by Megan Derr
Oh. Cassidy felt relieved—or told himself he was relieved, that Malcolm was not saying anything about him to anyone. Silence was golden, yes.
Carlos sniggered and handed over the beer, then snagged an empty chair and straddled it. "Yeah, three weeks, Mal. Where you been? Hiding and sulking, no? That is bad for you, bro."
Malcolm made a face. "Shut it. Where's my food?"
"Maria is making it up special for you, it will be here soon. She is fond of you, I do not know why."
"I'm prettier than you," Malcolm said.
Lindsay giggled, and Cassidy bit his tongue. Carlos snorted. "Bro, you are prettier than pretty much everyone." He turned to stage-whisper at the others. "Did you know, he's been offered modeling contracts—"
"Shut the hell up, or I'll kill you," Malcolm replied. "Or tell your wife about that thing in Bermuda."
Carlos gave him the finger and stood up, returning the chair he'd stolen. He spoke briefly to Malcolm in Spanish, then strode off, vanishing back to wherever he'd come from.
"Sorry," Malcolm said when he'd gone. "Brothers never play nice, and Carlos is worse than most." He winked at them.
"Not that it's any of my business," Lindsay said, "but I'm damned curious."
Malcolm threw his head back and laughed. Cassidy tried not to stare, he really did, but in the end all he could do was memorize every bit of the moment, Malcolm laughing so freely and openly and without reserve, and ball his own hands into fists to keep from doing something stupid. Malcolm subsided as a woman appeared and kissed his cheek after setting down a large plate of spicy-smelling food.
"It's me, Carlos, and Antoine," he said after a couple of bites. We were all foster kids, and our foster mother was crazy enough to keep the three of us permanently.
Denny and Lindsay beamed, while Cassidy could only stare. He could not reconcile the easy, casual, beautiful man before him with his button-down if nice boss, or a kid brought up in the foster system. It was simply breathtaking.
"Cass raised us," Lindsay said.
"No—"
"After our parents were killed in a car accident," Denny added. "He was only eighteen, but he took it all on."
Malcolm's brows went up. "I see," he said quietly, and something in his brown eyes shifted, softened.
Cassidy could feel his face burning, and fussed with his pint glass. "It's not—"
"If you even try to say it's not a big deal," Lindsay said with a glare, "you will be wearing your precious guacamole."
"Fine," Cassidy retorted, making a face. "I won't say it—but you can't stop me thinking it."
Lindsay stuck her tongue out at him and stole the guacamole.
Cassidy pouted, knowing full well he was being punished.
Malcolm's laughter drew him again, this time because there was something different about it. Like how his eyes had gone all funny the moment before. Cassidy didn't know what to make of any of it.
"Oh, shit," Denny exclaimed suddenly, moving so quickly he nearly knocked over his soda. "I've got to go! They're going to kill me if—"
Cassidy rolled his eyes and held out the car keys. "Go, before the world ends. Call me if you're going to be late or something."
"Totally," Denny replied, ruffled Cassidy's hair just to aggravate, then bolted.
"Hey!" Lindsay bellowed after him. "You're giving me a ride back to my place!" She kissed Cassidy's cheek, threw money on the table, then rose. "Our treat. See you later, Cass." She turned briefly to Malcolm. "Don't let him do something stupid, like try to pay anyway. Thanks for being smart enough to hire him and keep him. See you again sometime!"
Then she was gone, still shouting after Denny, leaving Cassidy trying to decide between fratricide and suicide.
"Your siblings adore you," Malcolm said.
Cassidy could only nod and go for his beer. "Your brother seems equally fond."
Malcolm rolled his eyes, but smiled. "He used to be big trouble. Marriage and business is good for him. Want another beer?"
Yes, but Cassidy shook his head. "I'm pretty sure there's a rule about having four beers on a Thursday."
Snickering, Malcolm signaled a waiter. "Yeah—make it five."
Despite himself, Cassidy smiled.
Malcolm smiled back. "It's good to see you relax."
Cassidy froze, then shrugged and raked a hand through his hair.
"Hmm, and now I've tensed you up again," Malcolm said with a sigh. "I seem to do that."
"That is because you talk too much," Carlos said suddenly, appearing abruptly at Malcolm's elbow. He set their fresh beers on the table. He said something in Spanish.
Whatever it was he said, it put a disgruntled look on Malcolm's face, and the expression made Cassidy burst out laughing.
"See?" Carlos said smugly. "I make fun of you, everyone laughs."
"Yeah, yeah," Malcolm groused. "Let's get Maria out here, see how you like being made fun of, huh?"
Carlos smirked—and his reply was drowned out by the sudden sharp ringing of a cell phone.
"Damn it," Malcolm said and fumbled a cell phone out of his pocket.
Carlos scowled, and the Spanish resumed—this time it was faster than ever, angry, loud, and complete with hand motions and almost terrifying expressions.
Malcolm shot it all right back, just as quick and vicious—then abruptly stood and strode from the restaurant, door slamming shut behind him.
A few final mutters, shooting the vanished Malcolm a disgusted look, Carlos heaved a sigh and said, "Sorry, amigo. Mal is a bit stupid when it comes to certain things. But, I will not trouble you, eh? I am certain you've had enough for one night."
Cassidy could only nod and stifle his own sigh as he looked around the table. The remains of dinner were scattered everyone, silverware and napkins thrown hastily every which way. Well, how had he expected the night to end? Asking his fucking boss to go for ice cream with him, since his siblings hadn't?
He made a face and drained his beer. "What's the damage for the meal?"
"On the house," Carlos replied, and clapped him on the shoulder. "No one is allowed to argue with me. You see how well it went for Mal, eh? Enjoy the rest of your night."
Though Cassidy continued to try and argue, because the meal wasn't cheap, he only found himself outside, coat in hand, sighing into the cool night air. Alone and, he realized with a groan, no car. No doubt Linds and Denny had thought he'd get a ride from Malcolm, the bastard schemers. Great. His damned dinner, and he was ditched to walk home alone.
Sighing again, he shrugged on his jacket and cut across the parking lot, singing as he reached the road and began to walk home. He was halfway through an old favorite, a song he'd written years ago and improved here and there, when something black and sleek and sexy pulled up alongside him, an expensive stretch of shadow beneath an orange-yellow streetlamp.
The passenger window rolled down, and Malcolm leaned over to speak to him. "Sorry about earlier. Want a ride?"
Cassidy thought about saying no, because he really shouldn't say yes—but he didn't want to fucking walk home, and when the hell else would he ever get a chance to ride in a car like this, with a man like this? "Sure."
Opening the door, he slid down into the smooth black leather interior and immediately regretted his impulse. Sealed away in the car, washed in the smells of leather, man, some spicy cologne, traces of good Mexican food lingering, awesome music on an awesome sound system, and Malcolm so temptingly close…
He was grateful it was dark enough in the car to hide how much he was liking the situation. "Uh—is everything okay?"
"It's fine. Sorry I bolted like that, and for Carlos and me arguing like that in front of you. He means well, but…" He shrugged. "I am sorry I left. It was fun seeing you outside of work, relaxed." He shrugged again. "Lester Avenue, right?" He asked as he pulled away from the curb and drove down the street.
"What?" Cassidy asked, startled. "Yes. 547."
Malcolm laughed softly, little more than a play of shad
ow and light as they drove along dark streets, occasionally passing beneath a streetlight. "I remember it from your resume."
"Ah," Cassidy replied, trying not to cringe. His resume had been pathetic. He still could not believe Malcolm had hired him and was keeping him. That totally did not sound right, even in his head. Too bad it sounded so nice. Argh. Shut up, self. "You, uh, have a sweet ride."
He didn't need to see the grin; he could hear it in Malcolm's voice. "Maserati Grand Turismo," Malcolm said, and rattled off all kinds of things that Cassidy probably should have understood, but totally didn't. "I bought her mostly to piss my brothers off, but I admit I love her."
Cassidy could not think of a single thing to say to that. Carlos had paid for his meal without hesitation or good reason. Now his boss, a damned Accounts Manager, was driving him home in a car that had to have at least four and possibly five zeroes involved in its purchase. And he'd apparently bought the car mostly as a jab at his brothers.
Why did he seem to spend every waking moment of his life feeling in over his head? He'd always thought he'd be a world famous rock star by this point in his life, with flashy cars and a beautiful house, a string of gorgeous boyfriends. A yacht, a penthouse—he'd planned to own at least half the world, and have the other half simply waiting for him to bother.
Now, it all seemed so stupid and distant, the daydreams of an ignorant eighteen year old.
But it was still hard to take, seeing his crush put even further out of his reach. Bad enough Malcolm was his boss. Clearly he was a hell of a lot more than that; Cassidy could not even begin to imagine.
"Good music, too," he said at last, unable to come up with anything else no matter how hard he tried.
"Mmm," Malcolm agreed. "I have a weakness for good music."
What about washed up, never been rock stars, Cassidy thought wistfully. Then he reminded himself how stupid it was to have a childish crush on his wealthy boss, and how far past stupid it would be to act on that crush. Never mind that, no matter what Denny said, Malcolm could be and probably was straight.
"Is everything all right?" he asked. "With whatever was wrong before?"
Malcolm laughed in the dark, but it was a bitter, tired sound. "Yeah. Hopefully. It's over, anyway." He pulled to a stop in front of Cassidy's house. "Thanks for letting me eat dinner with you. I liked your family. Did you really raise them yourself, since eighteen?"
Cassidy nodded. "Of course."
"Indeed," Malcolm said, and his hand shifted, as though he were going to reach out and touch. But then it stilled and relaxed again. "You obviously did well by them."
"Thanks. Uh—tell your brother thanks for dinner. He didn't have to pay for it."
Malcolm blinked, then smiled slow and easy. "Did he? I see. Trust me, it was no big deal." There was a pause, then he combed a hand through his hair and said, "I was—"
The sudden blinding glare from headlights cut him off, and Malcolm instead only sighed. "If I'm not mistaken, that's your sister. I should let you go, anyway. See you at work tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Thanks for the ride."
"Any time," Malcolm said.
Biting back what he would like to say to that, Cassidy only nodded again and reluctantly opened the door, sliding out of the car. "Good night," he said softly, before closing the door.
Malcolm drove off.
"Oh. My. God," Lindsay said as she came flying out of her own car. "Did he just seriously drive away in that car? That was your boss, right? Did you guys have fun in that sweet little number?" she asked, a definite hint of leer in her voice.
Cassidy grimaced, and strode to the house. "No. He's my boss. He's straight. He's way out of my league. And, oh yeah, he's my boss."
"I agree he's your boss, but fuck this out of your league shit, and he's about as straight as you, Cassie. Denny totally called that one, like always."
"How did we come to this conclusion?" Cassidy asked with another sigh, as he unlocked the door, flipped on the entry hall light, and kicked off his shoes.
"Cass, men only think they're being subtle when they're checking someone out. If you two had been eye fucking one another any harder, you would have been naked on that table."
Cassidy choked and whipped around. "Where in the hell did you learn language like that?"
Lindsay rolled her eyes. "Boys. I'm going to bed, I've got to run errands in the morning, and I want to get an early start. You should totally flirt with him, cause he was sure as hell flirting with you, and think of all the dirty thing you could do in that—"
Covering his ears with his hands, Cassidy fled upstairs. He wasn't certain what was worse—that his sister would talk like that, never mind about him, or that he liked all the delightful, dirty ideas she was putting in his head.
Argh. Work tomorrow was going to be a living hell. He was so never going to that damned restaurant again.
Chapter Three
Malcolm pointedly ignored the sniggering that came from above. When it only got worse, he finally cracked open his good eye to glare at the golden, freckled face smirking down at him. "Go away."
"My office," Antoine replied.
Grunting in dissatisfaction over this arguable fact, Malcolm sat up and said, "Then give me something to drink."
"What happened? Carlos said you got a call from Dickhead and flounced off last night."
Malcolm scowled. "I did not fucking flounce off. Carlos was being a dick, and it was bad enough we were arguing in front of Cass, so I left."
Antoine handed him a glass of whiskey. "Cass? That must be the pretty boy Carlos mentioned. Prettier than you?"
"Shut up," Malcolm replied and tossed the whiskey back. "Cass is my new accounts payable guy. He reached his three months yesterday and was out celebrating with his family last night at Carlos'. I ran into him, they let me eat with them. Then Bill called. But, I gave Cass a ride home later."
"Then you went to see Dickhead, I take it?" Antoine asked. "It's that or you picked a fight in a bar again."
"Fuck you. I haven't done random bar fights since college and you know it. I'm too old for that shit. God, why am I related to assholes?"
"Because you're an asshole too," Antoine retorted, refreshing his whiskey then sitting down next to him on the brown leather sofa taking up one corner of Antoine's massive office. "So why did you go to see Dickhead?"
Malcolm grimaced, preferring not to think about it and glanced down at his whiskey. "To tell him that when I said it was over, I meant it, and to stop fucking bothering me. I had his number finally blocked this morning."
Antoine's brows shot up. "You? Tell a bad choice in boyfriend to go to hell all by yourself? Without us doing it for you?"
"Fuck you," Malcolm said again, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Even I only have so much masochism in me for a boyfriend who thinks punching me is an acceptable end to an argument—not to mention I caught him with his hand on another's guy dick. I did dump him almost a month ago, you know. He just keeps coming back like a fucking bad penny."
Antoine sneered. "Naturally. You're rich, well-connected, and too fucking pretty for your own good, Mal."
"God, shut up. I came here to rest and recover, not listen to your yammering."
"So why did he punch you?"
"Because I tried to rip his nuts off after he tried to go for my car."
Antoine whistled. "The Maserati? Guess Dickhead did have a death wish. So what made you finally drop him? I figured it was all your usual half-assed attempts. Find a new bad boy to make you miserable?"
"Fuck. You," Malcolm said through his teeth. "I do not like bad boys. They just always turn out that way."
"Uh huh. Pull the other. You don't like your men unless they're at least eighty percent bad boy."
Malcolm flipped him off. "Flavor, I like bad boy flavor. I completely would not give a fuck if it was artificial flavoring. Believe me, I'd be okay with that."
Antoine laughed. "Good luck with that. I swore Carlos said you were making eyes at Mr. New Acc
ounts Payable."
"Jesus, what are you two, gossipy old women? Stop talking about my goddamn love life." But he smiled at thoughts of Cassidy. "He's definitely easy on the eyes." So definitely, the way that soft-looking black hair was trying so hard to show its curls. Were they loose, floppy curls? Tight little corkscrews? Somewhere in between? Cass would look even better with his hair grown out a bit. Combined with those sad blue eyes… "He's totally jumpy around me, though, probably all the more after last night." He sighed. "I think full on real me would give him a heart attack. He doesn't even seem to own anything with short sleeves." He shook his head and tossed back the whiskey he still held.