by J. Calamy
“I didn’t steal him, cheri,” Jeanne said, tilting her face up. Graves turned away from Nick and gave Jeanne a long, deliberate kiss. His hand covered her whole throat, his thumb dragging along her jawline. He heard Colin’s laugh in his head— Who you showing off for, Major? Graves shook himself. Nick was staring off at the marina, blushing pink to his hairline.
“You look beautiful this morning, darling.” Graves said to Jeanne.
“Stop, I look a mess.”
“A beautiful mess.”
Graves poured himself a cup of coffee, studying Nick closely.
“David tells me you were sacked because of our little interlude,” he said. The boy nodded, looking resigned.
“What good luck for you, Jeanne,” Graves went on. “Do you speak French, Mr. Erickson?”
“Look, there is nothing you can do,” Nick said. His voice was low and angry. He sounded miserable, wouldn’t meet Graves’s eye. “They will put me on a plane—send Marines to get me; it’s just not—” The idea that a low-level, petty bureaucrat like Geoffrey Peterson would be able to send armed men and ship this boy off made Graves livid. His free hand clenched before he could stop it.
“Be damned to that!” Graves exclaimed and sat up. “As if I would let anything like that happen to you.” He pulled out his phone and made a call. “John! It’s Graves,” he said. He held Nick’s eyes and blew through Ambassador Young’s yapping platitudes.
“John, I’m borrowing one of your staff for a few days. For Jeanne. Speaks French. Indeed. He is already here. Yes, he is. Excellent! I’ll have Delphine send the paperwork. No need, I’ll sign for it personally. All right. Enjoy your weekend.”
And that was it. Nick sagged back in disbelief, his blue eyes huge. Jeanne beamed at Graves who toasted Nick with his coffee, inordinately pleased with himself. Was anything better than making his people happy? What’s the point in engaging in government corruption if you can’t use it to your own ends?
Jeanne squeezed Nick’s arm.
“Now we will send the form to Peterson, and there is nothing the old vulture can do about it,” she said with grim satisfaction. “How I detest that man.”
“Thank you,” Nick said. “Thank you so much. I can’t begin to say what this means.”
The hope on his face, the way his back straightened—Graves pushed the heel of his hand into his sternum, rubbing out the sudden twinge.
*
The turnaround in Nick’s life was so fast he could barely understand it. He was driven to his old place in Jeanne’s little Mercedes by her security chief. The head of Jeanne’s personal security was an old Shan soldier who barely reached Nick’s chin. But Sao Jeong Jo—Jojo to everyone but his mother-in-law—was as wide as he was tall and hard as iron. He reminded Nick of a barrel. He was positively delighted at the idea that there may be Marines trying to take Nick away. When Nick brought it up, Jojo barked in laughter and rubbed his hands together.
“I hope so,” he said. “I have been very bored this month.”
Nick wasn’t sure what to make of that, but he felt reassured by Jojo’s confidence in the matter.
As it turned out the only person who came was Morris, who burst in on him while he was packing his few belongings.
“You lucky bastard!” he shouted, grabbing Nick around the shoulders. “I don’t know how you did it, but Peterson is foaming at the damn mouth. Tell me everything! You have to call us every week. I cannot believe this! You lucky dog!”
Nick told Morris about nearly being hit by Lord Graves and about Bishop taking him to Jeanne.
“She was there on his ship. They’re together, I guess. “
“Damn, I ain’t surprised. He is built like a brick shithouse and richer than God. He shook my hand, and I felt like a goddamn baby.”
“Aw, Morris, you got a crush?”
“Would you say no? That much money? That life? I’d be gay as a goddamn parade in ten minutes.”
“Seriously?” Nick laughed.
“Don’t be so close-minded, Erickson!” Morris laughed.
“I’m not—you can be as gay as you want.”
“It ain’t gay to want a guy like that. He isn’t in the usual categories, man. My wife would totally understand.”
“Pfft. If you say so.”
“Sure! Now where are your books? I know you got a ton of books.”
“By the closet. Well, he seemed pretty cozy with Jeanne Kyaw, man, so I don’t think he’d take you up on your sudden gay conversion.”
“Tragic, man. My GS12 ass could use a bonus yacht,” Morris said musingly as he stacked Nick’s books into a box. Nick had stuffed his clothes into his backpack and took a minute to look around.
“I think that’s everything…” he said.
“How is that everything?”
“I don’t have much. I only been here like two months,” Nick said. Two months or not, he was suddenly swept with nostalgia for their little group. These guys brought me out of my shell. They’re the first friends I’ve had in three years.
“Hey, Morris,” Nick said, holding out his hand. “I gotta say thanks, man. You’ve been really good to me.”
Morris rolled his eyes.
“You ain’t dying, asshole. You’re just gonna be across town!” he said and dragged Nick into a brisk hug. “All right then—you have my number; you have Lena’s number; you still have your passport. I made sure that was part of your deal with Ambassador Young and Jeanne Kyaw. You are still a federal employee; you still get your regular pay and time. Fuck Peterson, man. He didn’t drug test you.”
“Yeah but he has pictures,” Nick said, remembering.
“Not anymore,” Morris laughed. “That CIA guy took those photos with him. And all them contractors are on their way to Thailand, anyway. Chasing Red Sky. There was some kind of massacre in Chiang Rai last week, and the place is a warzone now.”
“Shit! Glad I ain’t there.”
“Yeah, post in Bangkok’s up to their ears in CIA. Shit! That your car?” Morris whistled as the sleek little Mercedes pulled up by them.
“Yep.”
“Oh, it’s Jojo! Hey, Jojo!”
“Mister Morris, how are you?” Jojo said and shook Morris’s hand.
“I’m great, Jojo. Okay here is Nick Erickson. He’s my friend so please take care of him.”
“Okay, Mister Morris. No worries.” Jojo put Nick’s stuff into the car and they were off, waving back at Morris on the sidewalk.
He assumed they would go to Jeanne’s, but Jojo took him right back to the yacht again. Bishop met him at the gangplank. There was a younger man at his elbow, with floppy black hair and large dark eyes. Taller than Bishop but skinny, wearing a too big T-shirt and shorts, he had a messenger bag slung over his shoulder.
“Welcome aboard, Nick,” Bishop said. “The boss says until Peterson gets the direct from Young, he may still try and send Marines or whatnot for you. Oww— We ain’t gonna let that happen, eh. You can go to Miss Jeanne’s later in the week. Until then, you get to stay with us.”
“Oh, okay,” Nick said. The skinny guy stuck his hand out.
“Antoine Zidane,” he said. “Call me Tony. I heard all about you. I’m supposed to show you around.” His accent was faintly French; Nick guessed Tony was North African. He couldn’t help but smile back at Tony’s grin.
“You’re in good hands, Nick. Our Tony is our tech guru. He knows this ship in and out. All I track is tea at six, chow at eight,” Bishop said. He ruffled Tony’s hair. “All right then, Tony? Make sure he is where he needs to be when he needs. You in charge of him, eh.” He gave Nick a nod and went down to the pier, calling after Jojo.
“Okay, follow me,” Tony said and trotted down the same walkway Nick had seen before. Instead of going up, they stayed on the same level.
They passed through a living room with a huge TV, a dining room with a long table, and into a hall with a series of doors on either side.
“Okay, this is what you need to know,” To
ny said. “It’s really simple. The boss lives upstairs, and no one goes there unless it’s for ‘a bloody good reason.’” Tony’s impression of Graves was a good one, and Nick snorted, covering his mouth. “But he is gone to Luzon, so don’t worry about that now.”
“This is the main floor. It’s all horsemen. That’s us. Me and David Bishop and Russ and Charlotte Rook. And now I guess you are an honorary horseman.”
“The five horsemen doesn’t have the same ring to it,” Nick said.
“Gym through there; if the door is locked, it means the boss is there, but he keeps strange hours, so it will probably be clear when you want. Downstairs is all the technical stuff like the galley and the ops room and the stewards and their quarters and all that. So you don’t have to worry about down there. You are going to use my room.”
“I’m not putting you out, am I?” Nick asked. Tony shook his head, still leading Nick forward. His neck went dark red, and he gave Nick a sheepish grin over his shoulder.
“No. I’ll share with Bishop,” he mumbled. “Well, okay, here it is.” Tony pushed open a door at the end of the hall. Nick wasn’t sure what he expected, some little box with a porthole he supposed. But the room was the size of the one he had just left, with a big bed, a desk covered in computer parts and a large wardrobe. The sun was shining through a row of windows and the dancing reflection of the water made green patterns on the ceiling.
“Wow, this is nice! You live here?” Nick asked. Tony rolled his eyes.
“This little canoe? God, we are practically standing in each other’s shoes in this place. No, we live—” He cut himself off and shook his head. “Well, never mind,” he said. “Let us just say it’s a bigger place.”
That night, Nick had dinner at the long table—it was the horsemen, Jojo, and a bunch of other security types. Graves was nowhere to be seen. Nick was cautious at first, letting the mix of thick Kiwi accents, Malay, and French wash over him. He ate everything they passed his way. They were drinking gin, mixed with fizzy drinks he didn’t know. Paired with the spicy food, it was perfect, and soon Nick loosened up enough to talk.
The man with the scarred face was Russ, who was apparently married to Charlotte and leaned around her to shake Nick’s hand. He had short black hair and a nose that had been broken more than once. While the scar pulled his mouth into a strange shape, his eyes were warm, brown, and clearly full of good will.
“Sorry about the other day, boy,” he said. “We saw you throw hands on the boss just as we rounded the corner.”
“Hey, the end result is my being here, so it all worked out,” Nick said. “I can’t really believe it, to be honest.”
“The boss is a giant pain in my arse,” Bishop called from across the table. “But the man is fair. I’ll give him that.”
“The freckles don’t hurt though,” Charlotte said dryly, and their end of the table fell apart in laughter. Nick stared at them in bewilderment. Tony had to hide his face in Bishop’s chest, beating on the table. “What? What does that mean?” Nick asked.
“Never you mind,” Bishop said. “Rook is just teasing.” He winked and kissed the top of Tony’s head. Whatever was between them made no sense to Nick. Bishop had mentioned his wife and a couple of sons. But he and Tony were clearly…something. They pushed and shoved like friends but also occasionally kissed. Bishop seemed to keep a possessive hand on Tony always, clearly more relaxed now that he was off duty. Nick was in no position to judge or care. If they want to explain it, I guess they will. Otherwise it ain’t none of my business. It’s kinda sweet, really.
*
That night, Nick lay awake thinking about this twist of fate. His face ached from smiling. Jeanne had called to say she would get him in the morning to help her set up a show.
He couldn’t sleep at first, trying to sort through his feelings. What had even happened? Was it over? He tried to think of how Peterson or anyone from the embassy could get to him. Impossible.
“Graves would eat them alive,” he said to himself. No, he was completely out of reach now. He had no idea what being Jeanne Kyaw’s assistant meant. But he was fairly confident he could do it.
“She’s nice,” he said. “And she’s as much of a big gun as Graves is here.”
Slowly his body relaxed. A fresh start. A real fresh start. He had deployed to Asia hoping for one—but his troubles had just dragged after him. But now? He remembered Graves’s apparent anger. “As if I would let anything like that happen to you.”
Someone did come for me. Someone stood up for me. Long as they don’t find out the truth—I just keep my head down, and I can be safe for a little while.
The ship had a faint living movement, just enough to make it clear he wasn’t on land. He drifted off to sleep between one breath and the next, warm, and safe. He didn’t dream.
Chapter Six
By the end of the first day, Jeanne Kyaw had decided she liked the American boy enough that she would keep him for as long as she could get away with it. He was the ideal companion for her work in Singapore.
For starters, he was handsome. Jeanne considered herself a bit of a connoisseur, as far as pretty faces went. And Nick fit the bill. He had blue eyes and reddish blonde hair that curled on the top of his head though the sides were kept clipped short. The scattering of freckles across his nose was adorable and he had a beautiful, almost pouting mouth. But he was saved from being too pretty by the breadth of his shoulders and the fact that at some point in his life his nose had been broken and so it had a little crook in it.
When he smiled, she had the impression of a much younger man. A younger man who got into his share of trouble. Someone’s little brother, perhaps an only son.
“You’re right! I do have an older sister. And I’m twenty-eight,” he answered when she asked. “I used to have a real baby face though—got carded all the time.”
“What is carded?” Jeanne asked. “Pass me the blue vase, please.”
He handed the vase up to her, holding the ladder in the crook of his elbow. It was so nice to have a spare set of hands!
“In the States you have to be twenty-one to drink, and so people would ask to see my ID,” he said.
“How strange,” she said. “The red one now. No, the other one—with the green splash.”
They were arranging the display of art glass to go with the theme of the room. Nick was an excellent assistant. He had no opinions whatsoever. He simply did what she said and asked questions. His questions were genuine and reflected his curiosity about her work. It was charming.
She gave him a new phone where he kept a list of things to look up on his own time: terms, artists, even art mediums he had no clue about. Nick learned quickly and kept his mouth firmly shut about things he didn’t know enough about. But he was eager to learn. Jeanne encouraged him.
“Add this to your list, cheri!” became her frequent comment.
“So is this going to be a big party?” he asked as she climbed down the ladder.
“Oh, tiny,” Jeanne said. “No more than a hundred people. But I want Julian’s sculptures to sell, so I have invited a very specific list.” She hopped off the last rung and leaned over to Nick’s ear.
“Margo wants them out of the house,” she whispered. Nick snorted.
“So it’s okay that I don’t understand these…objects?” He gestured to the sculptures.
“It certainly is. Now let’s set up the textiles in the other room,” she said. “The people who are coming have the income and the…taste…to buy them.”
“Like Graves?”
“Certainly not,” she laughed. “He thinks they are hideous.”
“So he isn’t coming then,” Nick said, as she stacked bolts of colorful fabric in his arms. Jeanne tried to see his face around the pile.
“Are you interested in Nelson Graves?” she asked. The poor boy blushed to his hairline “Oh don’t misunderstand, cheri. He and I are not together in that sense. You may certainly sleep with him if you wish.”
“What? No! I’m not… I don’t…” he said. “I’m straight. And anyway—this is Singapore—isn’t it illegal for men to be together?”
“Don’t be silly, Nick. Singapore’s laws don’t apply to people like him,” she said. “I only wanted to warn you that if you decide to sleep with Graves you should cancel your other plans. The man is a hedonist. I love him dearly, but I am a week behind on work because of him!”
Nick sputtered another protest, but she heard her name being called and had to let it go. For now. She would be sure to ask again.
*
Nick tried to pull himself together as Jeanne ran to greet her friend. He didn’t know what to make about her description of Graves. It was true he had hoped Graves would return, but it wasn’t for the reason she implied. He probably has a stable of supermodels he dates. Or other rich people. Some countess in a castle somewhere…
Jeanne and her friend hugged and kissed on both cheeks, without touching, so extravagantly it had to be an inside joke. Setting the pile of fabric where she had indicated, Nick stuffed his hands in his pockets, unsure if he was intruding. Jeanne solved his unease by grabbing his arm and drawing him forward.
“Roger, this is Nick Erickson,” Jeanne said. “Nick, this is Roger Yeung, another, what did you call it? Patron. His mother and I are dear friends. He works for Energen but somehow still has excellent taste.”
“Nice to meet you,” Nick said. Roger Yeung was actually the CFO of Energen, but didn’t look it. He was wearing tight jeans that showed off his legs and a cropped military jacket over a deep V-neck T-shirt. His blue-black hair was swept backward. He looked like a TV star. He gave Nick a long, slow, up-and-down look that had Nick staring at his feet.
“What on earth is this, Jeanne?” Roger asked.
“Isn’t he lovely?”
“He is! But he isn’t one of yours. Where did you find him?”
“A friend of mine almost ran him over and then got him fired. So we brought him home,” Jeanne said.
“Well, if we are going to keep him, then we had better fix”—he gestured to Nick’s clothes—“all of that.”