Brandon renewed his internal dialogue with a whole new string of colorful expletives.
“Don’t be flattered. I always get excited about hot showers,” he lied. He stepped under the water and pulled the curtain closed.
“Awwwww. Don’t close the curtain. If you’re going to jack off, I want to watch.”
“You know,” he said from inside the shower, “I’m starting to wonder if you were really raised to be a proper young lady.”
Her response was a throaty, husky laugh that would do any barmaid proud. Indeed he was going to jerk off and he did not want her watching.
“I went to finishing school when I was fourteen. I can set a table for a seven course meal and tell you what kind of flowers to use for the centerpiece for any occasion. You can’t produce a piece of flatware or cutlery that can stump me. I know what each one is and how to use it. I know how to sit, stand, walk - especially how to walk downstairs, how to do hair and, given my current circumstances, that’s kind of funny, how to apply makeup for any and every occasion. I know when an event should be semiformal, black tie, and white tie. I know how to plan a party, how to treat guests, and how to keep conversation moving at dinner. Oh, yeah, I was raised to be a proper young lady. And I’d still love to see you jerk off.”
By the time she was finished with that resume detailing how and why his mother would love her and why she’d be the perfect match for the head of St. Germane Enterprises, he’d come and the semen had already washed down the drain. He used the cheap motel shampoo, lathered himself with soap, and enjoyed the warmth of the water.
“That’s impressive. Keep talking. I need to know you’re still here.”
“I’m here, but it’s so steamy I’m practically wet again. And you promised me dry.”
He turned off the water.
“Okay. I’m done.” He opened the curtain and said, “Hand me a towel.”
Her eyes flicked downward like a magnet as she reached for the towel and handed it to him. When she saw that his penis was flaccid, she smirked, opened the door and left. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing she thought he was still remarkable, even when soft.
The cold air that rushed into the bath almost made him gasp.
Damn that woman.
He was briskly rubbing the towel over his hair when the phone rang. He’d left it precariously perched on the two-inch ledge around the sink.
“Hello.”
“What’s the matter?” Brant asked in his voice that came out as either a soft growl, for his mother, or a loud growl, for everybody else.
“There’s nothing the matter.”
“Then why do you sound irritated?”
“I’m not irritated. I’m just getting out of the shower. I want to dry off and put on clothes.”
After a pause, Brant said, “What did you do with the girl when you were in the shower?”
Brandon’s teeth clenched together so hard he was afraid he was going to chip them all. “I made her sit on the toilet so I could keep an eye on her.”
After another lengthy pause Brant broke into laughter. He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard his father laugh that hard.
“And that didn’t bother her?” Brant said, still chuckling.
“Not at all.”
“Well, son, if the sight of a Fornight naked doesn’t bother a girl, you’re doing something wrong.”
“She isn’t bothered because she thinks I’m…” He turned away and cupped his hand over the phone to muffle his voice because the bath door was standing open to the bedroom, “…not straight.”
“You mean she thinks you’re lying? Not telling it straight?”
Brandon gritted his teeth. “No. That’s not what I mean.”
It took a minute for Brant to run through the list of other possibilities. When Brand’s meaning finally registered, he started laughing all over again.
“Things got complicated,” Brandon said defensively.
“Well, Jesus, son. I’m just glad you’re taking this seriously.”
Brandon wasn’t sure if that was sarcastic or not. “Was there a reason why you called?”
“You mean other than to be thoroughly entertained? Yeah. Head back north into Kentucky in the morning and find the private airfield for Taylor County. Ask for a guy named Travis. He’s gonna fly you over to New Mexico. To Poco Loco. I know a rancher with a private airstrip on his property. There’ll be a car waiting for you. Stay in touch.”
“Okay.”
“Oh. Your mother has a pink feather thing she wears just to drive me crazy. If you’d like to borrow…”
Brandon ended the call and almost threw the phone.
He pulled on his clean, dry clothes and stepped into the bedroom. Cami was sitting cross-legged on the bed with the food spread out, watching Blood Sport.
She had a quarter of a club sandwich in her hand and was chewing happily. “Sorry. I couldn’t wait. After I finally got clean and dry I was able to focus on other things, like the fact that I’m starving.”
Brandon lifted an eyebrow. “Jean-Claude Van Damme?”
She grinned sheepishly. “It’s true. I’m a fan.”
He shook his head. “You’re full of surprises, Rose.”
“You can call me Cami when we’re alone, can’t you?”
“I could, but then I might forget when we’re getting gas or food or whatever. Safest to just think of you as Rose.”
“Rose White,” she corrected.
He sat down on the space she’d left on the bed and opened up containers. He picked up a waffle fry.
“Those are cold,” she said.
“They’ll be okay with ketchup.”
She made a soft sound of amusement.
He glanced at the TV. “So you like Van Damme?” She nodded. “Name another one of his movies.”
“Ooh. A pop quiz. Okay. Universal Soldier.”
“You’re cherry picking. Give me something less well known.”
“Okay. My personal favorite. Cyborg.”
Brandon looked genuinely impressed. “Okay. How about some trivia? Did you know he did one of the voices in the Kung Fu Panda movies?”
She gaped. “Shut up.”
He chuckled. “No, really.”
“You can’t crush my crush with tales of animation.”
“Oh. So it’s a crush?”
“Well, duh. I’ll bet the attraction is something we share. Isn’t it? Tell the truth.”
Brandon had no idea how a gay man would respond to that. “His roundhouse kick is to die for.”
She laughed. “Yeah. That and everything else.”
They sat and watched the rest of the movie in silence, polishing off the sandwiches, cold fries, and cheesecake.
“I grudgingly admit that bad food is good food. I’m stuffed, but happy. I’ll think about damage control tomorrow.”
“Speaking of tomorrow, we have to leave early. So get ready for lights out.”
“Why do we have to leave early?” she said as she gathered up the to go trash and threw it away.
“Alternate plan. The good news is that we’re going to get out of this rain.”
“Okay. Which side of the bed do you want?”
“The side closest to the door.” He said it slowly and deliberately like she was retarded.
“Are you a Gemini? Because you flip back and forth between sweet guy and asshole too often and too easily for normal.”
As a matter of fact, he was a Gemini. So he did the only thing he could do and save face. He changed the subject by taking off his jeans. He kept on the boxers and the long-sleeve tee and pulled the covers back.
“I’m tired. I hope you don’t snore,” he said.
“I don’t snore. And I hope you don’t kick and hog covers.”
“I don’t.”
“Good.”
He was lying on his right side, facing the door, when he felt the bed move as she got in on her side. She switched off the bedside lamp, which momentarily plun
ged the room into darkness, but within a couple of minutes their eyes had adjusted and the light seeping in around the window curtain made everything in the room distinctly visible.
“Good night.” She said it in a small voice that reminded him that, regardless of her bravado, she was a woman who was running scared.
It wasn’t hard to make his voice sound comforting. He did want to give her comfort, make her feel safe.
“Good night, Rose.”
He lay awake in the darkness for a while listening to the relentless rain. It didn’t take long for her breathing to become even. He could feel her body generating heat under the covers they both shared. Truthfully, a queen-size bed wasn’t very big once somebody his size was occupying half of it, or more.
The first conscious thought that made its way to his awareness was the strangest sense of well-being, like everything was okay with the world. If that had ever happened before, he didn’t remember. The cause was immediately evident. Sometime during the night Cami had taken refuge against his body and was spooned to his back like she’d been made to fit there. Perfectly.
The conflict was excruciating. On the one hand, he knew he should get up and get started. On the other hand, the feeling of being cocooned in a magical spell was too wonderful to give up without first savoring just a little. In the end the decision was snatched away from his control.
Cami stirred awake, realized where she was and what she was doing and, thinking he was asleep, rolled away saying, “Jesus, Cam. What are you thinking?” under her breath.
Brandon waited until she was asleep again before getting up. He took care of bathroom essentials and dressed before waking her.
The motel was cheap, but they were kind enough to provide a functioning coffee maker with two paper cups, two lids, and two plastic sleeves of sweetener, creamer, and stir stick.
He threw the pillow from his side of the bed at her head and said in a voice that sounded every bit as gruff as Brant’s, “Rise and shine! I’m making coffee to go. And you’ve got ten minutes to get the lead out.”
She groaned. “This pillow throwing thing has lost all trace of amusement.” She rolled over and looked at him with sleepy eyes that caused him to imagine crawling back in to spend the day in bed with Cami making love and listening to the rain. Of course first he’d have to explain how she’d wrongly concluded that he wasn’t heterosexual and that could definitely be a mood killer.
He turned his back as he used bottled water to fill up the little coffee maker reservoir. “Nine and a half minutes.”
“Okay. So it’s Mr. Hyde this morning and not Dr. Jekyll. Whatever, Brandon.”
She didn’t quite slam the door to the bathroom, but she did punctuate that sentence by closing it soundly. He appreciated every little show of protest he drew from her. Perhaps one day she’d be a woman who didn’t flinch when a man reached for the visor on her side of the car.
CHAPTER SIX
New York
Richard Hillfort had been Severn Carmichael’s executive assistant for fifteen years. During that time he’d come to appreciate the rarified air of billionaire lifestyles.
At the same time, Severn Carmichael had come to not only appreciate Richard, but to rely on him like the ground under his feet. Richard suspected that Mr. Carmichael might even love him like a son. After all, on Monday mornings Mr. Carmichael always inquired as to whether or not he’d enjoyed his weekend, on occasions when he’d actually had a weekend off.
That was all well and good, but Richard had gradually come to realize that it wasn’t ever going to get him a yacht, or a seat on the board, or even his own office.
He’d come to realize that, when he was invited aboard yachts, it was to serve the administrative needs of Mr. Carmichael. There was no room for someone in his position to advance. He was already at the top of his occupation with a lot of unsatisfied ambition.
Of course Mr. Carmichael trusted him implicitly. He’d sooner doubt the Pope than Rich Hillfort.
Trey Michaels had a gift for discerning unfulfilled desires. Like a computer he could analyze a person’s carriage, or eye movements, or hand gestures, and accurately pinpoint what that person was missing in his or her life. It was an uncanny ability that had served him beautifully and, perhaps, was largely responsible for his financial success. Unlike most of the men at the City Club, he hadn’t inherited a thing except for a proclivity for bending rules to suit him.
When Trey Michaels realized that Cami wasn’t coming back, and that his wealth, power, and influence weren’t going to grow exponentially by benefitting from a spousal inheritance shortcut, he went through the stages of a foiled plan.
Surprise.
Disbelief.
Bargaining.
Anger.
Revenge.
He wasn’t just angry about the loss of potential wealth. He was livid about the idea of being bested. He could not lose to his soon-to-be ex-wife. He would not lose to his soon-to-be ex-wife.
It didn’t matter what it cost him. He had to be the winner. Nothing less was acceptable. Sitting in the dark in the penthouse he’d once shared with Camden, he hatched a plan featuring Rich Hillfort as the lynchpin.
The next morning he phoned Heather Rebus. She was one of Mr. Carmichael’s three administrative assistants. She was a flamboyant orangey redhead who liked to wear red dresses, red lipstick, and stud earrings that always drew his attention because they were pearls far too big to be real, at any price.
When he’d first married Cami, Heather had made a point of flirting with Trey every time he went to see Carmichael. Not innocent flirting or romantic flirting, but fuck-me flirting. So he did.
Repeatedly.
Until he was tired of it and tired of her. But he’d managed to not burn the bridge by telling her that his wife was getting suspicious. He hated to give up his rendezvous, but what could he do? He was a married man.
The next morning he called her number. The contact had been disguised on his phone as Heath Inc.
“Mr. Carmichael’s office.”
“Heather, darling,” Trey purred.
“Hey, baby.” She dropped her voice as if she was talking to a lover. He almost rolled his eyes.
“How are you?”
“Not wearing any underwear if that’s what you’re asking. I heard you may soon be single.”
“Indeed. And when I am, guess who I’m calling first?”
She giggled. “Hope that’s me.”
“Who else?” he said. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll be in touch.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, I almost forgot. Is Carmichael going to be out of town anytime soon?”
“I can look. Why?”
“I don’t want him to see me surprise you at work. You know. I was married to his daughter.”
“Surprise me at work?” She sounded breathless. “Let me look.” After a brief pause, she said, “He’s going to the house at Kennebunkport on the twenty-second.”
“Good girl. See you soon.”
He ended the call wondering how God could have made women who were so gullible.
At precisely 10 a.m. on the twenty-second, Trey called Richard Hillfort.
“Hillfort,” he answered.
“Hello, Rich. It’s Trey.”
“Yes. I see that. You’re still in my contacts.”
“Right. I was wondering if you might get free for lunch?”
Richard was immediately guarded. Michaels had been around for over two years and had never given him the time of day. “Lunch?”
“Yes. If you must know, I want to proposition you. I’ve always admired your service to Carmichael. Professional. Efficient. Precise. Give me an hour of your time and let me pitch working for me. Doesn’t cost a thing to listen. Right?”
“Perhaps.” Trey could hear suspicion dripping from Hillfort’s tone, but he knew before he ever made that call that curiosity would win out in the end.
“I’m checking out 33 Arch today. I’m thinking about taking s
ome space there. Meet me on the thirty-third floor at one and we’ll have a private lunch.”
A private lunch on the thirty-third floor? Rich knew he was going to say yes. He couldn’t turn it down. After all, he’d just been thinking that he’d reached a career dead end. But maybe not.
In his head, he was already making a preliminary list of perks he’d ask for to negotiate a contract to work for Michaels, whom he found distasteful, but there were lots of things more important than personality.
“Isn’t that the same building the Securities and Exchange Commission is in?” Richard asked.
“Hmmm. Not sure. Why?”
Of course Trey knew it was the same building that housed the SEC. Trey never did anything without purpose.
“No reason. Of course I will join you for lunch so long as we agree that the conversation is not only private, but also confidential.”
“Certainly. That’s why I picked a place where we won’t be seen together.”
“Alright. Looking forward to it.”
“See you at one.”
Trey ended the call and smiled.
One of the things he loved about being rich was that money could make almost anything happen. He couldn’t trust leaving the details of the meeting to anyone else.
He personally called Déjà Vu Catering, he’d seen their trucks parked at some of the biggest society events and knew they were top shelf. When he explained that he needed gourmet lunch delivered and served with the best china, linens, crystal, and silver that could be rented, they laughed. Until he mentioned how much he was willing to spend.
Trey Michaels had a courier deliver cash in an envelope. The caterer probably interpreted that as a signal to mean that the client, who’d given the name of John Bigliogi, was flying below the radar. Like a lot of people, they didn’t examine the ethics of cash too closely. And like a lot of people, they gave even better service to people who paid cash.
He’d been to 33 Arch Street the day before and made arrangements with building management to have exclusive use of the top floor for an hour and a half to serve lunch to members of the board. After dazzling the young lady who showed him the space with sex laden charm, a phony business card and hints about his growing real estate needs, she was happy to accommodate.
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