André

by Jayce Ellis

  He plopped into a seat between us, and I sat back down. The chair dipped. Mother—

  “So how’s the week gone?” Brian asked, his normally boisterous voice louder in the closed space. “Shit’s been kicking my ass. I’ve never worked this hard before.”

  “Oh my god, same,” Shelby moaned. “Here, it’s one assignment at a time. There, it’s take all these clients, review files, do Pennington. I feel like I get pummeled every day.”

  Brian laughed. “Yep. I told my girlfriend I might need to work at a bigger firm because it’s less work to do.”

  They chuckled, and I struggled. It sounded like their firms had genuinely thrown them in the deep end, and my ass was wading around in the kiddie pool. I knew André had a boatload of clients—he’d shown me how to access the software he used to maintain them—but when the hell was he handling those cases? I didn’t imagine he worked on Pennington all day, but the status updates I saw showed he spent at least a few hours on it daily. He was working later, Fiona made sure I knew that, but how much so?

  Bigger question: if I was trying to be more than a grunt, relieve some of his burden, like I’d said when this thing started, like I’d said to Fiona, why the hell wasn’t I doing it?

  Because I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off him. Scratch that. Alone, in an office with André? There wasn’t a place I wouldn’t take him. Up against the wall, in the chair, over the desk, in front of the window. That last thought had my dick throbbing, and I shifted in my seat. This motherfucking chair.

  The door swung open again and Harold walked in with two women. One I didn’t recognize. The other was Valerie, who I’d worked on the Abernathy project with. Following behind them...was Supe. Of course he was on the team, and why hadn’t I assumed that before?

  “Thank you guys for being here,” Harold started. Like we’d had a choice. “We’re the committee that’ll be evaluating your presentations. Of course you all know him,” Harold said, waving in Supe’s direction, before introducing Valerie and the other woman, Mary, to the group. Valerie caught my eye and smiled brightly at me.

  Mary waved and leaned forward. “I haven’t had the opportunity to work with any of the interns this summer, so I’m really excited about this assignment. Why don’t you guys tell me a little about yourselves and who you’re working for?”

  Shelby started, then Brian, then me. “Marcus Thompson, MBA candidate, Wharton. My primary interest is international corporate finance, and I’m at Ellison Financial Services.”

  If anything, Supe smiled brighter. “André Ellison. Good guy, good firm. Sorry to see him go.”

  Harold coughed then, cutting off whatever I was going to say in return. He took a swig from the water bottle that seemed permanently affixed to his hip here. “My apologies. Swallowed wrong.” He sipped again and continued. “I wanted you guys to meet the team, but also find out how this first week has been.”

  It was easy to let Brian and Shelby do all the talking, discussing how much more intense their workloads were, how much they felt like part of a team. Their enthusiasm was palpable, and for the first time I could remember, I envied my colleagues.

  “What about you, Marcus?” Valerie asked when things fell silent. I’d really enjoyed working with her, and she was an absolutely outstanding advisor who handled a lot of smaller clients. Supe’d told me she requested me again, and I’d come up with some bullshit excuse about giving other people a chance. I was convinced she was trying to lure me to the dark side.

  “It’s going well,” I said with a little laugh. “Not quite as crazed as these two,” I pointed to Shelby and Brian, “but definitely a bigger, more juggling workload.”

  “Huh. I’m surprised,” Supe broke in.

  I looked at him. “Why’s that?”

  “André was always sh—crap at delegating. Always acted like he was a burden. Never asked for what he really wanted, and was quick to reject it if it was offered.”

  That...sounded exactly like the André I knew. Not that I’d been even a little proactive, not in a way I meant it. But he damn sure hadn’t asked either.

  “Well,” Harold interjected, “it’s good to see growth then.” He chuckled and grabbed his bottle. “We didn’t want to keep you guys. There’s a lot of work to be done in a short time, so enjoy your weekends.” They filed out the room, leaving me, Shelby, and Brian alone.

  “All right then,” Shelby said, standing and slinging her purse on her shoulder. “I’m headed back to the office. So much to do. Good luck, guys.” She was gone with a wave.

  Brian and I followed at a more leisurely pace. “You going back to work too?” I asked him, surprised when he shook his head.

  “In a little while. But my girl works from home on Fridays, and I’m gonna pop in and see her. Maybe relieve some stress.” He winked, waggled his eyebrows, and took off down the street.

  André had told me I didn’t need to return to the office. Had said to have a great weekend, and he’d see me on Monday. He was clearly on some bullshit, and I wasn’t being proactive because I wanted to suck his dick. These other firms were putting in major hours. We...weren’t.

  He needs a keeper.

  Fiona was right. I walked down the street, past his office, to the Metro. I was heading home, but I’d be back. It was time to do better.

  Chapter Eleven

  André

  I needed to decorate. Throw some color up on the walls, put some paintings up, switch out these tired-ass chairs for some real ones, something. Because looking at these boring, bland-as-fuck white walls all night long was working my last nerve. I’d rented this office for three years, and had never really paid it much mind. But now, after working late the past few nights, staying until I was the only light left on not just in the office, but what felt like the building? I was losing my mind. I could see why white walls drove folks mad.

  And the longer I stayed, the more I didn’t want to take work home. Before it had been a nonissue, but now, that six-hundred-square-foot apartment was the closest thing to a sanctuary I had, and the idea of having to bring this tiredness, this grindstone behavior with me? I wasn’t feeling it.

  Someone knocked on the door and I checked my watch. Cleaners were early today, but I got up and answered.

  “Figured I’d still find you here,” Marcus said, holding up a bag.

  “What are you doing here? What’s that?” I asked as a smell of something purely delightful wafted up to me. “Fuck, is that fried chicken?”

  My stomach rumbled. Yeah, I couldn’t even remember if I’d had lunch today or not, so that wasn’t a surprise.

  Marcus chuckled and squeezed his way past me to set it on the desk. He waved at the files stacked across it. “Why don’t you clear that stuff off?”

  I shut the door and did as he asked, then stopped. “Wait. No, really. What are you doing here?”

  I’d said the reason I didn’t want Marcus here late was so he didn’t get caught up in that on-at-all-times mindset. And that was true. But it was also true that having him here completely fucked with my senses, and I had a hard time imagining anything other than the absolutely filthy things I wanted to do with him. Sure, I guess he could work from home, but I got the impression he felt about his sanctuary the way I felt about mine: that no one and nothing should touch them.

  “I had a meeting at Clarymore today.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I know. That’s why I said you could leave after our wrap-up.” Normally we met after lunch, but he wouldn’t have had time. I’d forgone that meeting for an early-morning, end-of-the-week one, not expecting to see him again until Monday. I couldn’t conceive of an afternoon off and choosing to come back to the office. Having to? Yeah, sure. But purely by choice? Nope. Hadn’t seen it.

  Marcus laughed; the sound went straight to my dick. I shifted and his eyes dropped, and I glared at him. He just smiled, and the sight
made me want to fall to my knees.

  I cleared my throat again and tried to focus. “Really, though, why are you here? And bearing gifts? Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”

  “Fact is, I know you been staying late. You’ve got to be here for at least a couple hours after I’m gone, because the stuff we talk about the next day means you reviewed everything I did and then kept working.”

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s the job.” Where was he going with this?

  “No offense, boss,” Marcus emphasized the last word with a wink, “but you’re shit at taking care of yourself. I have to remind you to grab a bite to eat before we meet in the afternoons, and I’ve heard Fiona hound you more than once about breakfast.”

  I felt myself warm. Not just from embarrassment, but from the fact that he’d been paying attention. He actually knew about that particular bad habit. Why did that make me a little squishy? Everything except my dick, the very definition of rock hard.

  “I manage to make myself eat most of the time,” I told him, looking longingly at the bag before licking my lip and glancing at him.

  That smile again. “Of course you do. But I’m sure you haven’t managed to do it yet, so I brought rations. If we’re going to be working late tonight, I know I’m going to need sustenance, and I figured I could share. They taught me that in kindergarten.”

  This man had shown up to my office, after hours, when he had no responsibility to come back, to feed me? My heart and brain shared the same sentiment. Confusion.

  He fished in the bag and pulled out the containers. Fried chicken, collard greens, cornbread, and what looked like a tomato caprese salad. My mouth watered.

  “I’m not going to work after I finish this,” I said. “I’m going to pass out.”

  Marcus chuckled. “I don’t expect you to eat it all. Take some home. I made more than enough.”

  “Wait,” I said, rearing back and looking at him. “You made all this?”

  “Who else was gon’ cook it? My roommate can’t cook for shit, and I’m not blowing my money eating out every night while I’m here.”

  “Marcus.” I waited until he looked up at me. “When do you have time to do all this?”

  He smiled and fished in the bag again for a paper plate. The good kind that held up, not the ones that you had to stack two or three deep to keep from collapsing. “I like to cook.”

  He ignored the rest of my question, then set the plate in front of me and went about making his own. I waited ’til he had and, by some unspoken agreement, I said a quick grace before digging in. I grabbed a chicken wing and bit into it. Flavors burst onto my tongue, from the slight tanginess from the buttermilk, the hint of paprika and onion and garlic powders that coated not only the flour but the chicken itself, the crisp bite of the skin, and it was almost too much.

  I moaned in delight. Across from me, Marcus paused with his fork halfway to his mouth.

  “What?” I mumbled, covering my mouth with my hand.

  He handed me a napkin. “Why is watching you eat sexy as hell?”

  I gulped down the rest of my food. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to—”

  “Don’t apologize. Like I said, that was sexy.”

  “Which makes it inappropriate.”

  “Why? You can’t control my response to something you do. All you did was chew. I’m the one who took it there.” He frowned, his brows creasing together, then shook his head. “So I guess I’m the one who should be saying sorry.”

  “No. No,” I said again, more emphatically this time. “I’m grateful for this. For you caring enough to show up and do this for me. I should have been more cognizant.” As hyper-aware of him as I was, I should’ve known better.

  Marcus took a few bites of the greens, which were devastatingly good, by the way, before he answered. “You keep blaming yourself. Like you have to take on all the world’s problems. I’m here. I can help.”

  Same thing Harold said, but he’d taken it a step further. He told me Marcus didn’t necessarily know what he wanted, and I needed to give him that experience. Five days in and that was an epic fail. I couldn’t get his proclamation—here for one thing only—out my mind, and I’d used it as an excuse to retract and shoulder all the responsibility. But it was my firm. Shouldn’t that be exactly what I did?

  “I don’t want you to be distracted. I know the small cases don’t hold your interest much, and frankly, I get it. It’s probably easier for you to stick with Pennington.”

  “I said some dumb shit that first day. Let me prove I can help you.”

  “I don’t—”

  “André,” Marcus whispered, and the sound ghosted over me. Shit. I had way too vivid a recollection of him saying my name just like that. Had it only been seven days since I had him facedown, spread under me?

  No matter how late I’d stayed at the office, I hadn’t caught up. I’d taken on another new client, ignored Fiona’s glares, and spent more time than I cared to admit video-chatting with my brothers about the party next week instead of working. I was hopelessly behind, planned to be here all weekend, and needed the help.

  “André,” Marcus said again, and my body ripped a shudder from head to toe. “You can use me for more than the Pennington matter.”

  Use me. Those words stuck in my brain, repeating themselves, and at some point, it seemed like Marcus realized the double meaning of what he’d said as well. But he didn’t seem conflicted about it, not the way I was.

  He sat back against the seat and crossed his arms over his stomach. And winked.

  “Use me, boss. For whatever you need.”

  Mother of God. No way was I getting through this unscathed.

  Marcus

  I sat on the couch Saturday evening, watching whatever preseason football game was on, a can of Strongbow in my hands. I had no clue what had gotten into me, coming on to André the way I did. I knew better, had promised myself I’d do better, but me, André, alone, with food? Apparently I couldn’t be trusted.

  Even though we’d stayed until almost ten, then spent all day today working, I hadn’t been able to get my mind off his expression when he’d taken that first bite of chicken. Blissed out, and I imagined how else I could make him look like that. How those thick thighs would feel wrapped around my waist as I pushed into him, the way he’d arch and strain to meet me, that same look on his face.

  I’d actually gone to the office with at least moderately innocent plans, to ensure the man ate and maybe show off my cooking skills a bit, but yeah. I should’ve pulled back. Now I had two more weeks to work with him, and as bad as I’d been last week? There was no way I’d make it another two.

  “All right, that’s it. This shit stops now.”

  I looked up to find Jake standing at the edge of the living room, hands on his hips. He was wearing a tank top and those super thin sweatpants, barefoot, and I was plain old confused. “What the hell are you talking about?” I stood and stretched, pretending not to care what he was going to say.

  “Man, look. I’m used to Sharknado from you and you’re like...like... SpongeBob,” he finished triumphantly. “I’ve honestly considered callin’ your mama.”

  I spun on his ass so fast I almost lost my balance. “I wish like hell you would.”

  He put his hands up. “Dammit, Marc, calm down. I haven’t, and I won’t. But that’s what I’m talking about.”

  I shook my head. Jake was making no sense. None. Zero. “I still don’t understand. Nothing’s changed.”

  He scoffed. “My dude, are you serious? Look, when you came down here you were all focused. You were one hundred and ten percent on that gravy train of I’m doing this internship, I’m getting the highest marks in my class, I’m the right person for this job. Now I can’t keep you out the kitchen, and I’m not mad at that, because I’m down for you cooking on a nightly, but you haven’t even talked about h
ow much you hate this shit. And don’t tell me it’s because you were banging the boss man before you knew who he was. That ain’t it. It’s something more.”

  I stared at my friend. He’d gone on a diatribe I wish I could say was hard to follow, but that’d be a lie. I knew exactly what he was saying, and I’d warred with it myself. It was weird, to be honest. Every time I thought about André, about the sizzling interactions between us we had to keep tightly banked, I had to release some frustration. That meant I practically stayed in the kitchen this week, and Jake was the recipient. That he didn’t have a problem with.

  But there was something undeniably real about the joy that’d spread in my chest watching André take a bite of the food I brought him. Something warm and fuzzy that had nothing to do with the food itself and everything to do with his response. And I didn’t know what to do with that. If I tried to explain it to Jake, he’d go off on one of his tangents about being real, engaging in a calling higher than the basic rise and grind, to something more spiritual, and I honestly didn’t want to hear it. Not when I couldn’t make sense of what it meant for me.

  I looked at him. “Jake, man, I’m just trying to do my job and not ‘bang’ my boss.” I added the air quotes for emphasis.

  Jake threw his head back and laughed, the same one that had gotten André’s attention the first time. So bold, standing there, watching me watch him. I’d never wanted to fuck someone that immediately, never wanted to seek someone out the way I had him. We’d been on our way back to the main area to see if I could find him when Jake’d tripped. I’d noticed how André’d trembled when I touched him, an involuntary response to my touch. And from then on, I’d wanted him, and had no doubt he wanted me.

  That wasn’t the issue. The issue wasn’t even holding off until the presentation was over. We were both old enough and grown enough to do that. Regardless of what folks thought, being gay didn’t mean we were led by our dicks. No, my issue was all the other little funny feelings I had when I was around him. The way I wanted to rub his shoulders when he was tense, the way I’d wanted to come home and make him another fresh batch of fried chicken and take it right back to the office, the way I wanted to put him in a tub and let him soak for a while and let me worry about the business. That was a fucking problem.