“Is my being here going to be a problem?”
“No, I mean it’s not for you to worry about….”
Mr. Sieber looked fine. His clothes were on, hair delightfully shaggy, whereas Grant felt both rumpled and tousled.
“Maybe he’s here to apologize,” Mr. Sieber said.
Grant tried to smile and came up bitter. “I wouldn’t count on it.”
Bennett came running up the stairs as Grant sat up. Mr. Sieber stepped away from the massage table. He tossed Grant a towel. Grant didn’t understand until Mr. Sieber cleared his throat and made a discreet gesture toward his crotch. His dress slacks weren’t hiding anything. Grant left the towel next to him. Having it on his lap would look even stranger.
Bennett arrived, bursting into the room at top speed. “Dad, I wanted to ask—” Bennett stopped and stared at Mr. Sieber. “Hey. I know you.”
Mr. Sieber glanced at Grant, clearly waiting for an indication as to how he should respond.
“Mr. Sieber is doing some work for me,” Grant said.
“He’s a stripper, Dad.”
“I’m aware.”
Bennett edged between him and Mr. Sieber.
Grant sighed. “What do you want, Bennett?”
“I want to know why he’s here in the first place.”
“I’m going.” Mr. Sieber nodded at Grant. “I’ll see you on Monday unless you tell me otherwise.”
“You’ll be needed,” Grant said. He didn’t add “trust me” or look at Bennett until Mr. Sieber had left the room. Then, he grabbed the towel and wiped the sweat newly sprouted on his face. “Okay, talk.”
“What did he mean, Monday?” Bennett thumbed toward the door.
“Mr. Sieber and I have an arrangement. He’s helping me manage my stress.”
Bennett gave a derisive snort. “Are you having a stripper’s pole installed? Look, Dad, I’m fine with you being bisexual, but that’s creepy. You could at least get a girl in. Hey, I’d even come over for that.”
“Our arrangement is none of your business,” Grant blurted out to stop Bennett from waggling his eyebrows like they were buddies. They sure as fuck were not buddies and… oh shit. Bennett gaped at him.
“Arrangement? Is that stripper—” Bennett again pointed at the door “—are you paying him for sex?”
“No,” Grant said. “He happens to be an excellent masseuse, and that is all.”
“What kind of relationship is this, exactly?”
Grant stared him down. “The kind that doesn’t concern you. Now, are you going to tell me why you’re here?”
Bennett glanced around again, mouth pinched. He sucked on his lips next, before opening his jaw in a wide fake yawn. “I need the Porsche to go to Martha’s Vineyard this weekend.”
“No.”
“Well, I could let Mom know about your arrangement.”
“If you think she wouldn’t want to hire him for herself, you go right ahead.”
Bennett didn’t blink. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Fine. I don’t care what you do. Can I take the Mercedes?”
“What happened to your car?”
“The groom found it.”
“From last night’s exploits?”
Bennett pulled a face. “Yeah.”
Didn’t that figure? He’d paid for that car. “You can take the Ford.”
“Dad. The Ford? Really?”
“It’s that or your great-grandfather’s horse cart.”
“There’s a difference? Come on. It’s insured. Won’t cost you anything to replace it.”
“If I replace that car, it’s going in my garage and you’re looking at the only person who’ll drive it. The Ford, Bennett. Take it or leave it.”
“Fine. I’ll take it.” Bennett started to leave with a pout that looked ridiculous on his handsome face.
“Thanks, Dad,” Grant called after him.
Bennett turned around and mimicked him perfectly. “Thanks, Dad.”
After Bennett left, Grant hit the massage table with his fist. Fuck. Double fuck. Also, fuck. He debated calling Mr. Sieber back, but he was probably gone by now. Instead, he took a seat on one of the weight machines and worked off his anger by pushing against 150 pounds of resistance.
JIM DIDN’T stop looking over his shoulder until he was on the Uptown 1 train. He glanced around the near-empty car and slumped into a pair of “designated for disabled patrons” seats at one end. He stretched his legs out until his feet touched the conductor’s enclosed metal box. Aside from a few people who had their heads leaned back and eyes shut, the other passengers were stuck in their phone screens. Jim pulled his book from his bag and read. He’d expected Bennett to come after him. The thought, now that he was safely in the train, forced him to stifle a laugh. God, the look on Bennett’s face when he’d recognized him! No doubt Jessup was doing his best to explain why a stripper was in his weight room. Nah. Jessup wasn’t the sort to explain himself. He probably tore into Bennett and ripped him a new one. Jim grinned freely, thinking of that.
When he got off the train, he checked his phone. No messages. He took a detour past the club to see if Shannon wanted an escort home, but Imagine, the bouncer, said Shannon wasn’t there.
“I thought he was on tonight,” Jim said.
“Traded with Phoebe,” Imagine shouted over the noise of the door as it opened and closed, letting out the thumping bass from inside the club. “He’s home, as far as I know.”
“Okay,” Jim said. Giving a small wave, he headed that direction.
But Shannon wasn’t in the apartment. Jim checked the bedrooms, the bathrooms, examined the door for tampering. Nothing. No note, either. He looked at his phone again. Nothing. Shit shit shit. His thumb shook as he banged on the speed dial.
It went to voicemail.
“Shannon, call me as soon as you get this.” He almost stopped there, but then added, “You better have a damn good reason for making me panic.” Then, calmer, “Call me, okay? I need to know you’re all right.”
Jim hadn’t been surprised by Shannon trading shifts. If the shift started after dark and Jim wasn’t around to walk with him, Shannon usually made other arrangements. The fact that tonight he’d done so and his other arrangement hadn’t been to stay home was what had Jim freaked out.
Shannon didn’t go out on his own. Not after dark. Not ever. He locked the doors. He slept with a Louisville Slugger under his bed. Jim rushed into Shannon’s bedroom and checked. Still there, next to a candy bar wrapper. Picking the wrapper up, he eyed the closet door.
He wouldn’t.
Jim crinkled the wrapper as his hand clenched.
Not again.
He took a step toward the door.
They had a rule now. The door stayed open. No more fucking surprises.
Another step. It was getting hard to breathe. The wrapper’s inner foil ran slick from his sweaty palms.
No more opening doors and finding friends trying to hang their fucking selves.
He reached the doorknob. “I swear to God, Shannon, if you did this again—” He couldn’t finish the sentence because nothing he could think of would be worse than if it were true. Thinking please more than saying it, he braced himself for what he’d seen before and flung the door open.
The closet was a mess. A beautiful, unorganized, dirty-laundry-mixed-with-empty-boxes mess that left no room for a person of Shannon’s size. Jim pushed through the clothes on hangers until he touched the back wall. Even though he could see Shannon wasn’t there, it didn’t feel real until he had that tactile confirmation.
“Jim?”
He backed out of the closet to see Shannon standing in the bedroom doorway holding an “I Love New York” plastic bag, through which he could make out a twenty-ounce bottle of Coca-Cola. Glancing at the closet again, he pushed the door wide, suddenly feeling foolish.
Shannon watched, and his eyes widened. “Oh. You thought.”
“You weren’t here and you didn’t answer your phone,” Jim
said quietly. He let the candy wrapper drop to the floor, defeating his purpose of picking it up in the first place. But what did he care? Shannon was alive to litter his room however he pleased.
“I’m sorry,” Shannon said. “I didn’t feel it vibrate. I ran down to the corner.”
“Alone?” Jim asked. He pressed his hands against his pants. They wouldn’t stop shaking.
“I wanted to try.” He held up the plastic bag. “See? I did it?” Something in Jim’s expression made his smile fail. Jim wanted to apologize for that, but then Shannon dropped the bag and rushed to him. “I’m so sorry, Jim.”
Jim bent down, but when that wasn’t enough because it was an awkward distance between his head and Shannon’s shoulder, he slid down to his knees, hugged around Shannon’s waist, and completely lost his shit against Shannon’s soft stomach.
He didn’t think he’d ever stand up again. The relief at finding that once again he’d been spared losing Shannon had done him in. Shannon stroked his hair until Jim stopped breathing snot and his sobs calmed into sniffles.
“I’m sorry. I can imagine what—”
“No, you can’t.” Jim got up, suddenly needing space. He didn’t—couldn’t—look Shannon in the face. “You never had to find you.”
“Right,” Shannon said. “But you know, you didn’t have to jump to conclusions—”
“I jumped to the only conclusion I had because the last time I was in this scenario, that is what happened.” He thrust his finger at the door. “The closet stays open. We agreed. It stays fucking open.”
“It stays open,” Shannon said quietly.
Jim wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “So, did you get any candy from the bodega?”
“They’ve got orange Aero bars now. I got you one.” Jim and Shannon had never been to Europe. Shannon was from Indiana, but Jim hadn’t been anywhere. Somehow they’d gotten started eating imported candy bars—actual imported ones, not the ones that started out in other countries but then were manufactured in the US—as an alternative to travel. If you can’t go there, eat like you’re there already! For a moment, he wondered if Miss Wyatt felt the same when she bit into Jessup’s Belgian truffles. Certainly Jim had been transported.
“Cool.” Jim followed Shannon back into the living room, where he dug through the bag and pulled out the promised candy. Jim took it, mumbled, “Thanks,” and headed for his room. At the entrance, he paused and spoke quickly. “If you want to sleep in my room tonight, you can.”
“Okay,” Shannon said.
Jim stepped in and shut the door. He listened to Shannon moving around and then undressed for bed. He’d said, “If you want” but he meant “I need you to.” Shannon should know that. He put the candy down, did his business in the bathroom—toilet and teeth—and climbed into bed in his T-shirt and cut-off sweats. For a while, he stared up at the ceiling.
He didn’t dare close his eyes for fear of the memory. It’s not even the same apartment. Shannon probably thinks you’re an idiot for reacting like you did.
The door creaked open and Shannon came in. He climbed into Jim’s bed and rolled onto his stomach. “Are you angry?”
“Happy, now,” Jim said. He shifted over, too, and put his hand on Shannon’s shoulder. “My new friend thinks I should study art history. That’s crazy, right?”
“Sounds like he’s got your number. Is he a good guy?”
“You know, I think he might be.” He let his eyes fall shut, ready to fight his nightmares with the tenable proof of Shannon’s continued existence beside him and the new feeling of Jessup’s faith in his mind.
Chapter Five
GRANT HADN’T wanted to come into work. The unfinished massage reminded him of how tense he was, and his bed had felt like he was sleeping on stones. But the man in charge had to set an example, so he’d hauled himself up and in. Rory was making no secret of her wish that he hadn’t. He’d snapped at her first thing because she wandered in at 8:02 talking on her phone. She was currently giving him the silent treatment.
By eleven, he hadn’t heard if Bennett was in, and his fingers itched to dial Bennett’s direct supervisor to find out. Deciding he preferred the stress of not knowing over confirmation that Bennett had shirked work again, he forced himself to let it go. He did, however, call Mr. Sieber.
“I apologize for Bennett’s behavior,” Grant said.
“Not your fault,” Mr. Sieber said. “Everything go okay after I left? You don’t need help hiding a body, do you?”
Grant chuckled. “No, Bennett remains hale and hearty. There is one thing, though—” He supposed it wasn’t Mr. Sieber’s concern, but Grant had promised honesty. “I told him you’re my masseuse. I suspect he thinks you’re a bit more than that.”
A long pause and Grant could almost hear Mr. Sieber processing the news. He imagined his long brown lashes blinking slowly.
“What?” Mr. Sieber whispered.
“I told him there was nothing like that going on. I don’t think he believed me.”
“What?” Mr. Sieber said again, and this time he sounded pissed.
Grant prepared to launch into his tried-and-true “You’re a tree in a forest, unable to see the bigger picture” speech that he used when his directors came to him to complain.
Mr. Sieber interrupted before he started. “You told Bennett? He could get me fired for prostitution.”
“I’ll get you rehired,” Grant said.
“Not the point,” Mr. Sieber said. “It won’t matter if you butt in and start throwing your money around. He’s going to tell everyone. He’s probably laughing it up right now. You can’t—You didn’t think he’d be discreet, did you?” His angry tone faded into disbelief in the middle of his rant, and somehow that hit Grant even harder. Pissed-off people he could handle. Disbelief? It was a rarer reaction. He didn’t quite know how to respond. Mr. Sieber kept going, not giving him the chance. “Is it or is it not true that the reason you hired me to be your”—his voice lowered, and Grant realized there were other voices in the background—“whipping boy”—voice back to normal—“is because Bennett is indiscreet?” In the silence that followed, Grant realized the question wasn’t rhetorical. Mr. Sieber expected an answer.
“That’s why I didn’t tell him what you do!”
“You let him think I’m your whore,” Mr. Sieber spat. Grant’s cock stirred. He was tempted to wait longer, to see what Mr. Sieber would do. What a turning of the tables this was. Not that he had considered their arrangement to be of the Dominant-submissive variety. It was a business agreement, pure and simple, but this… new element… might be worth exploring.
“Mr. Colman is here,” Rory interrupted via the intercom.
Grant sighed. He could think about his sudden desire to suck Mr. Sieber’s cock while Mr. Sieber face-fucked him later. Those strong hands that had massaged him so well handling his face, making him take it…. Fuck.
He tapped the intercom to answer Rory. “Five minutes.” He shouldn’t think like this. Mr. Sieber had made his wishes clear. Theirs was a nonsexual arrangement. In fact, Grant had never had sex with any of his “submissive” partners. The act of whipping someone made him feel many things, such as relief and euphoria, but arousal wasn’t one of them. And then came Jim. Mr. Sieber, he hastily corrected his subconscious. The man who didn’t want sex. Grant intended to respect that.
“I’m sorry I said that to Bennett.” His stomach fluttered with dizziness or nausea, or maybe freedom.
“Why?” Mr. Sieber didn’t seem to notice Grant had offered him a piece of his compliance. Better that way. Now, though, Mr. Sieber was waiting for another answer, and the conversation had gone on too long.
“Because I didn’t care what he thought,” Grant said. Well, shit. Not that accommodating after all.
“Why not just tell him that I’m his stand-in? He might be less likely to spread that around!”
Grant’s mental journey had taken him away from Mr. Sieber’s anger, so hearing it spat at him
took him aback. “Because I don’t think of you that way anymore.” The statement seemed to shock both of them into silence. Grant gathered his bearings. “What I mean is, I think that what we do together—the time we spend together—is a hundred times more enjoyable for me than any moment I spend with Bennett. I’m sorry. I know how it sounds to say that. He is my son. But I value you for you.”
“You… value me?” There was that mild chuckle that Grant had come to love. “Mr. Jessup, be honest. Where did you learn to talk like that? I know you weren’t raised on Mister Rogers.”
“Therapy,” Grant admitted.
“Well, I… value you too. But I’m still angry you told Bennett that.”
It had been years since anyone not directly related to Grant had treated him like…. He searched for the word and found it, with a mixture of distaste and amazement. Like a normal person. The silence continued, joined by a heavy breath from Mr. Sieber’s end, as if to indicate he was settled in for the long haul.
“I have someone waiting.”
“Do you still want me to come over on Monday?” Maybe Mr. Sieber was slouching now, doing that graceless sprawl he’d done in the same chair where Mr. Colman would sit in a moment, that I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude that belied his natural caution.
Grant imagined himself on his knees on Monday, pausing the whipping and sucking the head of the long, flaccid, off-limits dick that hung so beautifully between Mr. Sieber’s parted thighs. (An imagined dick, since as yet Mr. Sieber had kept himself covered.) Of course it wouldn’t happen. He would stick to his agreement. No sex. Only discipline-by-proxy. But a dream never hurt anyone.
“Same time,” he said. “Have a good day, Mr. Sieber.”
“Mr. Jessup,” he said, and that was that, but it felt like so much more.
He values me too, Grant thought with a giddy rush.
Mr. Colman entered the room with a stack of pie charts and seated himself in front of Grant’s desk. He launched into his spiel without saying hello, probably afraid Grant would kick him out if he heard the topic. Grant leaned over his desk, took the color copies Mr. Colman gave him, and turned his focus to the subject of advertising residuals.
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