by Lea Bronsen
Sudden eagerness and purpose pulling him out of his torpor, he got up from his chair. He knew exactly how to acquire that information. Luke’s boss, the restaurant manager, also had an office in this building, and they’d connected during an in-house Christmas dinner last year. If Roman excelled at something in his line of work, it was exploiting connections.
* * * *
I’m sweating gallons and loving it. Working out in the afternoon, when all my daily tasks are finished, invigorates me and relaxes my tired muscles. Thank fuck there’s a gym in the building, under the reception, and it’s free of charge for employees.
The damp place stinks of testosterones, rubber, metal, and machine oil. After a half hour on the running mill and a half hour lifting weights, a hot shower will bring me back on my feet. Maybe I’ll even jack off a little, since I’m the only one here today. Usually, people exercise a bit before hitting the road. Maybe the nice weather convinced them not to go down the labyrinth of corridors in the basement to the most remote, chilly room of the building.
Well, I’m not complaining. I’ll seize any opportunity to get off. I’ve used my right hand a lot lately. Even in my sleep, coming in silence while I spread my pulsating spunk all over the sheets.
It’s Roman’s fault. I loathe everything he represents and spit on his slick business world, yet, on a personal level he’s so attractive I let him seep into my mind like a poison and fantasize about fucking his brains out. Over and over.
He’ll never know. We won’t talk again. But he’ll be there in my dreams, the crack in his butt open for me and my hard cock ready to pump.
Speaking of pumping, it’s time. All beefed-up and sweaty, blood speeding in my bulging veins, I leave the weights section and steer toward the showers.
I’m tearing my soaked t-shirt off when a door handle clonks behind me.
“There you are!” a familiar voice calls.
Roman.
What the hell? Wiping my face and chest with the t-shirt, I spin.
It is him, by the door, dark and handsome. What’s he doing here?
He strides toward me with a deep line between his eyebrows. “I’ve been looking for you.”
He has? I gape, my heart doing a triple somersault.
He stops a few feet away, black eyes flaring as if he wants to kill me. His chest heaves. What the fuck? Then for the slightest moment, his hard gaze descends to my torso before trailing up again and stopping at my eyes.
So, he has seen my scars, my tats, the history of my life. And what does that tell him?
He steps forward and growls, “You’ve done time.”
The tone in his voice and the audacity of his question hit me like a slap. I blink, trying to compose myself. “How do you know?”
He gives me a level look.
I shake my head, unable to believe what’s happening to me or comprehend the consequences. I haven’t prepared for this. Not a single soul is supposed to know about my years in jail. Anger boils inside, heat rushing straight to my brain. “Jesus fucking christ! Who told you?”
He keeps his lips closed, face impassible.
An image of slick suits putting their heads together flashes before me. It’s all about connections, talking to the right people. People of power. But Roman had no right to ask about me, and whoever he asked had no right to answer. I leap forward and grab his shirt collar. “It’s strictly confi-fucking-dential, you asshat!”
His dark pupils light with alarm, but he stays calm, too calm, assessing me. So he must know: they released me four years early for good conduct. They also told me the smallest mishap would send me straight back into the hole.
I’m not letting that happen. Nope. Never. At least not over some fucking sleazebag like him. Fighting to rein it in, I release his collar but stay in his face, so close his warm breaths brush my lips.
“Why did they put you away?” he asks, holding my glare. “What did you do?”
I snicker. “They omitted the details?”
“All I know is you did twelve years. That’s a lot. If they let you out at three fourths of your time, you had sixteen. Few crimes will get you that much.”
“You had no right to—”
“You can’t expect us to be friends if you’re not being honest with me.”
“Friends?”
“Yes. I gotta know who I’m dealing with.”
“Who you’re dealing with? What does my past have anything to do with… Jesus, cut me some fucking slack.” My head drains of blood, as if I’m about to faint. I take a step back to demonstrate my refusal to go where he wants to lead me, but I also need space to think.
He’s gone to great lengths to learn more about me. He’s asked someone, or several someones, to break the strict rules of confidentiality. Why? What’s his motivation?
It hits me. He’s telling me he wants to be close. He wants whatever we’ve developed in the past days to have a chance. He calls it a friendship, but I’m not so sure… Maybe my kissing him in the park has something to do with his conduct. Is there something he’s not saying?
My heart thuds in my chest, and I’m mollifying, I can’t help it. “I’ve been trying very hard to put it behind me,” I wheeze. How can he ask me to dive back into the past and bring all that darkness up to the light again? I already live with the guilt, hand-in-hand, like a partner. That sentence is for life.
He nods. “It’s all about weighing the risks. I’d never have made it to where I am if I didn’t go by risk assessment.”
“All the time?”
“Yeah.”
“In your personal life, too?”
“That’s how I roll, man. If you can’t be honest with me…”
“That’s why you married the woman who’s now divorcing you?” As soon as the sarcasm leaves my mouth, I regret it. I don’t know why I let him push me to attack. I’m not the defensive type.
He closes and reopens his eyes a bit slower than a blink, and when he refocuses on me, they shine of unimaginable pain.
Angry voices shout in my head. I step forward and put a hand on his arm.
He flinches.
“I’m sorry,” I croak, retreating as if touching fire. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
He clenches his teeth, small muscles popping in his jaw, and takes several deep breaths. “Tell me what you did, or this conversation is over.”
What he asks is too much. “Roman, I’m already living with my past every single day of my life. There doesn’t go a minute that I don’t regret what I did. Isn’t that punishment enough?”
He stares.
I stare back.
He looks down. A small gesture telling me he’s giving up. He’s going to leave and never talk to me. I know the kind he is. Once he’s made up his mind, there’s no going back.
Okay. I reach out again, grab the back of his head, and pull him to me so our foreheads connect, bone-to-bone. A few inches of heated air separate the rest of our bodies. “Look at me.”
Once he raises his black eyes and holds my stare, I tell him my story. “I killed a boy. He was gonna hurt me. I pulled out a knife to scare him, but he threw himself at me and the knife went in. I never meant for it to happen. Never.” I swallow to keep the pain at bay and clench my teeth. “At the trial, I begged his parents to forgive me, but they refused.”
My eyes bleed. The pain from my clenching jaw becomes unbearable. I release the back of Roman’s head and turn from him to hide.
Shame races through me, ruthless. How can I be such a pussy? I never cried in jail, never showed any feelings. I hardened so fast in there.
Now that the guy who has given me wet dreams recently is demanding the truth, it’s difficult to hold back. He’s asking for my honesty. He wants to see my heart, my soul. He wants to know what I’m made of, what has turned me into who I am. Again, I can’t help but question his motivation. Why does he want to know me? Where does he want to take us?
Voice softer, he asks, “How old were you?”
; “Fifteen.” Tears rush to my burning eyes. I grimace and hurry to put my fingers to them and stop the tears. My jaw trembles and my lips quiver. With the other hand, I cover my mouth and press. I still can’t stop a muffled gasp from escaping my throat. It’s very telling. Though all Roman could see was my hands flying to my face, he must know what I’m doing and—
Strong arms enlace me from behind, startling me. I’m not used to having a man’s arms wrapped around me, except in fights where I’m quick to disentangle from the opponent and throw him off. But this is Roman and so I let him hug me.
He locks his arms over my chest and brings me closer against his broad torso, the back of my legs meeting his muscular thighs and my ass molding to his warm crotch.
His empathy causes more hurt to rush through me, and I barely hold back a howl. Tears press through my closed eyes and around my fingers. My hurting torso heaves with sobs, violent as hiccups. I can’t stop the pain, it’s like a rolling avalanche. Another gasp evades the depth of my throat, then a plaint, the sound resembling the wailing of a hurt animal. For the first time since I was a little child, I’m tempted to let the tears run.
Roman rests his chin on top of my shoulder and holds me tightly without a word. His cologne invades my space and the warm skin of his cheek brushes my ear. With this hug, he tells me he sees me and believes me and understands my pain.
I’ve never experienced such an exchange of kindness from one grown man to another. But this can’t go on. Tightening my body to the extreme and breathing evenly, I concentrate on getting my feelings under control. I swallow to force the pain down my throat, rub my eyes with my knuckles, and clear my throat. “Okay, I’ve got it.”
“Hmm.” He doesn’t release me yet, his hold so brotherly and genuinely kind it boggles my mind.
With an immense boost of emotion coursing through my chest, I spin in his embrace. My lips find his. I wrap my arms around his firm waist, want to melt into him. He’s the only one who can provide comfort and help me get away. Forget.
Mouth-to-mouth, he lingers for a few seconds as if accepting my intimacy. Then loosens from my grip and steps back with a determined shake of his head. “I told you, Luke. I’m not gay.”
Chapter Five
Two days later, it’s Friday, and I’m drained, aching all over. Rolling my shoulders, I wheel the tea-and-coffee trolley back into the kitchen. One more task on my weekly to-do list is done. I’ve emptied, cleaned, and refilled all coffee machines on fourteen floors. That’s two hours up and down from the kitchen. In and out of elevators. Through doors, through hallways. Each time beeping my ID on security panels. I’m sick of my job, but it’s been good to have something mechanical to do. Working like a robot, focusing on a manual task helps get my head off the murder I committed.
Following my breakdown in the gym, hair-raising nightmares have interrupted my nights, and in the daytime, I’m bordering on depression, unable to enjoy a thing. Diving back into the past is taking its toll. I keep replaying the moment of no return. Every available minute, I flash the episode before my eyes as though it’s happening again and, helpless, horrified, I watch my knife slide into the kid’s guts.
He slumped over me after, sending both of us to the ground so I didn’t see blood gushing out of his wound, his mouth forming a surprised, “Oh!” or his eyes widening as he realized he was going to die. But I imagine all of that too easily.
I’m conscious it was an accident, and I don’t know what I could have done differently in order not to be killed since he was charging me with his own knife. Even so, I cannot accept having the death of another on my conscience. A kid killing another kid is not in the order of things.
How I coped with the crippling guilt all these years in jail is a mystery. I guess I was on survival mode, tricking my brain to be content with saying a mental apology whenever I thought of the boy I stabbed. “I’m sorry.” It was enough to surf on life then, but today? I’m struggling to keep my head above water. There are moments when I’d be willing to swap with him. My life for his.
I know nothing about him, but I do know this: if the accident hadn’t happened, he would be about my age, probably have a wife, children, and a job, and I wouldn’t be living this fucking nightmare for the rest of my miserable days. If only there was something I could do to bring him back!
The kitchen reeks of fried fish, a warm, greasy steam drifting out of the ovens. It’s sickening. This shit looks good adorned on a plate, but out here… Holding my breath, I park the trolley next to another in a corner.
I deserve another kind of steam—a smoke—and my colleagues know I do after my endless tours up and down the building. No need to apologize for taking a break. Usually, I’ll invite one of them out with me, but now, I’d rather have a quiet moment alone. I get my jacket in the personnel room, stride through the busy kitchen with a, “Having a smoke,” over my shoulder, and steer to the elevators. No one bothered to reply.
The restaurant is emptying after lunch. Fat, slick suits walk back and forth between tables, crowding like ants. At least none are waiting for an elevator. I click on the “Down” button for the umpteenth time today, my foot tapping an impatient rhythm.
A ding, and one of the doors slide open.
There’s a shadow inside. Not in the mood to interact with anyone, I keep my eyes low. As I walk in, my gaze lands on shiny leather shoes. My heart jumps. I have a feeling they belong to Roman. Just a feeling, because the building is full of sleazebags and they all have shoes like these. But it would be just my luck, wouldn’t it?
“Hi, Luke.”
Fuck. His voice. The hairs on my neck rise.
Work has helped get him off my mind, too. It’s been a duel between the dead kid and this slick but oh-so-hot employer representative, a sordid game of who would be plaguing me more. I haven’t had respite since the last time we met. Whenever I managed to leave my stabbing accident behind for a minute, Roman was there to make my head spin and my body throb with need. I would never have thought a guy of his standing—the complete opposite of my social status—could attract me the way he does. There have been moments late at night when I consider quitting my job just to make sure I’d never run into him again. But it’s not realistic. Not with my background.
The doors close, and I must look up to acknowledge him. Being rude and not saying hello would be typical of a thug. That’s not really me. Granddad raised me to be a good boy, and I landed in prison over a stupid, stupid accident.
I gaze into Roman’s charcoal eyes and give a curt nod. Nothing more.
Features tight, he shakes his head. “Why do I keep seeing you?” His voice is hard, but not too hard, as if he doesn’t really want to be mean.
“You don’t,” I retort, turning to hit number one on the panel. “Not in the past two days.”
“Nice to hear you’re keeping track.”
Heat shoots to my brain. What the fuck does he think, that I’m infatuated with him? I turn back to glare.
He tilts his head with a smile full of warmth, telling me he was teasing. “I meant to say, with my family splitting and all, I’m glad to know at least one person cares. Where are you going?”
“Out for a smoke.”
“Hmm. Long day, huh?”
His kindness touches me. I’m simple like that. Influenceable. The pull from him is too strong. Though I know we can never engage in anything, I want to lean into him and feel his humane warmth enveloping me. It’s crazy. I ask, “Wanna join me…?” and immediately regret it, but it’s too late.
“I don’t smoke.”
Chest tightening, I give one, slow nod, looking down because each time he refuses my advances, I’m disappointed. Who am I fooling anyway? I just reckoned we can never have a relationship.
The elevator opens to the basement. We head out into a corridor, he first, and me in tow, fishing for my cigarettes in a jacket pocket. After passing a couple of emergency exits, he pushes open a heavy aluminum door and enters the low-ceiling, gasoline-reeking
car park. Our footfalls resonate in the wide space. Without a word or a look back, he steers to what must be his car, a huge silver BMW whose polish screams, Look at me, I’m a symbol of wealth! Damn, that steel monster looks as slick as he does, and I hate him all the more for owning it. Fucking snob.
I jut my chin in the air and head to the personnel door, next to the large car door. A big engine roars to life behind me, its growl echoing between walls. I snort. The guys on the top sure know how to display their power.
Outside, the sun blinds me. I turn away to light my cigarette and inhale the first drag of harsh smoke. So good.
Who cares about Roman? He must despise me. Especially now that he knows I’ve done time for murder. He only smiled because he was playing nice, pitying me. And fuck knows I loathe pity.
Blowing out round puffs of smoke, I sit on a concrete slab alongside the building wall. The garage door opens, gliding upward and folding into the ceiling while Roman’s vehicle pokes its nose out. What a huge thing, so shiny it casts sunlight back to the sky as it passes me.
I look in another direction and suck on my cigarette. Soon Roman will disappear behind the building and out of my life.
* * * *
Roman drove past Luke, then stopped, put the car in reverse, and backed to where he sat. Motor idling, he pulled the window down and stared at him across the passenger seat.
Luke studied the glowing tip of his cigarette.
Why did he pretend not to see him? They were closer than Roman had ever been to anyone since his wife. Luke had kissed him twice.
Roman wasn’t a fool. The first time Luke’s eyes gleamed with defiance, as if he was making a point, and two days ago, he sought comfort in a moment of deep sorrow. A cool, proud, and hardened street guy had no genuine interest in a white-collar like Roman. His advances had nothing to do with love or whatever Roman dreamt of, crushing on him like an inexperienced teenager. Roman was in an emotional and sexual vacuum because of his divorce, that was all, starving for the slightest consideration from another person. It happened to be Luke, but it could be anyone else. Once the ordeal was behind him, he would drop this childish infatuation and start focusing on the real matters of his life, such as his children and his job.