by R. Cayden
Cash smiled, then leaned back in his booth, draping his arm casually to the side. “It’s a date.”
Raiden
Raiden jogged on the treadmill, a soccer game muted on the screen in front of him. Sweat dripped down his back, and his legs burned, but he picked up the speed anyway, pushing himself further. The more he ran, the more his body burned and ached, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to think about something other than Lawrence and that asshole in the suit.
He didn’t trust Dixon, not for a minute. He didn’t trust his sneaky eyes and his phony smile, and he didn’t trust those fancy-ass suits, either. There was no reason for him to keep showing up in Lawrence’s life and no way in hell a man like him should know how to fight like that. It was like nothing Raiden had seen before, some combination of fighting styles that seemed unique to Dixon, fast and spry and powerful at the same time.
And he definitely didn’t trust him with Lawrence. Raiden wasn’t sure if it was normal for a bodyguard to think about his client as much as he did, but the more Lawrence flirted with him, the more obsessed Raiden got. He was jerking off three or four times a day, thinking about Lawrence’s curvy ass and the way he wiggled his hips, but the release never actually cleared his head. Soon as he was cleaned up, he’d start thinking about something Lawrence had said the night before. Maybe it was how tender and sweet he was, helping out some lost tourist he ran into on the street, or maybe it would be one of his come-ons, so direct and bold they almost made Raiden lose his ability to form words.
He accelerated the treadmill again, pumping his legs as his heart kicked at his ribs. Raiden didn’t let himself get distracted by sex, and he didn’t do drama, either. But still, there he was, pushing his body to the limit just to feel something different than pure, horny want.
He finally slammed the button to the slow the machine, shifting to a jog as he squirted water into the back of his throat. He kept going for a minute and promised himself that he would head out on his own some night and find a hookup to distract him, even if his brain was stuck salivating over Lawrence and fuming about that prick Dixon.
When Raiden’s phone rang with Declan’s number, he finally hopped off the machine, then hurried to the quiet corner of the gym to take the call. “Declan, what up?”
“You busy?”
“Just at the gym. Everything’s good here, though. Lawrence is safe and sound.”
“I know,” he said. “You’ve been doing a good job filing your reports, Raiden. No complaints here. I’m calling about something else.”
“Is Gray okay?” Raiden asked quickly. His best friend had been out of the country for months, but after years of looking out for each other, the habit of thinking about him stuck.
“He’s fine,” Declan answered. “We’re just a little worried about you. Seb was doing some routine checks on our security system and noticed some suspicious activity. He thought to check out our employees, too, and it looks like someone’s been keeping an eye on you.”
The room seemed to go quiet, the sounds of clanking weights and grunting people distant as Raiden frowned. “Tracking me? What the hell does that mean?”
“Someone’s bugged your phone and your computer.”
“Fuck.” Raiden felt like his head was swirling. He and his friends had faced plenty of risks over the years. It came with the territory when you liked to stick up other criminals. But the job with Declan was supposed to offer a way out of all that. It had for Declan, after all, and for Gray.
“Listen, Raiden, there’s no need to freak out. There are a lot of possible explanations and only a few where you’re in real danger. But we need to take this seriously, for you and for your charge.”
“My charge?” Raiden tensed at the thought Lawrence might be in danger. “Is someone after Lawrence?”
“There’s no evidence of that. But until we know what’s up, we need to take every precaution, just to be safe. Seb is doing his thing on the computer, but do you remember all your safety protocols? You should sweep your apartment for starts.”
Declan launched into a long lecture, and Raiden hunched in the corner of the gym, listening carefully. Once he got the lowdown, he grabbed his bag from his gym locker, then jogged the two blocks back to the studio Kaiser Security had rented him. Anxiety began to build in his body as he searched for any bugs, flipping over the toaster and unscrewing all the lamps. There needed to be some explanation, some truth that would let him stop worrying that his past was about to come and bite him on the ass.
When he didn’t find anything, he downloaded the programs that Seb had emailed him, which would apparently clean his laptop and phone, then jumped into the shower. He washed the dried sweat from the gym off his body, scrubbing himself hard as hot water beat his face, then slapped the tile wall with frustration.
Because no matter how many times he told himself it was ridiculous, he still couldn’t shake the idea that Dixon was the one spying on him.
Raiden climbed out of the shower, then flipped on the stereo, some old Pearl Jam song blasting on the rock station. Some of his clothes were tossed on the floor, and the small trash can was overflowing with empty takeout containers. He headed over to the closet, then tugged on a clean pair of jeans and a plain gray T-shirt and fished around for his black baseball cap.
He checked himself in the mirror. His tattoos and his large frame made it hard to disappear into a crowd, but in Manhattan, the outfit would do the job.
A short subway ride later, Raiden was down the block from Lawrence’s apartment building. It was dusk, and the street was mildly busy. He found a spot leaning against a small tree, across the street from Lawrence’s place. The shadows were just right, allowing him to practically disappear as he kept watch.
Which he did. He eyed Lawrence’s building and made a note of every person who came and went. When a young man pushing a small cart of groceries paused across from the building, lingering for too long, he tensed to attention, ready to lurch forward if he saw something suspicious.
The sense of danger built as he thought about someone tracking him, and maybe tracking Lawrence, too. What would make someone do a thing like that? Nothing good, that was for damn sure. He wished he had kicked Dixon’s ass that night in the alley and properly showed him what he’d be messing with if he came for Lawrence.
Raiden gritted his teeth. He felt like a kettle, whistling and jumping around and hissing with steam.
And then, right as darkness properly fell, he spotted him. Raiden wasn’t sure at first, since the man in the suit was at the far opposite end of the block. But as he strolled forward with that cocky bounce in his step, it became clear. Dixon was walking straight to Lawrence’s apartment, disappearing and reappearing again as he passed under the streetlights.
“Fuck,” Raiden growled. “I knew it.”
He almost ran forward but stopped himself. He needed to know more, and watching was the only way to do that.
Dixon reached the building, then glanced around casually. He stepped up to the door, and from what Raiden could see, it looked like he was fiddling with the buzzer. A second later, he stepped back. He shoved his hands in his pockets, glanced across the street once more, and then took off in the opposite direction, whistling loudly.
Raiden watched him disappear into the darkness, reappear under the light, and then disappear altogether. He counted to twenty to make sure he wasn’t going to come back, then jogged across the street and straight to the doorway. He prodded the metallic box that served as the intercom, but it required a screwdriver to open.
Stepping back onto the street, Raiden immediately called Declan. “We got a problem.”
“What’s up?”
“I think I know who’s tracking me. I had a bad feeling about him from the start. His name is Dixon.”
“Wait a second, what’s going on? Who the hell is Dixon?” Declan barked, his voice like gravel.
“I’m not sure yet, except that he’s a man who has been hitting on Lawrence the last co
uple of weeks. He showed up at the club one night and keeps trying to buy Lawrence drinks.”
“And what makes you think he’s bugging your phone?”
Raiden frowned. “I was keeping an eye on Lawrence’s apartment just now, and Dixon walked by. He messed with the intercom—I’m not sure why. Maybe bugging it. He was only there a minute, though, and he walked away.”
Declan sighed. “Goddamn it.”
“What?”
“I can’t believe this is happening again.”
“What?”
“Raiden, are you telling me that some man has been going out with Lawrence, and you just saw him come by, ring the bell, and then walk away when no one answered? So now you’re convinced he’s bugging your phone?” Declan growled under his breath. “That doesn’t make any sense, Raiden. Do you hear yourself?”
“I just don’t trust the way he’s hitting on Lawrence,” Raiden tried to explain, although now that Declan mentioned it, he realized he didn’t really have any evidence.
Declan growled. “Raiden, are you falling in goddamn love with your charge?”
“What?” Raiden shot back. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“That’s not a no.”
“There’s nothing happening!” Raiden objected. “I swear, Declan. I swear to god.”
“Listen carefully,” Declan said. “The man your client is dating is not the person who is bugging your phone. Got it? And if you start developing feelings for Lawrence that cloud your thinking, I’m going to have to pull you from the job.”
“But Declan—”
“Any questions?”
Raiden kicked the pavement. “No. I got it.”
“Good. I’ll call you back if Seb figures anything out.”
Raiden turned down the street, looking one more time at Lawrence’s apartment. He hurried back to the porch and inspected the intercom box, then pulled his pocketknife from his backpack. It wasn’t ideal, but after a few minutes of scratching and poking, he was able to loosen the screws and pull the front of the intercom off. Inside, there was a mess of wires, a spider’s web, and a tiny chocolate heart, wrapped in clean silver foil and perched delicately up against the backing.
Raiden stared at the heart, then growled. “He’s fucking with me,” he muttered, then slammed the intercom box shut. It might not have made sense, but suddenly, Raiden was convinced that Dixon was messing with his head.
And there was no way in hell Raiden was going to let a guy like Dixon outsmart him.
Lawrence
Lawrence had never brought a date to one of the family dinners before, never having tried anything like a serious relationship. You just didn’t bring a random hookup to meet Grandma, after all.
Yet there he was, standing in the elevator with Dixon, speeding up to his family’s penthouse unit on the Upper East Side. Dixon looked delectable in fitted chinos and with a gray tie flashing on his royal blue shirt. Lawrence’s father always insisted that the dinners be casual, although for him, that just meant no tuxedos. Lawrence had gone for something a little brighter, with a pink tie and equally pink tailored shirt, just to keep it interesting and annoy his family.
“I don’t really know how to prepare you,” Lawrence said as the elevator came to a stop, opening to the entranceway of the penthouse. “It’s probably going to be very boring.”
“I told you,” Dixon answered with a smile, “these things are easy. I might not have learned anything practical in the Ivy League, but I do know how to behave at a dinner party.”
They paused in front of the large double doors that led into the apartment, antique lights shining overhead and two sleek sculptures of leopards guarding either side. A part of Lawrence longed for Raiden’s company, too, and the security his bodyguard offered him. But having Dixon along made all the difference, and for the first time in years, walking into the dinner, he didn’t feel alone.
Maybe he could swing a fake boyfriend for a night, even if he resisted a real one.
“Just don’t forget,” Lawrence explained. “They’ve more or less come to peace with the fact that I’m gay, but it’s not fine that I go to the clubs every night. If anyone asks, we’ve been dating a few months, and we like to stay home and watch old movies. Outside of that, I keep myself busy with my job.”
“What’s the title they gave you?”
Lawrence rolled his eyes. “Head of Technology and Youth Development. I oversee a team of zero.”
Dixon laced his fingers together, then cracked his knuckles. “And what do you call me? Honey? Dear boyfriend of mine?”
Lawrence giggled. “Sure, I guess! Although maybe I should have learned more about you first, to pull off that lie.”
“You know my favorite movie. That’s something.”
“I watched it the other night. It was pretty good!”
“See? We’re practically married. And I promise I’ll charm them off their feet,” he said with a cocky smile. “Don’t you worry.”
Walking into the penthouse, Lawrence wasn’t worried at all. Dixon was a fast talker and a quick thinker, and the stiff dinner conversations and formalities probably wouldn’t leave much chance to screw things up anyway.
He did, however, feel a little embarrassed by the wealth on display. His father was one of the head honchos at Horizon Zed, a conglomerate so large and powerful his job saw him traveling the world, building massive factories, and personally lobbying the White House. The penthouse was tastefully decorated and not at all audacious, but any experienced eye would be able to tell how expensive everything was, from the Monet painting that greeted them to the Tiffany lamps, imported fine rugs, and antique molding and trim.
“Lawrence,” his grandmother declared, rounding the corner. She wore a tasteful blue dress, paired with a light turquoise jacket and small silver brooch, and her long auburn hair was styled up. “And your friend,” she added coolly.
“Dixon,” Lawrence said, “and this is my grandmother, Mrs. Ellison.”
Dixon bowed slightly. “Mrs. Ellison. Such a pleasure to meet you. And thank you for having me in your gorgeous home.”
She pursed her lips. “This is my eldest son’s home. Do you really think a lady of my status would have such modern art on the walls?” She frowned, then gestured down the hall. “This way.”
“Sorry,” Lawrence whispered, rolling his eyes, but Dixon shrugged it off easily.
They followed into the large, open room where the family received guests. Lawrence’s father and five or six other men in suits were huddled together, all with glasses of brown liquid. Naturally, no one acknowledged Lawrence’s entrance, and he and his date hung back by the doorway.
“I take it she’s not the kind of grandmother who made you cookies when you were a kid?”
Lawrence snorted a laugh. “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen her touch an oven, but she does criticize every meal that’s put in front of her. Does that count?” His father noticed him, nodded, and then turned back to his conversation. “I don’t know how I ever lived in this world.”
“You’re telling me. As soon as I got to Yale, I realized I hated the place.”
“But you’re so sophisticated. I figured you would have thrived there. I was always too feminine, too emotional, and too loud. I swear to god, as soon as my parents figured out I was a gay handful, they abandoned me.”
“A gay handful?”
Lawrence pretended to throw something in the air. “A handful of glitter. But it doesn’t match the decorating scheme!”
Dixon clicked his tongue. “It simply must match the decorating scheme,” he joked.
Like on their long walk across Manhattan, the banter with Dixon relaxed Lawrence, and he actually found himself flirting a little, despite the decidedly unsexy setting. “You don’t quite match the decorating scheme here,” he said, then trailed his hand down Dixon’s chest, “although you would match my apartment. My bedroom, in particular.”
Dixon leaned forward, then whispered in Lawrence�
�s ear. “Careful. You look so cute in that pink tie I might not be able to resist having you right here. Now come on, introduce me to your father before it gets weird.”
Lawrence felt himself flush. Whenever he flirted with Dixon, it was one step forward, two steps back. But the heat between them was rising, and something about the date must have been screwing with his head. “Let’s go. And I apologize in advance for everything he says.”
The introduction wasn’t as much of a disaster as Lawrence expected. Dixon was perfectly charming and polite, and he asked the exact right questions of Lawrence’s father, inquiring after his business and complimenting his successes. Lawrence, for one, despised the business itself. His father was always covering up spills of environmental waste or flying across the world to manage the scandal of a newly revealed sweatshop, or quietly promoting the same men he knew were harassing the women who worked for them. It was disgusting, as far as Lawrence was concerned, and he knew from a young age that he wouldn’t be pursuing the careers his family legacy offered to him.
More than once, he’d almost walked away from the whole thing. When his father got a promotion and invested significant resources in opening new factories that would choke the environment, he’d almost turned his back on the trust funds and corporate salary altogether. But Lawrence had been able to do so much good with that money, too, and the nonprofit organizations and the people he supported had all come to rely on him.
What would be the point in throwing that away, just so he could feel morally superior?
Once the small gathering was moved to the long formal dining table, Lawrence and Dixon were shoved in the unimportant corner, away from the executives. Dixon leaned in close while Lawrence’s father was making a speech. “Who are those other men?” he whispered.
Lawrence smoothed the cloth napkin over his lap. “That’s Mr. Peterson,” he said, nodding to the older man who scowled next to his father. “And beside him is Mr. Mackey and Mr. Rios. They’re all big deals at Horizon Zed, too. They’ve worked with my father on all his most important projects.”
