by Katya Harris
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons either living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2020 by Katya Harris
Second edition.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For K and Z, always.
And to the now sadly closed Less Than Three Press who gave this story a chance in 2019; thank you.
So Says The King
The Chicago wind sweeps into the Uber as soon as I open the door, chasing out all the warmth from the car’s interior. “Jesus,” I gasp.
The driver replies with a sound that’s somehow both agreement and encouragement to get out and close the door behind me. I can’t blame him; the cold is bitter, just another reason I wish I’d stayed in New Mexico.
Quickly thanking the driver, I lunge out of the car. The icy shock of the winter night squeezes the breath out of my lungs. It trails behind me, a plume of white fog, as I dart to the entrance of the office building, barely remembering to slam the car door behind me. The wind chases me into the lobby, its icy teeth biting through the overcoat I’m wearing over my suit. I rock to a stop a few steps inside, a shiver wracking me as my teeth clatter together. Winter this year has been brutal. Just a few moments outside and my body already feels like it’s going to shake itself to pieces. Next year I’m going to spend Christmas far away. Somewhere hot and balmy where swimsuits are too much clothing.
Cupping my hands in front of my mouth, I blow out a breath to warm them up and get some feeling back into my numb fingertips. I look up, idly scanning the lobby and the lackluster Christmas decorations that have been put up since I’ve been away, only to freeze. This time it isn’t the winter chill responsible, but the tall figure waiting in front of the elevators. Even with his back to me, I know him. Jaime. The urge to run rises in me, sharp and imperative. My muscles tense, ready to flee back into the cold.
“Good evening, Mr. Carr. Welcome back to the city.”
I suppress a groan. I shift my gaze to the right and give the security guard a smile I don't feel. “Thanks, Henry. How have you been?”
The older man's smile is a lot more genuine than mine. “I'm good, sir.”
“Good. Good.” I try hard to mean it—he doesn't know he foiled my plan. I force my feet to start moving again, carrying me toward the elevator and the man I want to avoid.
Dark eyes meet mine and my stomach drops to the vicinity of my feet. A tropical paradise would be lovely, but to get me out of this moment, I would happily settle for Siberia.
“Aidan.”
The weather outside has nothing on his frostbitten tone. I duck my head to hide a wince, raking my hands through my wind-tossed hair to try to restore some order to the tousled strands. If only it was so easy to put the other parts of me to rights.
As calm as I can be, I look up. “I thought you'd be upstairs already.” I’d hoped anyway. Jaime’s condo is only a couple of blocks away from here, the office building that houses our architectural firm, whereas my place is clear across town. He should have made it here ages ago.
I make myself walk over and stand beside him, facing the brushed metal of the elevator doors. The closer I get, the stiffer his body becomes.
The muscle at the side of Jaime's jaw flexes, but his face is expressionless, carefully so. “I got held up,” he says, his tone as coolly polite as the mask he's using to shield whatever he's feeling. It's the one he uses when he's dealing with clients he doesn't like. He might as well have slapped me across the face. Punched me. Broken my ribs. It would hurt a damn sight less. “What about you?”
“Traffic.” A nice, succinct answer and it’s even partially true. “Toby's going to be pissed at us.” Toby is our other business partner, and while Jaime and I were in New Mexico attending a convention, he was holding down the fort and organizing tonight's office holiday celebration. We were supposed to be back in the city early this morning, but a delayed flight meant we only got back a couple of hours ago. It shouldn’t have taken either of us this long to get here, but it looks like we’d both tried to avoid this evening as much as possible. No, we are trying to avoid each other. My heart—my stubborn heart—aches.
Jaime's only answer is a soft grunt.
The elevator arrives with a cheery ding. Neither of us say anything as we step inside, the doors sliding shut to seal us in. I've never realized how small the elevators in this building are before. Jaime presses the button for our floor with a hard jab of his finger. The compartment starts to ascend and my stomach lurches, but that's all to do with the proximity of the man standing next to me.
How can someone so close be so far away?
Awareness of him vibrates through me, a subtle but persistent hum. Sometimes I think I could find him anywhere, every cell in my body gravitating toward him as inexorably as a compass needle is attracted to the North.
I can feel the warmth emanating from his body. Smell the clean scent of his skin, citrus and salt, fresh and bright. Delicious. I can't resist looking at him from the corner of my eye. I shouldn’t. I’m just torturing myself now, but keeping my eyes off Jaime is a feat I haven't been able to master in all the years we've known each other. The first time I saw him, walking into the dorm-room we shared our first year in college, I thought Jaime was the most beautiful boy I'd ever seen. Ten years later and that conviction has never wavered. In fact, he's only gotten better with age.
He belongs on billboards and magazine covers, strutting down catwalks, mesmerizing people with the sharp sweep of his cheekbones, the elegant planes of his face. Artists and photographers should immortalize the line of his jaw, the tilt of his inky-black eyes, the bow of his lips. God, Jaime's lips. The lower one is a little plumper than the upper, their color a delicate rose-pink against his creamy gold-brushed skin. I don't know how many times I've dreamed about nibbling on that tender pout, kissing it until the pink turns a luscious red. Probably as many times as I've fantasized about seeing those same lips stretched tight around my cock, his black eyes looking up at me in hungry demand.
“Stop staring at me.”
I grimace at having been caught. Sometimes I forget that as much as I know Jaime, he also knows me. I turn to face him fully. “Can't I even look at you anymore then?”
That tempting mouth pulls down at the corners into a frown. “Not when you're looking at me like that.”
A tendril of temper roots in my gut. “And what way am I looking at you?” How can Jaime even tell? For the past couple of days, he's barely looked at me at all. Even now, telling me off, his gaze is fixed on the lift doors.
“Don't be obtuse, Aidan,” Jaime snaps. “You know what I mean.”
“Maybe I do. Maybe I don't,” I say. “How could I know when you won't let us talk about it. Jaime, please—”
“Stop.” The word is low, forceful. “I told you before that I don't want to hear it.”
No, he doesn’t want to hear anything from me, and he doesn’t want to talk to me either. For so long, I’ve imagined telling him how I feel, how I love him, have always loved him. In all my fantasies, I never imagined that this awful silence would be his answer.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” I mutter, mostly to myself. When he didn’t say anything after my declaration in New Mexico, I’d kissed him in desperation. That had spurred him into action. The action of running away from me.
Spots of red erupt on Jaime’s
cheeks. He yanks at his tie, loosening the knot with a savage tug, and then undoes the top button of his shirt with a sharp twist of his fingers. I try not to look at the patch of skin he reveals, the intriguing hollow at the base of his throat. I’ve always wanted to nuzzle that spot, bury my nose there and draw his scent deep into my lungs. Now I know I never will.
“I just want to get through tonight,” Jaime says through gritted teeth. “That's all.”
“But we have to talk about this. We—I can't pretend that nothing happened.” I reach for him, my hand freezing in midair when he recoils. “Jaime, I told you that I love you.”
The shake of Jaime's head is so violent the thick strands of his dark hair fall over his forehead and into his eyes. He needs to get it cut; he hates being untidy, which is why after disheveling himself, he starts to put his clothes back to rights. He refastens his shirt button, fixes his tie. Tension radiates from him, and resolve. My heart sinks before he even speaks, my hand dropping back to my side.
“I've said repeatedly that I don't want to talk about it.” Finally, he looks at me and his eyes are colder than the weather outside. “If you keep pressing me, Aidan, you know what I'll do.”
I clench my jaw so hard pain shoots through my skull. I do know. Body stiff, I face forward. “Fine. Whatever you want, Jaime.”
He flinches.
The elevator arrives on our floor with another inappropriately cheerful chime. As soon as the doors start to slide open, Jaime walks out, twisting his shoulders to squeeze through the too narrow gap. I wait for the doors to open fully before I follow him, allowing him to get away.
Shoving my hands into my pockets, I slouch toward our firm's offices. It takes everything in me to not turn around and get back on the elevator. God, I just want to go home, drown myself in a bottle of scotch, and lick my wounds in private. The last thing I want to do is have to plaster a smile on my face and pretend I'm having a good time. Pretend that my heart is still sound.
Our architectural company shares the floor with a law office and a small accountancy firm. I hope to Christ none of them are working late. Even through the thick glass doors through which Jaime has already disappeared, I can hear the unmistakable sound of people having a good time. Music mingles with the sounds of people talking and laughing. A lot of laughing. The raucous noise washes over me as I push my way through the glass doors emblazoned with the name of our company, almost knocking Jaime over.
“Jaime, what the hell?” He's standing just inside the doorway, motionless.
“I told you we shouldn't have left Toby in charge.”
I look past him.
After an exhausting five days of travel, networking, and heartbreak, I react in the only way I can. “Holy fucking shit-balls!” The curse bursts out of my mouth and I cringe. Luckily, the noise of the party drowns it out.
An understated gathering we told Toby before we left for the convention. Something elegant. Classy. Professional. I'm positive we used all those words when we told Toby what we wanted for the last-minute holiday celebration we decided to throw for our employees. The only part of the brief Toby seems to have respected is that it be non-denominational; it certainly is, unless some of our staff worship ancient Roman gods.
The cheeky irrepressible bastard has thrown a goddamn toga party.
Our smart office of glass and gleaming black hardwood has been transformed into a decadent Roman grotto with fake stone pillars and plastic grapevines sporting lush purple bunches of fake fruit. The furniture has been removed to make way for chaise longues and cushioned daises, and swathes of diaphanous white fabric drapes the walls and pillars. Along one side of the reception area, a long table groans beneath platters and tiers of food, and a brow-raising assortment of bottles. At the very center, bowing the table with its weight, is a huge punchbowl shaped like a miniature fountain complete with—I see in horror—a chubby-cheeked cherub pissing out a stream of ruby red liquid into the bowl below.
Christ.
My already wide eyes bug when I see the staff. Dressed in snowy white togas that show off more of their bodies than I am comfortable looking at, it's obvious they've been at the alcohol for a while. Everyone's eyes are bright, their cheeks rosy. Wide smiles split their faces. They all look like they're having a wonderful time, so wonderful in fact that no one has noticed Jaime and I standing here. If we'd stayed away, none of them would have missed us. The thorny thought pricks at me.
“I'm going to kill him,” Jaime seethes, looking around with narrowed eyes for his target.
“Not if I get to the little shit first,” I hiss back.
I scan the boisterous crowd and spot our quarry almost immediately; with his blazing red hair it’s easy to spot Toby in a crowd. He’s talking to a man I don’t recognize, probably the partner of one of our employees. “There he is.” I point Toby out to Jaime who makes a noise suspiciously like a growl. “Remember—we can't kill him here.”
“I’m not making any promises. “
Across the room, Toby looks up and catches sight of us. A blinding grin creases his flushed face. Like everyone else, he is wearing a toga, but he's also got a crown of golden leaves resting atop his messy auburn curls. The junior partner of our architectural firm, Toby is the youngest of us. Tall and lean, he looks like a fox on two legs and has the mischievous temperament to match.
We met at another firm about four years ago, and despite our age difference we became close. He fit right in with Jaime and me, his levity and irreverence a perfect foil for Jaime’s reserve and my own sometimes brooding nature. When Jaime and I decided to open our own firm, it had felt natural that Toby was part of it too.
“Look who's finally arrived!” he calls out. Conversations stop, heads turning toward me and Jaime. He moves toward us, his steps just a little unsteady, a half-full glass cup of punch in one hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, let's welcome our missing hosts.”
A riot of ear-splitting cheers and whoops break out. I wince at the noise, but smile and wave. Next to me, Jaime does the same. My smile broadens into something more genuine; he looks like he's got a bad case of trapped wind. Jaime's never been a good actor.
The noise dies down and I know that one of us has to say something. Jaime hates public speaking at the best of times let alone now when he's in a foul mood, so I step forward. “Good evening, everyone and thank you for such a warm welcome back. You all look as if you're having fun—” A few people holler out their agreement to that. “So, I won't say anything more apart from Happy Holidays!”
“Eat, drink, and be merry!” Toby yells out, raising his cup into the air. “So says the King! Io Saturnalia!”
I have no idea what he means, but the crowd cheers, yelling it back so loudly my ears ring.
Draining his cup, Toby leaves it on a nearby table before he nudges between me and Jaime. “Come on, you guys.” He threads his arms through each of ours. His hip brushes against mine, a tingle of awareness radiating out from that spot. “Let's get you both out of those clothes.”
I stiffen but allow Toby to lead me to the large conference room. He ushers us inside, closing the door and locking it behind us. A touch of his hand on a black panel beside the door and the clear glass wall turns to frosty opaqueness.
“What the hell, Toby?” Jaime explodes, rounding on him. It’s a wonder he held it in this long. “This isn't what we agreed on.”
With a roll of his eyes, Toby breezes past Jaime to a rack of white robes. “No, it isn't what the two of you agreed on.” He plucks two hangers off the rack, holding one out to me and the other out to Jaime. “And what you agreed on was boring.” When neither of us takes the proffered hangers, he says, “Those people have worked their asses off for us; they deserve to have some fun.”
“They also deserve to wear proper clothes,” Jaime retorts. He crosses his arms across his chest, refusing to take the toga Toby is holding out to him.
Unfazed by Jaime's harsh tone, Toby snickers. “Did any of them look uncomfortable to you?”
He snorts. “Most of them came in their own costumes.” He sighs when Jaime makes a rude noise, his arms lowering. “Look, everyone is having a great time. Don't ruin it. Let them blow off some steam and get a little wild before we put them all back to work next year. Besides,” he says, “it was serendipity. Today's the 17th. Saturnalia!”
Well, that explains—absolutely nothing.
Jaime opens his mouth—to argue some more probably—but I speak before he can. “He's right, Jaime.”
The glare that Jaime levels at me is tinged with disbelief. “What? You can't be serious.”
I shrug. “I don't like it any more than you do,” I tell him. “But there's nothing we can do about it now, is there?”
Jaime's teeth grind together. He's so angry, I can practically see the heat of his temper wavering in the air around him. “Fine,” he snaps. He snatches the toga from Toby's hand. “But I'm getting changed in my own office.”
Toby and I watch Jaime storm out of the conference room. “So, I'm guessing the convention went well.”
My mouth twists. “Oh, it was peachy.” Taking my own toga, I toss it over the back of one the chairs that surround the large oval conference table, and start to undress. “How were things here? Did you hear back from the Hudsons?”
Toby slants me a look. “Are you trying to change the subject? Because you know that won't work.”
If there is a trait that the three of us all share, it’s tenacity. Okay—pigheadedness. All three of us are stubborn and while Toby might seem like the most laidback, when it comes to something important to him, he's still a bulldog.
I sigh. As I bend to take off my socks, I say, “I kissed Jaime.”
Toby gasps. “Really? What happened? Tell me everything.” He bounces up and down like an excited little kid, his eyes wide with delight and a grin splitting his face. I wish I could be as happy as him, that this story had a happier ending.
“There's nothing to tell.” Thankful my boxer briefs are white, I pull the toga on. The silky fabric coasts against my skin and I shiver. “I kissed him. He didn't kiss me back.” Although, just for a moment, hadn't his lips softened? I shake my head, dislodging the thought. Wishful thinking, I tell myself. “I told him I was in love with him, but he doesn't want me.”