stretched out, the very picture of patient waiting. Jon leaned on the back of the chair, the phone to his ear and his other hand resting on Ricky’s chest. His fingers curled into Jon’s, Ricky tipped his head back to rest against Jon’s waist.

  The phone chirred six times before the maître d’ picked up, and Jon heard with relief that he could, indeed, have a table. “Santeramo, party of two.” To Ricky he explained, “I gave your name because I’ve canceled on them so many times I didn’t think they’d take mine.”

  “Really?” Ricky turned his face against Jon’s arm. “Where?”

  Jon leaned down to brush Ricky’s cheek. “We’re going to Allegra.”

  Glossary

  Definitions may not pass muster for completeness with the Chairman of the Securities and Exchange Commission but are all you need to keep up with Jon and Ricky.

  Black Swan event: an event with an extremely small probability of occurring.

  Blowing up: having a trade go massively wrong and losing more than the trader can afford to lose. Some losses are expected, but a loss on this scale can put the trader or the firm out of business.

  Bond: a way to package debt in an easy-to-sell form. The original bond-holder has actually made a loan and may sell the right to collect that loan to someone else. Geoff Gorman buys junk bonds because he expects the company’s credit-worthiness to improve (the price rises) or that he’ll collect the debt (getting part or even all of the loan amount).

  Call: the buyer of the call has the right to buy a stock at a particular price. The buyer makes money if the stock’s price rises above the agreed upon (strike) price. A call can be naked (the seller doesn’t own the stock) or covered (the seller owns the stock.) Corbin sells covered calls because he expects his stocks to rise, but not as far as the strike price.

  Hedge fund: A mutual fund with the philosophy of buying any type of investment, vanilla or exotic, where it believes it can make money. The risks a hedge fund takes can be enormous: the profits and losses can also be enormous. Investors have to prove they are financially able to weather the risks. Wolfe Gorman Equities is somewhat conservative for a hedge fund.

  Long position (going long): buying shares to own.

  Market maker: the principal dealer for a particular stock or bond, usually working for an investment bank.

  Margin (buying on margin): borrowing money to buy stocks, often 75 percent of the price.

  Margin call: a demand to pay back part or all of the borrowed money.

  Married puts: buying puts and the stock at the same time, a way of minimizing risk.

  Options: puts and calls, which can be bought or sold independently of the stock

  Put: the buyer of the put has the right to sell a stock at a particular price; the seller of the put agrees to buy the stock. If the buyer exercises the option within a certain amount of time, he forces the sale at a price above the market. If he doesn’t, the put expires and becomes worthless. The buyer would make money if the market price falls below the agreed upon (strike) price. A put can be naked (the buyer doesn’t own the stock) or covered (the buyer already owns the stock). Jon Hogenboom buys puts on stocks he expects will drop.

  Short sale (shorting, going short): borrowing stock shares to sell at market price, with the intention of returning shares purchased at a lower price and keeping the difference. Essentially a bet that the stock’s price will go down.

  Stock shares: a slice of ownership in a company.

  Stop-loss order: instructions to sell the stock automatically if it drops to a pre-determined price, meant to limit the loss.

  About the Author

  P.D. SINGER lives in Colorado with her slightly bemused husband, two rowdy teenage boys, and thirty pounds of cats, all of whom approach carefully when she’s in a writing frenzy. She’s a big believer in research, firsthand if possible, so the reader can be quite certain P.D. has skied down a mountain face first, been stepped on by rodeo horses, acquired a potato burn or two, and will never, ever, write a novel that includes skydiving.

  When not writing, playing her fiddle, or skiing, she can be found with a book in hand. Her husband blesses the advent of eBooks—they’re staving off the day the house collapses from the weight of the printed page.

  Follow the adventures at http://pdsinger.com.