Connor

by Daryl Banner

  Brett wasn’t kidding. The pace in this city is fast and relentless. I’m certain if I’m not careful, Alan and I might be married with four children in a few more hours, give or take.

  I never thought I could feel so fucking happy.

  I’m elated. I’m the king. I’m invincible.

  Just then, I catch sight of a trio of guys coming into Aubergines. I straighten my sparkling bowtie, give a moment’s fuss to my hair and the adorable thing it decided to do tonight, then start toward the new customers like I would everyone who enters through the doors.

  Until I recognize one of their faces.

  It’s Jay.

  I throw myself behind a pillar at once, aghast.

  What the fuck is he doing here??

  I sneak a peek, horrified. Jay is with two guys I don’t know. Friends from the other side of town, I’ll presume. The way he struts in with a twisted scowl on his face, it’s clear he thinks little of what he sees. With his eyes on the stage of three dancers in (half of their remaining) football uniforms, he comes near enough to the pillar I’m hiding behind for me to hear: “This place is even dumpier and worse than the last time I saw it.”

  “Ugh, I know,” agrees one of his friends. “Why did we come here, remind me?”

  “The dancers are hotter,” says the other friend, picking at his nails. “Aubergines’ dancers have the best aubergines in their pants.”

  The three of them laugh at that. “Don’t touch anything,” Jay instructs them. “I’m sure everything here is covered in Herpes.” With that, he continues to lead his friends to a table near the stage.

  I’m hyperventilating.

  I can’t let Jay see me working here.

  Not like this, and not after today.

  There is another shot boy working, since it’s busy. With any luck, I can get him to handle that table—and maybe the surrounding ones, too.

  “How’re my horny boys doing tonight??” calls out the DJ from the loudspeaker at the conclusion of the big football striptease. The room erupts into shouts and cheers. “Well get your asses and your dollar bills ready, because you’re gonna need them. Gentlemen and not-so-gentle men … give a salute to your military man of the hour. It’s Zak Attack!”

  With that, Zak slowly emerges from backstage. He’s in full military gear, head to toe, including combat boots, camouflage pants, modular tactical vest, patrol cap, gloves, and ID tags, which catch a glint off the bright stage lights as they bounce on his muscular chest with his every sharp, calculated dance move. I’m pulled from my own panic for half a second as he starts his routine, being as slow and sexy as a scorpion preparing to strike, and like a scorpion, his dance moves are fast and piercing. He’s being very Magic Mike up there, and despite the sexual nature of his work, I can’t help but marvel at his actual dance talent. It’s no wonder he draws a crowd.

  “Con!” snaps the bartender.

  I jump in place, then hurry to the bar. “Sorry, I was just—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Everyone is mesmerized by Zak.”

  “No. It’s something else. There’s—”

  “Give me your sob story on your break, okay? For now, hawk all of these shots to the front row. The drunker we get them, more tips we get for our dancers—and you. Oh, focus especially on those new guys who came in,” he adds with a nod their way. “They look like they’ve got fat wallets.”

  “That’s exactly it. I … I can’t. Not to them. Can’t you get the other—?”

  “For fuck’s sake. You’ve barely been here for … how long? And already you’re making demands?” After a huff, he suddenly changes his tone. “Wait a sec. Sorry, hold up. Is this some kind of abusive ex-boyfriend or bashing sort of thing? Did those guys do you wrong? Do we need to kick them out?”

  I avert my eyes. Lying would certainly make this a lot easier, but … “No,” I finally concede.

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “I just …” I clench my eyes shut. “It’s just that I work with one of them. Kinda. And if he saw me here, I’d …” Can I even get the words out?

  The bartender sighs. “Alright, alright, fine. I’ll get Yannis to do it. Look, I’ve got shots here ready for the group with the lady, other side of the stage, hidden from view. Can you run this at least?”

  The lighting in here is dim. Maybe I can make this work. Jay doesn’t have to put a halt to me doing my paying job—the one thing that’s enabling me to stay living here. “Okay. Thanks.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” grunts the bartender for a you’re-welcome before tending to a customer elsewhere.

  I hoist the tray onto a shoulder like a shield, then make my way stealthily to the table on the other side of the stage where two men and their lady friend hoot and cheer on Zak as he dances. Every step of the way, I sneak glances across the dim space, and each time, I see Jay’s beady eyes trained on Zak and his moves, mercifully unaware of me. Let’s keep it that way.

  His face twitches with annoyance, and he looks off into the crowd for no reason at all.

  I lift the tray an inch off my shoulder, shielding my face perfectly from view.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  “Hey, watch it, boy!” shouts a guy whose head I almost hit with the raised tray.

  “Sorry!” I shout over the thumping club music, then take a step back.

  That fateful step back begets a rather disastrous sequence of mishaps, as it happens to be on a foot.

  The owner of said foot shouts out.

  I spin around faster than my feet can manage.

  The tray twists too fast.

  Balance is lost.

  An overcompensating shift of my hands causes a tilt I can’t quickly correct.

  With one desperate stumble forward, the tray of delicately poured shots goes airborne toward the stage—as do I, flying forward to stop it.

  And I would have, if it weren’t for my booted foot being caught by the leg of a spiteful chair.

  And thusly: crash.

  When I at last open my eyes, I’m halfway on the stage. Zak is standing over me in a puddle of alcohol, which has drenched his whole costume. His dancing is stopped, despite the music that keeps thumping onward indifferently.

  And with a twist of my mystified eyes, I find Jay staring straight at me, a look of astonishment painted over his face which, as slowly as a scorpion tail raising for a strike, changes to an amused gasp of delightful glee.

  I am so fucking fucked.

  [ THE VERY BAD IDEA ]

  Today might be the worst day of Connor’s life.

  And that is immediately following the worst night of Connor’s life, when he both managed to soil Zak’s whole military garb, as well as out himself to his arch nemesis as nothing more than a gayborhood shot boy at a strip club.

  15

  It is the longest elevator ride up I’ve ever taken.

  Wales Weekly is the last place I want to be. If I could, I would have called in sick and stayed home with Brett, curled up in a corner hugging my knees to my chest and whimpering like a baby.

  Yet here I am.

  Maybe Jay has made the rounds at the office already. Maybe everyone knows. Maybe he took pictures of my stage-front demise, blew them up, and posted them all over the top floor.

  There is a hole where my stomach should be.

  I’m so nervous, I’m not even shaking. I’m just a numb walking carcass with a heartbeat.

  When I reach the workroom, I find half of the interns here already—Jay included—and as I silently join them at the table, I find no strange looks or weird behavior. In fact, everything is unremarkably normal. Even Jay, who hardly noticed my entrance at all, simply swipes through a tablet of articles in front of him, focused on the reading of them.

  It suddenly occurs to me that Jay might not want anyone here to know he was at Aubergines, either. Maybe we both discovered a secret last night.

  The day begins like any other day. Brenda at last comes in, always in a touchy mood, and we are usually given individual assignme
nts, or one big group task. She decides today, however, to split us in half—two teams of five. Within our teams, we’re made to delegate tasks to one another to finish finalized versions of our articles.

  Of course, I’m on the team with Jay and three other interns I have no connection with, including Jay’s number one fan Dave. For a blissful handful of minutes, we appear to work together just fine.

  Until Jay’s coffee runs out. “What a pity,” he sighs with mock lament. “If only we had a coffee boy … you know, like I mentioned once before. Hey!” His eyes flash with the brilliance of an idea, and he turns his fake merry gaze on me. “Perhaps we can delegate a little task to Connor here. How does that sound?”

  I stare at him hard and with knowing darkness.

  Dave, looking between us, nods suddenly. “I could go for some coffee, too.”

  “Can you?” asks Jay, delighted. “Coffee boy Connor … That has a ring to it, doesn’t it? What do you think?” he asks the others. “Shall we send Connor here on a coffee run?”

  The other two interns look at each other, then at me. I’m sucking on my tongue so hard, I might suck it right off.

  “Connor, why don’t you be a go-getter for us?” suggests Jay, like he’s the encouraging mentor for a roomful of aspiring, starry-eyed children. “We will continue to do the big-boy work here, don’t you worry one bit about it. Let’s put in our orders, shall we? I’d like a shot of espresso in mine, personally.”

  My lips curl with one restrained snarl.

  His eyes show the first flicker of darkness, for a split second betraying his false sweetness. “You do know what a shot is, right? … A shot of espresso …?”

  He’s toying with me. Like a cat’s toy, holding my own secret over my head.

  Is this blackmail? I don’t like a bit of the look I see stretched over his self-important face. Far too much is on the line for me, and in this disquieting moment, I feel like Jay is capable of far more than merely humiliating me in front of my peers.

  The taunting and the degrading requests persist throughout the day. I’m made to fetch snacks for all the interns from the vending machines, which are a long trek downstairs. I’m politely asked to type—and retype—and retype Jay’s article as he keeps changing his mind on the wording of the whole thing. I’m certain it has become apparent ages ago to the other interns—Dave included—that Jay is just having his fun at my expense. None of them come to my rescue or defense, which speaks volumes.

  I break away for the bathroom, and it’s in the silence of that cold, tiled room that I stare in the mirror, anguished, furious, and wonder what the fuck all of this is for. Is this worth it? Is this what I have to look forward to, if I’m to pursue a career at the top of a publication I’ve admired for years?

  Is this that dark underbelly Lex spoke of?

  Is Jay the teeth Alan warned me of?

  And what’s the cost?

  The bathroom door swings open, and in struts Jay, ever so proud of himself. He leans against the door, shutting it, then folds his arms as he stares at me, smirking pompously.

  I face him. “What do you want from me, Jay? Just name it.”

  He snorts. “You? What could a rat intern like you possibly have that I want? I cannot believe I actually thought you were from Stanford.”

  “You were at that bar last night, too,” I remind him. “What would the others think if they—?”

  “If they don’t realize I’m gay by now,” says Jay with a roll of his eyes, “then they’re blinder than the editors who looked over my article. You know, the article I wrote in which you were so generous to point out my one typo.”

  I sigh and come up to him. “Is that what this is? Revenge? Are you just pissed because I called you out? The article was great, Jay,” I tell him. “I’m sorry I pointed out the typo in front of everyone. I could have maybe done it in private. Maybe I was immature. Maybe I … I retaliated, too.”

  “I knew you didn’t belong here.” Jay shakes his head as he looks me over. “It was written all over your face. From your big blank eyes to your pouty porn-star lips. I knew it … ever since I saw you stumble in late on that meeting our very first day.”

  Desperation floods me. I’m in his face at once, pleading. “Please, Jay. No one can know I work at that club. You’re right. I’m not like you guys. I’m not financially privileged. I have to work a second job to afford living here at all. This opportunity doesn’t come to people like me.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” he agrees scornfully. After a labored sigh, he says, “And you can quit sweating. If they find out, it won’t be from my lips.”

  I stare at him, surprised. “Y-You won’t tell …?”

  “I won’t need to. In time, you’ll out yourself for the lowlife, bar-boy slut you really are.” He lets out a contemptuous snort of laughter, turns to open the door, then stops. “Whose dick did you suck to get this internship, by the way? Hmm, never mind, I lost interest.” And with that, Jay sees himself out.

  16

  I’m at my absolute worst.

  It’s the end of another week at Wales Weekly.

  I am officially the coffee boy joke on the upper levels. Even Bree noticed, but couldn’t bring herself to do anything about it. Jay’s alleged clout, it seems, intimidates even the boldest of us.

  Now I get a long weekend’s reprieve from my internship. Yet even that gift, I can’t bring myself to unwrap. I’m just standing at the foot of five flights of stairs, emotionally exhausted, numb, and devoid of my usual cheer.

  I never thought I’d let someone like him break me so easily. I tell myself so often that there is good in everyone, and if I’m ever proven wrong, I’ll just keep looking for the good no matter what. I can’t seem to accept that someone can be so cruel.

  Even still, I’m searching for a reason Jay is the way he is. I’m searching for his redeeming quality. I’m desperate to know it.

  And I can’t even feel noble about that.

  I just feel pathetic.

  I dodged a text from Alan earlier asking if I’m alright. He only knows I’ve been stressed, but not the specific Jay-shaped reason. I kinda just want to leave him in the dark awhile longer; I don’t want any bit of my frustration with my work to soil the beautiful thing happening between us.

  Alan has quickly become the only thing that makes me truly forget all the bad.

  Someone shoves into the building behind me. His drunk eyes find mine. “Uh … 501 …?”

  I blink. “Up the stairs, fifth floor. That’s—”

  He heads on without hearing the rest of my sentence, hurrying up the stairs. I stare after him, frowning. “Hey!” I call at him, unheard. “That’s—”

  That’s where I live, I’ve tried to say twice now.

  It’s then that I hear the thumping noise of club music coming from upstairs.

  What the hell is going on?

  When I make it to the fifth floor landing, I find the door to our apartment ajar, and inside, there is an explosion of dance music, flashing lights, chatter and beer-bottle-clinking, and laughter.

  I stand there on the landing, staring into my apartment, horrified.

  Another presence passes behind me, moving to the door across the hall.

  It’s then that I turn and find a guy in a simple grayish hoodie and jeans letting himself into 502. It’s the first time I’ve seen him.

  Outside Aubergines, that is. “Zak?”

  He gets his door open, then peers over at me.

  In a flash, I suddenly realize the last (and quite mortifying) interaction I had with him was spilling alcohol all over his military gear in the middle of his routine. “I’m sorry,” I blurt out.

  Zak shrugs, blank-faced. “I’m used to it. Brett’s not himself unless he throws a house party on the weekends. Surprised he hasn’t thrown one sooner. Maybe didn’t want to scare you off so quickly.” He turns to go into his apartment.

  I step forward. “I meant about your outfit.”

  He stops again, gazing
at me. “Outfit?”

  “Your military garb. I … I spilled all of those sticky shots all over it. And interrupted your, uh, striptease routine.”

  “Oh.” He shrugs again. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “I can pay for it to get laundered,” I insist. “I’ll just take a bit out of my paycheck and … and get it dry-cleaned for you. The whole thing, on me.”

  Zak stares at me like I just grew a third arm out of my face.

  Up-close, he’s strangely approachable. His eyes are soft, crystalline, yet his face has the hardened edge of someone whose shell doesn’t crack easily. I know the impressive physique he has, but the fact that he so casually covers it all up with a plain gray hoodie and jeans gives me the impression he isn’t as showy and cocky as his stage presence suggests. There’s something very private and personal about him, like a mystery hiding in plain sight.

  What is that mystery behind Zak’s eyes?

  “You’re a sweet kid,” says Zak suddenly.

  I smile. “Thanks. I just want to do what’s right and make sure I—”

  “What’re you doing here?”

  My mouth hangs open from my next unspoken words, cut off. “What?” I ask instead.

  “What’s a sweet kid like you doing in a place like Aubergines?” He squints at me. “Why would you willingly subject yourself to that?”

  With the noise of Brett’s impromptu house party blasting behind me, I stammer, “I need … I need to pay the rent, obviously.”

  Zak takes a step away from his door, putting himself in front of me. He looks me over for five long, thoughtful seconds. Then: “Go back home to Kansas, kid. And I say that with the utmost respect and concern for your wellbeing. You don’t belong in a place like this.”

  I stare at him, taken aback by his words.

  Also: he said the right state.

  With that, Zak turns away and, after thrusting his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, slips into his apartment and gently kicks shut the door.