by Con Riley
He thrusts the shovel in deep and leaves it to stand while he straightens to stretch. The sun is warm on his back, the scent of dirt and fresh sweat mixing as he pulls off his shirt, tucking it into his back pocket before grasping the shovel again. A worm slithers pinkly away when he turns over a clod, and a bird darts down to steal it. It flies just as quickly away with its wriggling beakful. Jon watches where it lands. Maybe it’s feeding a nest full of hungry fledglings right here in the garden.
His thoughts turn to family for the hundredth time already since leaving the diner bathroom. What the hell had Danny meant about Tyler’s family being right about him? And who the hell goes on record saying their kid would never make it?
Annoyance prickles at him, fueling the next few shovelfuls he digs, but even as he vents frustration by getting good and sweaty, he knots mental threads together.
Peggy told him that Tyler had loved living in the apartment at first, words that Jon had discounted in the face of so much squalor. But one of the rooms had been tidy, like someone decent lived there. Was that all the space Tyler could carve out for himself once Danny came back for a second time and took over?
One thought is impossible to ignore, and Jon turns it over and over like the soil he stands on: Peggy had worried for Tyler’s safety. That reaction, along with the scrapes over Danny’s knuckles, does more than annoy him.
His next stab into the dirt is interrupted by a soft cough.
Tyler stands at the archway that divides the garden from the backyard lawn as if waiting for permission to enter. He’s poised, almost on the balls of his feet, like he could turn away in a split second. He carries two bottles of water and raises them as he says, “Just got done with the rush. I was about to get back to bed, but….” He draws in a breath, as if wary of being welcome, and steps into what’s become Jon’s domain lately. “Thought you might be thirsty.”
That sign of hesitation stings worse than a handful of nettles. He’s the last person Tyler needs to be wary around. “I’m good,” Jon lies and keeps digging. The shovel strikes a stone with a dull clang that jars his elbow. He bites back a curse and rocks the blade a few times until the dirt loosens its hold. His muscles strain before he finally levers out a rock with a grunt, and he rolls it to the side of the bed, his shoulders sore and biceps flexed with effort.
Tyler still standing in the same spot, with his mouth hanging slightly open, prompts Jon into rudeness.
“What?” He knows his reaction’s irrational—it’s Danny that he’s pissed at. Still, he’s not done feeling frustrated. “You don’t need to check up on me or bring me any water. I don’t need looking after.”
Tyler’s expression shutters for the second time that morning. It’s weird to watch him withdraw so completely without moving a muscle. Jon didn’t like seeing it at the diner, but it looks a whole lot worse in this sunny spot that feels so like a sanctuary to him. He tries hard to rein in his bad mood. “Listen, what goes on in your love life is your business.”
“But?”
It’s only a one-word question.
Jon can’t keep from almost yelling.
“But, what the fuck?” He leaves the shovel upright in the dirt beside him and is quieter when he asks, “What the actual fuck was that?” Now that his hands are free, he gestures at throat level. “Your ex had his arm right here when I found you.” He takes a couple of steps closer. The skin at Tyler’s throat is definitely reddened. “Wait. Did he really hurt you?” His next few steps across freshly dug ground are more of a stumble. They leave him standing close enough that his fingers hover only an inch from the base of Tyler’s neck. The bottles of water he carries press against Jon’s bare stomach as he checks if his skin is broken. They’re a cool reminder that he’s naked from the waist up, as are the shaky exhales Tyler lets out when Jon inches even closer. The sun’s been warm on his shoulders for the last hour, and he’s worked up a good sweat, but goose bumps appear without warning when those breaths stutter across his skin.
“I’m fine.” Tyler’s words hardly register while Jon’s busy making his own assessment. His touch is light, tracing where the band of Danny’s watch must’ve scraped until he reaches the spot where Tyler’s pulse skips. The skin there is darker, like it’s already bruising.
“He hurt you.”
“That was more accident than intentional.” The thrum of his pulse skips a beat or two when Jon touches where his skin darkens. “He might be full of crap, but he’s never gotten physical before. Besides, I would’ve stopped him.”
“You don’t think he might try again another time?”
“He won’t now that he thinks I have a boyfriend who’s bigger than him.”
Jon can’t seem to move his hand despite Tyler’s reassurance. “You should stay away from him,” he finally gets out.
“I told you, I don’t have anything he wants anymore. Today just sealed that deal for good.”
Jon raises his gaze to see expressions flicker. Embarrassment chases resignation when Tyler says, “He only showed up to see if I’d pay off the debt that he got into a fight over. That’s why his hands were messed up. I was his last resort to hit up for cash.” His eyelashes lower, and he looks almost peaceful before he makes eye contact with Jon that holds. “I won’t see him again, so you didn’t need to say any of that dating stuff or play gay on my account either.”
“I wasn’t playing.”
“I—? You—?” Tyler trips over single words before linking two together. “Prove it.”
Jon slowly, slowly leans in.
Tyler’s motionless when Jon holds him still by both hips, like he’s too shocked to retreat, but he tilts his head up when Jon presses his lips to the same spot on his throat that he touched already. It’s easy for Jon to linger there for a while, his tongue flicking out between parted lips to taste the skin he worried over, cool annoyance seeping away as something warmer wells up. It’s much harder to stop when Tyler lets out a small sound of encouragement. He does though, eventually, but only after finishing with a definite press of his lips that can’t be mistaken for anything other than a firm kiss.
“That’s….” Tyler touches his neck, fingers pressed exactly where Jon’s lips just touched. “That’s not what I expected.” His huff is another small, surprised sound before his eyes narrow. “Wait a minute. They teaching gay chicken as a tactic at business school these days?”
“Nope.” Jon can’t help smiling at that idea.
“Okay.” It’s slow to come, but a mirroring smile eventually flickers. “That… that’s good to know.” Tyler draws in a slow breath and takes a step back, the tips of his fingers still pressed at the base of his throat. “That’s very good to know, but you have to know something as well.”
“Yeah?” Right then all Jon wants to know is if he can kiss Tyler again.
“Yes. You need to know that I can look after myself just fine. I’m making it. Maybe not compared to you, but it’s all relative. I’m doing fine for someone who didn’t even get his GED until he hit twenty.” And there’s the upward tilt to his chin that’s been missing all morning. “Sure, what I do won’t ever make me as much money as you, but it’s still important. It’s real. I get to be part of people’s lives when it matters, and that has to be worth a whole lot.” He takes another step back. “It’s worth a whole lot to me, anyhow, and I’m not about to get looked down on ever again for doing something I love.”
Tyler walks back to the house, both bottles still tightly clutched to his chest, but it’s not until he turns and gifts him with a small smile that Jon processes what he just said.
It has him reaching up to touch his own lips, certain that kissing Tyler some more isn’t the only thing that he wants now.
No.
He wants that same career conviction.
Chapter 13
JON’S LOST in thought for so long the next day that the cool surface his laptop sits on warms under the skin of his wrists. It doesn’t matter that the weekly progress report on his
screen is due in New York tomorrow or that the cursor blinks impatiently at him. The judgments he needs to make simply won’t come as easily this week. He’s a month in now. It should be getting easier to evaluate what he’s found at Hallquist Holdings rather than harder. This part of the job should be a simple process, but the longer he’s here, the one word he wants to type the most turns out to be bullshit.
At first he’d drilled down through the figures. That had painted a clear picture, just like every lecturer at college had promised. The numbers never lie if you know how to stack them, and it’s plain as day that the company is more than solvent, with opportunities to do even better once the dead wood’s cut out. But his first-hand observations aren’t quite so black or white, and for the very first time, he’s hesitant to commit his findings to paper.
He’d been so certain in those first weeks that the problems here were simple.
How will it look back in New York if he changes his mind midway?
He moves the cursor over one report section labeled Strengths, and then pauses for a moment.
A week after his arrival, he’d typed Stan Hallquist’s name in this box without thinking twice, along with Anthony’s and Eric’s. Dynamic leadership has gotten Stan far already, and he’s surrounded himself with like-minded people. Jon started out thinking that his firm hand at the tiller was a positive factor. Lately, he’s not so certain.
He clicks at the end of his name in the Strengths box and slowly backspaces.
The next section of his report asks for business weaknesses, as Jon perceives them. This time, the cursor hovers over the sole name he already input. He exhales heavily, recalling how easy it was to type Carl, but now he adds another department’s name beneath it. He frowns at a third section labeled Opportunities for a few more minutes before finally coming to a decision.
This will go faster with some coffee.
Thankfully the breakroom is empty, and a couple of bakery boxes sit next to a half-full coffee carafe. At least the Post-it note stuck to the lid of one box is an instruction he can follow without thinking too hard.
Eat me!
Anthony’s penmanship is distinctive. It has flair, Jon decides as he goes ahead and lifts a lid, much like the way he manages his team. The array of baked goods is generous too, like the time Anthony spends keeping his guys motivated and on-task. There’s more than enough here for the whole floor; no one needs to be left out. It’s representative of the man that even Carl’s team will get to start their week with sweetness.
Jon pours himself a cup of coffee and then grabs a napkin. The scent rising from cinnamon rolls is tempting as he leans over the box, but it’s the glossy chocolate covering a donut that lures him.
“Good choice.” Eric speaks from the breakroom doorway, his own voice muffled as he chews. It clears after he swallows. “Knowing Mr. Nelson’s got breakfast covered sure makes rolling out of bed easier every Monday.” He crosses to the counter and peers at what’s left before choosing another. “What’re you doing today?” he asks Jon before taking a huge bite.
“My weekly report.” He passes Eric another napkin, and then he adds, “It’s no big deal,” apart from the fact that it really is, and he can’t seem to get rolling. “It’s for my boss, not yours. I can finish it later.”
Maybe it’s the events of the weekend that have left him so scattered. Or not sleeping a whole lot due to replaying the same key moments that he recalls now. Each time he closes his eyes he sees different versions of Tyler—the sweet tease of his smile while kneeling at Jon’s feet, shattered glass sparkling all around him; the hot stain of embarrassment across his cheeks when his ex gave him shit for how he made his living; his small smile once Jon kissed him.
Each image is compelling, but it’s the final one he can’t seem to shake off. He raises his coffee to his lips and closes his eyes as he sips. Tyler’s right there behind his eyelids, and it makes no sense that all he can think about right now is getting home to pick up from where he left off.
“You….” Eric is hesitant. “You okay there, Mr. Fournier?”
“Jonathan, please.” Jesus, he has to set it aside and get his head back in the game. “And I’m good. I’m just thinking.” He takes another sip of his coffee and then sets down his donut, uneaten. Eric eyes it as Jon asks some questions. “How are your interns doing with my challenge?”
The sight of a rare grimace catches Jon’s attention.
“Ugh.” Not even Eric’s last bite of donut brings back the smile that, until now, he wore almost nonstop. “They haven’t gotten around to searching for a location yet. They’re stuck in the accounting department again.”
“Why?” How much intern work could there be in one department? “I thought they already rotated through there. Aren’t they still supposed to be in Acquisitions right now?”
“Yup.” Eric crosses to the sink and washes sugar from his fingers. He tears a paper towel from a roll with more vigor than strictly necessary. It doesn’t take an MBA to read that body language. Irritation is right there in the way he scrubs at his hands.
Jon pays closer attention. “So what’s the hold up?”
“You tell me.” He balls up the damp towel and aims it at the trashcan. “But I’ll tell you something no one else around here wants to hear. The interns won’t get to see anything else—none of the important processes, let alone get to have some fun with your challenge—unless someone makes a decision. They’re too busy refiling shit that didn’t need to be filed in the first place. Who even files paper copies these days, let alone in triplicate, when they can be scanned instead?” It’s an out-of-character outburst that he tries to cover right away. “I mean, it’s all good, I guess.”
Plainly it isn’t.
Eric tries again. “They got to see the boring side of business as well as the fun stuff, I suppose?”
“Only…?” He waits until Eric fills the silence. It doesn’t take long.
“Only, it’s complete bullshit!”
Jon has the breakroom door closed real quick and lays a hand on Eric’s shoulder. “Tell me,” he commands, like any of this is his business when he’s only here to observe and report in the abstract, not actually manage people. “Tell me,” he repeats when Eric’s mouth forms a tight twist that looks painful.
“It’s so dumb. I didn’t get stuck in one department when I interned here. I spent all my time with Carl, and he showed me the ropes all over. There’s nothing he doesn’t know about this business, but now….” His exhale whistles between gritted teeth. “Now it’s down to me, and I can’t get anyone to listen to how the interns need to see more than one department.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I don’t get it at all. They already spent a week learning how to do things one way in one part of the accounting department. Now they’re having to undo everything they worked on, just because another part of the department doesn’t do things the same way.” He rolls his eyes like he’s joking, only none of that sounds funny. “Some intern experience this is turning out to be for them.” He’s a study of frustration. “They’re the best students in Seattle, and what are they learning here right now?” He answers his own question. “They’re learning that Hallquist Holdings only looks good from the outside.”
It’s not a dissimilar conclusion to the one Jon’s been forming. He opens the door again and lowers his voice. “Show me what you mean.”
They walk the corridor between glass walls. To the left, Anthony’s team is busy, the man himself deep in discussion with them. He catches Jon’s eye as they pass. The smile he flashes is warm, no grudge held for his turned-down offer as far as Jon can make out.
Eric says, “I really want to get the interns back into Acquisitions. With Anthony, I mean.” He stumbles over his next words and stops midway down the hallway outside another office. “It’s not—it’s not that I think the big guy can’t—”
“Hey. Quit it.” Jon grasps him by the back of the neck and shakes him a little. It’s an instinctive gesture, one he almo
st regrets until Eric loses some of his tension. “It’s okay,” Jon insists. “I get it. You like him, and you don’t want to speak badly about him.”
“Yup.” Eric glances sideways through the glass wall and falters. It’s clear why when Jon looks in the same direction. Beyond the glass wall, Carl stands alone in his office, looking out his window, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Mr. Snyder’s the best,” he says, sounding like he believes it down to the soles of his shoes. “He’s just not the best at….”
“What?” Jon asks, even though he’s sure he already knows the answer.
Eric confirms it. “At figuring out where he’s not wanted.”
AFTER WALKING Eric to his base, Jon hurries back to the breakroom, where he loads up a paper plate and fills two cups with coffee. Carl Snyder isn’t looking out his office window when Jon returns. He’s at his desk instead, poring over a report, but he looks up when Jon kicks gently instead of knocking and opens the door so Jon doesn’t have to kick again.
It’s a good sign, he decides, that Carl doesn’t keep him waiting. The man he’d met in the first week would’ve left him standing in the hallway. Now Jon knows better, and the only thing that’s familiar is his frown when he pulls the door wide open.
“Jonathan? You lost or something?”
“No.” Jon slides the plate onto Carl’s desk and sets down the cups. “You said you might help me out if I brought you some food. So….”
He wouldn’t exactly call the slight tilt to Carl’s lips a smile, but his expression definitely lightens, even if he grumbles. “Thought it was brunch you promised me if I took a look at your landlady’s stairway.”
“That’s right,” Jon admits. “I did.” He picks up a steaming cup and holds it out in offering. “But this favor’s closer to home.”
Carl takes the cup and holds it close to his nose, inhaling a lungful in a deep sniff. His voice is gravelly as he asks, “This decaf?” and his grumble persists when Jon shakes his head. “Figures.” He sighs and sets the cup down before motioning toward a seat. Jon sits, and Carl takes the one adjacent instead of returning to the far side of his desk. It’s another signal that maybe he doesn’t see Jon as quite the threat that he had. It’s a subtle shift of attitude reminding Jon of the report he still has to complete—along with strengths and weaknesses, threats were another aspect of the current set-up requiring evaluation. He speaks before he can second-guess his gut instinct.