Or maybe I’m just letting the line blur because I need this job. Maybe, after all, I’m just like them and I have a price.
Christ, I hope not.
Perhaps it’s a small distinction, but I have my limits.
The whole Dom/submissive thing is not something I get. I didn’t even know there was a distinction between that and S&M until I started working for Anderson. Live and learn.
Not that we’ve spoken about it. I don’t go up to my boss and say, “Hi, sir! How’s it hanging? So about that male prostitute you’re planning on banging: all the whips and chains, how’s that work?”
No, I listen, I pay attention, and I do my homework.
It turns out that Anderson has been having these relationships ever since he moved out of his parents’ house—maybe even before that, for all I know. He keeps files in a locked drawer in his desk of everyone who goes to the Farm. I’ve seen them.
Thank fuck he doesn’t have a thing for Rachel. Beating the shit out of your boss for looking too hard at your woman is not a great career move. Or the woman who might be your woman. My woman.
I’ve worked for Anderson for three months and I’ve gotten nowhere with Rachel. Probably because I’m reluctant to push it—we work together, after all. She’s friendly, we talk, we laugh together … and that’s it. I’ve checked my contract with Anderson again and there’s nothing in there about relations with other employees, but I’m still not sure that he wouldn’t fire my ass if something happened between me and Rachel. I don’t care about that so much, but if I got Rachel fired, well, I’d feel fucking awful.
I don’t know what her financial situation is except that she’s a widow and stays with her sister during the weekends, so I’m guessing she doesn’t own a house anywhere. In all probability, she needs this job as much as I do.
All reasons that I haven’t asked her out.
But a few days later, I get the chance to find out more about the intriguing Mrs. Smith.
And it starts at lunchtime. The boss doesn’t need me, so for once I decide to get out of the office and into what passes for fresh air in Manhattan. I’m thinking about heading to a nearby sports bar, not because I’ll be drinking on the job, but just to have a burger and fries, watch a game and enjoy what passes for normal.
As I step into the elevator, the boss’s P.A., Ryan, joins me.
“Wow, we’re both getting a lunchbreak on the same day—the fates have aligned!” and he grins. “Don’t worry, big guy, I’m not hitting on you. I’ve already got a hot date waiting for me.”
I shrug.
“I’m saving myself for the right billionaire.”
His jaw drops and then he starts laughing.
“Holy shit, I almost believed you! Although you definitely don’t appear on my gaydar. So you and Anderson, huh? All those long meetings where you guard his body. I should have guessed.”
“Yup, it’s torture,” I admit, although for different reasons than the one he’s implying.
He’s side-eyeing me, like there’s more he wants to say. I don’t think we’ve ever had this much alone time together before, and I’m usually not such a chatty guy.
“You know, I always figured you were anti-gay, being ex-military and all. Plus, you’ve got that whole strong, silent, man-in-black thing going on.”
“I am,” I deadpan. “I hate everyone equally. Especially gays.”
He grins.
“Well, I’m meeting my boyfriend for lunch. Want to join us?”
“Only if I can glare at you both.”
“Sounds fun.”
As we weave through the lunchtime crowds, he catches me up on some minor changes to Anderson’s schedule before the conversation turns personal again.
“So you live with Anderson?”
“I have a room in the staff wing,” next to his dungeon.
“What’s Rachel Smith like? I’ve talked to her a bunch of times but I’ve never met her. She seems really nice, friendly, but knows what she’s doing. She’s a widow, right?”
I glance at him, wondering why he’s asking. He shrugs.
“Just curious. I read it in her personnel file. None of my business. I just find it curious that at work Anderson surrounds himself with gay people, well, me and Pam, present company excluded, but in his home life, two screaming heteros.”
“Screaming hetero?”
“Well, you are. Rachel Smith sounds like a complete sweetheart. Even when Ike in transportation asked her on a date—she blew him off really nicely, at least that’s what the rest of the guys in transportation said. Rachel never gossips, as you know.”
What?! I’ll kill the son of a bitch!
“But never mind, you can’t help it,” Ryan smiles. “I guess the boss is … undecided. When I first met him, I assumed that he was gay, but I don’t think so. If anything, I’d say he’s asexual. I’ve never seen him show the slightest interest in anyone, male, female, bi or trans.”
Ryan obviously knows nothing about the Farm, but that doesn’t mean I think he’s wrong either, especially about the boss being undecided. Most people who know what I know would probably define the boss as bi, but it’s more like he doesn’t care. Sex is a physical release, emotionless, cold. Almost as if it gives him no pleasure, like a duty that has to be performed. And then he beats the shit out of himself for punishment. I still haven’t figured that part out. If he feels guilty for having sex, why not just stop? It’s like some sort of compulsion with him.
“By the way, Tessa asked me if you were seeing anyone?”
My eyes slide to his, surprised as all hell. I’ve hardly ever spoken to her. Then again, she always looks like she’s on the verge of tears. Besides, I thought she had a thing for Anderson?
“Not interested? Nothing? No?”
I shake my head.
“So you are seeing someone?”
He holds up his hands when he sees my annoyed expression.
“Don’t shoot me! I was just asking on behalf of Tessa—and several interested parties on the twenty-ninth and thirtieth floors—all the ones who’ve given up on Mr. Anderson.”
He sighs at my silence.
“You’re no fun. Fine, I’ll just tell them it’s complicated.”
We arrive at the small coffee shop and I’m introduced to Gene, Ryan’s boyfriend, who’s a banker and a Mets fan, but I don’t hold that against him, and we shoot the shit for a while.
Watching them reminds me that two people can have a relationship that doesn’t involve yelling at each other. It’s normal. I can’t believe how much I’m craving a slice of that.
FOR ONCE, THE boss doesn’t have a meeting or a fundraiser, has already sweated blood with Basqiat, and is in his home office after dinner, working on all those multimillion dollar deals.
I’ve been up since 4.45AM because Anderson had a breakfast meeting and wanted to get a run in first. Right now, I’m happy to veg out on the sofa with a Lite beer in one hand and the remote control in the other.
I’m pleased when Rachel comes to join me, plopping down into an easy chair, a glass of white wine beside her.
She kicks off her shoes and curls her legs under her, contented like a cat as she lets out a long sigh.
“I’d hate to have a schedule like Mr. Anderson’s,” she says. “Being out most nights. I’m much more of a homebody.”
“Depends on who you’re home with,” I say, thinking back to the uneasy truces that followed fights with Carla.
“Very true,” she smiles. “Brian used to say, ‘there’s no place like home—but it depends on the home’.”
“Brian?”
She studies her glass of wine.
“My late husband.”
“You miss him.”
It’s a statement, not a question.
“I do.”
Her reply is simple but heartfelt. And suddenly I’m in the crazy position of being jealous of a dead guy.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I’m not usually t
his touchy-feely, but Rachel has me behaving in all sorts of ways that aren’t normal for me.
She sighs again.
“He was a good man. You remind me of him.”
Her comment makes me uncomfortable, so I go with humor, my fallback position.
“Every woman’s dream?”
“Don’t get all modest on me, Justin,” she laughs. “No, he was a Fire Fighter and he had the same ‘I’m in command’ air about him, like nothing bad would ever happen when he was around.”
Her lips turn down and her eyes gloss with tears.
I’m in unfamiliar territory and wondering whether to comfort her or to make a strategic retreat. Comforting crying women is not really within my skillset, but I’ll give it a go…
“He sounds like a great guy. He must have been smart, too, if he married you.”
She gives an unhappy hiccupping laugh.
“He used to say marrying me was the only smart thing he’d ever done.”
We sit in silence for several minutes before she starts speaking again.
“He died trying to save a meth addict in a house fire. It was so stupid. The whole building was blazing and he was trying to get everyone out, but the house collapsed. Brian’s men couldn’t get to him in time. I hate that. I hate that he died alone.”
“He wasn’t alone, Rachel. I promise you that.”
She gazes at me, her eyes wide.
“What do you mean?”
“Because I know that if I’d been in that situation, my last thoughts would have been of … of someone I loved. And I wouldn’t have been alone.”
She smiles through her tears.
“Thank you, Justin.”
ON A FRIDAY evening in early summer, I’m driving Anderson to an evening appointment at his office before we head to the Farm: two nights of fucking, whipping, and a load of dark kink.
Do I approve? I don’t need to. But I have to say it sits awkwardly with me because I know what he wants to do with these men—or rather to these men—women, as well. If he just wanted to fuck them, I could understand that. After all, it’s consensual. But I know he wants more than that. I’ve seen the shit he’s got in his so-called meditation room: belts, canes, whips, chains, and stuff I don’t even want to think about, plus a similar selection at the Farm. Why would a man want to hurt someone else like that? Why does Anderson want to hurt himself?
If he thinks sex is all evil and against whatever religious code he follows—which still remains to be seen—then why continue to do it? Why continue to punish himself?
He’s a fucking control freak at work, but thanks to him a lot of people get to pay their mortgages every month. To people who work hard and deliver, he’s generous to a fault. And I know he’s sincere about his project at UVM. Plus, he’s paying for Lilly to go to a great school next September; even her mother has had to admit it’s shit hot.
The truth is, Anderson’s a fuckup, but at least he knows it. I’ve noticed that he’s cool and distant with everyone. The exception to that rule is Landon. Whatever their history is, I’d bet my last dollar that he’s encouraged a dark part of the fucked-upness.
When the Senator arrives without his wife, he looks nervous and older than his photograph.
I take him to the boss’s office and wait outside. I can’t help wondering what sort of questions Anderson is going to ask. Some weird sort of fucking job description where the boss asks employees if they take it up the ass. Most bosses don’t bother to ask. Although I guess that the Senator is more of a fuck buddy. Maybe Anderson will donate to the next campaign.
Forty minutes later, the Senator walks out looking pleased with himself, so I guess it’s a done deal. Maybe he’ll bring his wife tomorrow. Fuck knows.
Although it’s only just occurred to me that maybe I’ve gotten it wrong—maybe the boss just likes to be beaten? Could be it’s mutual.
A shiver runs through me. That is seriously fucked up.
But reading up on the internet tells me some dudes like that shit. I don’t get it at all. There are even places, nightclubs in New York, where men and women pay people to beat them and fuck them. Maybe I’m in the wrong job. I suspect the boss used to go to places like that, but it would be way too risky for the mega famous, mega control freak that he is now. I guess that’s one crisis averted. But it seems to me that his special interests are on borrowed time. One day the media will find out.
I’m relieved when everything at the Farm runs smoothly. Van Sant avoids me all weekend; I avoid the Senator’s wife, who prefers dames anyway. After a weekend of looking the other way, I’m relieved to go home.
Anderson heads to his study when we get back to Wolf Point, and I head to the staff kitchen for my fix of Rachel.
She smiles when she sees me, and it’s like suddenly seeing the blazing sun on a gray, Manhattan morning. I can’t help grinning back.
“Hello, Justin. How was your weekend?”
“Boring. Yours?”
She laughs.
“Really? I find that hard to believe. Well, perhaps I can cheer you up with linguini alla puttanesca.”
“Sounds good, Rachel. But everything you cook is damn fine.”
She passes me a glass and a bottle of beer. “I don’t think flattery is in your job description.”
I sigh, thinking of some of the weird shit that is in my job description.
“What’s wrong?”
I wish I could talk it over with Rachel, but I can’t.
“Work stuff.”
“Oh.”
Her face falls.
“Landon,” I say, and that’s all the explanation she needs.
I can tell she feels the same way about it that I do. Then she sighs.
“I don’t understand it. Mr. Anderson has such a good heart. I just don’t understand where this … this darkness comes from, why he’s friends with that awful man.”
I think I’ve got a better handle on the situation than Rachel, but it doesn’t mean I really understand it.
“Rachel, can I ask you something?”
She looks up at me expectantly, her wide blue eyes curious.
“Of course, anything. You know that.”
“Well, I was wondering, what did the boss say to you about his, um, meditation room when he interviewed you?”
For the briefest of moments, I think I see disappointment flicker across her face, but it’s gone too fast for me to be sure.
“Well, when I came for the job, I signed my NDA, of course…” Of course. “And we had an ordinary sort of interview. He asked me about other places that I’d worked, why I left my last job and so on. I thought he was a pleasant young man, very serious, a little earnest. He explained that he lived here alone, but he was planning on hiring additional security for his personal protection … but that was all. He had no family living with him: no wife or children. I knew the job required me to live in during the week and that he might need me occasionally at weekends, to be agreed in advance. I’d run the house: planning the menus, grocery shopping, cooking, organize the cleaning crew and any household maintenance. You know, the usual.”
She pauses.
“I admit that I had reservations about working for such a young man. I wasn’t sure if he would … try anything. Especially as I would be living alone with him for several months to begin with. But then he said that he had a vacation home where he went on the weekends. I was relieved because I thought he meant he had a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. I wasn’t sure…”
She sighs.
“Oh dear, then he said, and I’ll never forget this, ‘My weekend guests don’t mix with either my family or my business acquaintances.’ I was surprised but not as shocked as you might think: one sees a lot of … eccentricities as a housekeeper—as I’m sure you have.”
I nod. Too fucking true.
“Then Mr. Anderson suggested that I look around so I knew what I was getting myself into. Those were his words. I was delighted: the place was modern, light and airy; both the staff
kitchen and Mr. Anderson’s kitchen were well equipped and just a dream to work in. And then … and then I walked into his meditation room.”
She shakes her head in disbelief at the memory.
“I felt like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. My immediate reaction was that I couldn’t possibly work for him. And so I went back to his study and told him that I couldn’t take the job. He didn’t look surprised, he just asked if he could explain the situation in more detail. I nearly walked out but … I suppose I was curious as to what he could possibly say. He told me that the meditation room was solely for his use. He also assured me that our relationship would be purely professional. But I had my doubts. I said I’d have to think about it, but really I had no intention of taking the job. We shook hands and I left.”
“What made you change your mind?”
And now I’m so fucking curious.
“I met his mother. Mrs. Anderson happened to arrive just as I was leaving. He was so sweet with her. And she was so, well, loving and normal. Mr. Anderson introduced us, and she smiled and said it would reassure her to know that someone was looking after her boy. Mr. Anderson laughed and rolled his eyes at her. I went home and thought long and hard. In the end, I decided I’d give it a month’s trial. And … well, here I am.”
She smiles. And I’m stunned: she is one brave woman.
“But I’m curious. What were your first impressions?”
She’s put me on the spot. I go for honesty.
“I thought he was a twisted son of a bitch.”
Rachel gasps then laughs.
“Well, quite!”
“And if there was anything illegal or if he was into kids or … goats or anything, I was out of here.”
I think I’ve shocked her, but then she starts giggling, and I can’t help laughing, too.
“Goats?” she says, her eyes dancing with humor.
“Yeah!” I say, laughing, “No goats!”
“No goats!” she agrees.
Suddenly, I sense that we’re not alone and look up. Anderson is standing at the door watching us. I wonder how much he’s heard, but he doesn’t seem annoyed.
“Oh! Good evening, Mr. Anderson,” says Rachel. “I’m afraid Mr. Trainer isn’t too keen on my recipe for curried goat!”
Jane Harvey-Berrick Guarding the Billionaire Page 12