by Megan Derr
"Uh—Jonathan. You really don’t need to give me a ride home."
"Yeah, I do," Malcolm replied. "You probably kept me from getting dead." He yawned, and wished suddenly that he'd had less alcohol, or that there was more to consume. "My name's Malcolm."
Jonathan nodded.
On drunken impulse, Malcolm slid across the seat, just close enough their thighs touched. "You're scared of me." Something fluttered through his mind again, a familiarity to the words, but again, they wouldn't connect. He ignored the feeling of déjà vu, irritated. "Why?"
Jonathan only laughed. "I'm not scared of you. I just didn't expect to pull you from a fight or get escorted home."
"Ha!" Malcolm said, shaking his head slightly to get rid of the sudden overwhelming exhaustion. "The way you look, I bet anyone would be more than happy to give you a ride home any day, any time." He reached out to touch the tats again. "These really are gorgeous. Must have been hell, getting them."
"They were worth it," Jonathan said quietly, and reached up to tug on the small brim of his flat cap.
Malcolm grabbed the hand and pulled it away. "You are scared of me, I can tell. Others are, for one reason or another. Cause I have drivers. And a car. And other stuff."
Jonathan laughed softly again. "I'm not scared of you. There's nothing scary about a man who'd pick a fight with six guys and not care a bit he's losing, or a man who paid the tab for the entire fucking bar and obviously has done so before."
"You…I thought you left." He grimaced as the words struck him further. "I guess there really isn't any reason to be scared of a dumbass who'd be that fucking careless in a fight." He ignored the comments about money.
"It was cute," Jonathan said, snorting with amusement. "Stupid, but cute."
Malcolm shrugged. "Stupid is the story of my life. So if you're not scared of me, why are you so twitchy?"
He couldn't really see Jonathan in the dark, but he could feel the eyes upon him like a touch. It made him shiver. The only good thing about being three steps from alcohol poisoning was how easy it was to do the stupid shit that was the story of his life.
Leaning forward, he curled a steadying hand around Jonathan's head and took his mouth in a slow, careful kiss—totally expecting to be shoved away, punched, something, even if he had sensed certain vibes in that unseen gaze.
Instead, Jonathan made a choked, whimpering sort of sound, and then hands were sunk deep into Malcolm's hair, as though clinging for dear life and Malcolm was being kissed back as if their lives depended on it.
Not one to waste a good thing, he shifted his hold to grab Jonathan firmly and haul him close, all but into his lap, falling back into his own corner of the car and continuing the thorough kiss, one bleeding into two, bleeding into who knew how many, until a sudden discreet cough startled them apart.
Then panic seemed to hit Jonathan like a whip, and he fled the car faster than Malcolm could manage to formulate words, dashing off into the depths of an apartment complex he didn't recognize—but given the short trip, they were obviously in or just outside of Bridgeton.
So Jonathan lived in Bridgeton. That was something, if not much.
Heaving an aggravated sigh, he raked his hair from his face and slumped back in his seat, not looking forward to a two hour drive with nothing better to do than ponder the hot kisses and avoid pondering how his brothers were going to kill him when they found out about this. "Home, Jeeves," he said tiredly.
Brian laughed. "Yes, Mr. Malcolm."
Malcolm closed his eyes as Brian drove on, resigned to his torture, recalling every last tidbit of those kisses, of how good the mysterious Jonathan had felt spread on top of him. Rick had said no one ever managed to score the man—so why had Malcolm not really had much trouble at all? A pity he was so damned drunk. Sober, he might have been able to do something more than steal a few kisses.
He also realized his chances of ever seeing the man were pretty slim. Heaving a sigh, he shifted to sit more comfortably in the seat, watching without really seeing as the scenery rolled on by, little more than black save for the odd patches beneath street lights.
At some point, he dozed off, because he woke to Brian gently nudging him outside his building. Stumbling out of the car, he fumbled for a tip and pressed it into Brian's hand, muttering good night as he half-walked, half-stumbled into his building and made straight for the elevator the front desk man had waiting for him.
In his penthouse, he dumped all his crap on the entry table, stumbled to his bedroom, stripped off his clothes, and fell into bed.
The smell of coffee woke him, and Malcolm groaned with dissatisfaction that he was awake. He glared blearily up at Carlos. "Go the fuck away."
"Did you get into another fight?" Carlos demanded, as he got a good look at Malcolm's face. "I swear to god, we come to talk and now I just want to kick your fucking ass."
"You always want to kick my fucking ass," Malcolm replied, sitting up and taking the coffee. "Get the fuck out so I can dress."
Rumbling threats and curses in English and Spanish, Carlos obeyed.
Malcolm pulled on boxers and jeans, retrieved his coffee, then wandered into the living, ignored his brothers as he passed them, fetched aspirin from the kitchen, then finally returned to the living room to deal with the brothers.
"I didn't get in a fight last night, not the way you think," he said, before they could start in with the yelling and lecturing. When they gave him scathing, disbelieving looks, he flipped them off and explained the whole night. Minus the kissing, which he only fuzzily remembered and was none of their fucking business anyway.
Antoine swore when he had finished. "That's seriously who helped you? Butterflies all up one arm, Celtic stuff all up the other? Dark hair, blue eyes, keeps largely to himself?"
"Yes…" Malcolm replied, confused. "Why?"
"Damn it, man, that's the karaoke guy Wally and I were trying to find last night! It so fucking figures he dodges us and goes to the one fucking place you'd be. Damn it!"
Malcolm snorted. "Well, I'm glad I didn't go with you, then."
Antoine narrowed his eyes.
Malcolm beamed innocently, and went to get more coffee.
"You fucked my karaoke player!" Antoine bellowed after him. "God damn it, why didn't you bring him home?"
"Oh, my poor straight ears and mind," Carlos complained good naturedly.
"I didn't fuck him," Malcolm said when he returned. "We made out in the car while I took him home. He fled. Otherwise I would have brought him home, and I would have told you to get the hell out this morning."
Carlos rolled his eyes. "Can we please stop talking about fucking men now? I need to go home and touch my wife."
"Ew, girls," Malcolm retorted.
Antoine laughed at both of them, then pointed at Malcolm. "You. The next time you spot that guy, call me or Wally immediately, if not sooner."
"Yeah, yeah," Malcolm replied. "Where's my breakfast?"
Carlos threw a pillow at him, but then went to fetch the breakfast he'd brought from the kitchen, as Malcolm obediently began to repeat the whole night to Antoine, all the while thinking of those kisses, and how badly he wanted to steal more under better circumstances.
Chapter Five
Oh, god. Oh, god. Oh, god. Oh, god.
Three days later, he still could not keep from repeating those words ad nauseam. He rubbed his temples with his finger tips, telling himself for the five thousandth time that it was okay, Malcolm hadn't identified him, had been so drunk he probably didn't remember any fucking thing from that night—
Which should not depress him because holy goddamn fuck shit he'd seen his boss in the bar and instead of fleeing he'd just slunk off to watch from a distance and then he'd thrown himself into the fight to get Malcolm out and then he'd let Malcolm drop him at a random apartment complex but not before he'd given in and kissed his drunk as a skunk boss like he was some sort of treat.
Honestly, what the fuck had he been thinking?
He hadn't, Cass
idy thought sourly. His thoughts had pretty been 'hot-yum-more-naked-oh fuck'. Christ, he was lucky Malcolm hadn't recognized him, even if it was sort of depressing that Malcolm had totally never realized even if Cassidy had been trying to make certain—
And he was making his headache worse, not better.
Really, there was no telling yet if Malcolm had pegged him. He'd called in sick Monday, and it wasn’t quite eight o'clock now. He could only just hear the others beginning to trickle in, and Malcolm when he didn't come in early tended to roll in just after eight.
Cassidy heaved a sigh and gave up working, deciding instead that at least fetching a cup of coffee would give him a different place to drive himself fucking crazy. He'd thought yesterday was the Day That Would Never End, but Tuesday was rapidly taking over that title.
In the break room, he huffed in annoyance to see someone had emptied the coffee but not made a fresh pot. Sighing, he set a fresh pot to brewing and cleaned out his mug simply for something to do. Turning back to the brewing coffee, he saw that someone had set out muffins and pastries on one of the half dozen tables in the room.
Ooh. He looked over the choices, thrilled to see there was a strawberry danish amongst the offerings. Yay, one little good thing in his stupid damn day. Picking it out, he immediately took a bite, making indistinct noises of appreciation as he made quick work of the pastry.
"Good?" a voice asked, sleepy and husky and entirely too familiar.
Cassidy gasped, choked, and promptly bent over in a coughing fit. God damn it—why did Malcolm always attack him in the break room? Okay, attacking might be exaggerating slightly.
"Sorry," Malcolm said, sighing softly. "Didn't mean to scare you."
"It's—" Cassidy cleared his throat. "It's okay. My fault. I was a million miles away.
Malcolm smiled faintly. "So I see."
Cassidy flushed and turned away to fix his coffee, saying nothing when Malcolm stood beside him to do the same, struggling not to notice the man but oh, god, it was so much harder to ignore him now that he knew what he was missing. And he'd only gotten the slightest taste.
Shit, shit. Stop thinking that way, cause god he did not need to explain to his boss why he was sporting a boner.
"Have a good weekend?" Malcolm asked into the silence.
What, Cassidy wondered miserably, had he done to piss the universe off so much? He looked up, half-terrified to death, half-hopeful despite himself, to see if Malcolm was fucking with him or something.
And was far more crushed than he thought he should be, to realize the question was completely innocuous. "Fine," he mumbled, and dropped his gaze back to his coffee. "Yours?"
He barely heard Malcolm's reply, too lost in his own misery.
What had he really expected? For Malcolm to realize who he'd kissed? For him to stroll into work today and say 'Hey, Jonathan, what's shaking? Wanna pick up where we left off some time?'
That was stupid, and it didn't matter, because he wasn't stupid enough to say yes to something like that. Except he thought maybe he was that stupid. He never in a thousand years would have thought Malcolm was…
Not so prim and proper after all. Even twelve sheets to the wind, he had fought like someone used to handling himself in a brawl. He fought like a pro, drank like a pro, charmed like a pro, and kissed like he'd been born for it. Jeezus. Cassidy was never going to get that small moment of bliss out of his head. Spread over Malcolm's lap like a cat in need of petting, taking all he could get from that wicked, perfect mouth—
God, he really needed to stop thinking about it. Right now.
"Cass?"
"Huh?" Cassidy said, snapping from his thoughts, flushing darker still as he realized Malcolm had been talking to him, and he'd been totally oblivious. God, why was he such a fucking idiot outside of the dives and karaoke bars. He turned away guys all the time, chatted up others, got along with bouncers and bartenders, but he couldn't string words together to save his life when Malcolm was within ten yards.
Malcolm's mouth quirked. "You're really out of it, today. Are you certain everything's okay?"
"Uh, yeah," Cassidy managed. "Just tired, I guess. Was up late. Uh—what were you saying?"
"I wanted to know if you were thinking of attending the company picnic in two months. They say picnic, but it's a huge blowout charity thing. Food, booths, games, and they always bring in an awesome band. They'll formally announce this year's band in about a month. You should definitely come. It's the last weekend in July. Half the city attends, I think."
Cassidy nodded. "Sure. Sounds fun. I'm sure my siblings would love them. Oh—is it okay to bring them?" He'd never done company stuff before, he had no idea what was okay or not. God. Sometimes he felt so stupid.
But Malcolm only laughed gently and reached out—and it seemed he was going for Cassidy's hair, but in the end he only altered the move and dropped a hand briefly on his shoulder. "Of course it's okay, I'd love to see them again. They seemed cool; it's obvious you raised them well. That must have been hard."
In reply, Cassidy only shrugged, discomfited as always when people tried to make a big deal out of it. What should he have done? Run for the hills and left them to strangers? "It's nothing. We're family."
Malcolm nodded and turned away. "To work I go, I guess. One day of slacking was more than enough. Have a good day, email or call if you need anything."
Then he was gone, and Cassidy could breathe again, and he wondered how in the fucking hell he was going to keep working here when all he could think about was his boss and how damned good it had felt lying on top of him and kissing him until they were both senseless.
He forced the thoughts away only because he really did not want anyone in the office asking why he was hard—oh, god, he would have to throw himself out the nearest open window—and finally trudged back to his desk.
Settling down, he forced himself back to his work, this time managing to concentrate, if only barely. He did not look up again until the amount of talking and giggling increased by a startling amount. Standing up to peek over the top of his cube, he found the source of the racket at the front desk, where all the women and a few men were clustered around a tall, playboy-handsome man who had the sort of looks that made it hard to pin his age.
He saw movement from the corner of his eye and saw Janice had come to stand by him. "Uh—is that someone important, I'm going to guess?"
Janice laughed, but in her kind way, blue eyes sparkling as she slid them toward him. "Important, oh definitely. That's Antoine Osborne." She laughed again as she saw his face flood with comprehension. "Yeah, as in related to boss man." She pointed a thumb over her shoulder at Malcolm's office. "Antoine is the elder; he's also the Chief Creative Officer for Amberton-Lord Entertainments. They say half the reason we do so well in the music industry is that Mr. Antoine is friends with at least half the industry."
"And he's bedded the other half," Connie said, sidling up to join them. Cassidy was beginning to feel a little guilty, for listening to gossip, but he could not bring himself to walk away.
Anyway, Janice and Connie were blocking the way.
"Male or female," Connie continued in her furtive little whispers. "Mr. Antoine is smooth with everyone and everything. Could tempt me," she added with a mutter. "Just don't let my boyfriend hear me say it."
Janice giggled at her, swatting her in playful disapproval. Then she turned back to Cassidy and gleefully gave up her own bit of dirt. "They say Mr. Antoine is best friends with Wallace Burgundy. Do you know—"
"The music scout?" Cassidy asked, unable to believe what he was hearing. Even back when he was a dumb, stupid, reckless kid, he'd known that name. Wallace Burgundy… god, he'd discovered so many of the artists Cassidy loved. He and the guys had heard he'd be around that summer, it was why they'd been so psyched…
And then he'd lost his parents, lost his dream, but he hoped the guys had been found by Wallace, or someone else. He'd like to hear them on the radio someday.
Th
en it struck him that Wallace was friends with Antoine, and Antoine was Malcolm's brother…jeezus, sometimes the world seemed entirely too fucking small. He never should have landed a job with an entertainment company, even a small one like this. Maybe he was a masochist.
Besides, there was no saying it was true—office gossip wasn't any different than kitchen gossip, and ninety percent of that was bullshit. This was probably the same. But jeez, Malcolm had one brother who more or less owned a restaurant and another who was the Chief Creative Officer—which sounded important—for the same business where Malcolm was a simple Head Manager?
A head manager, he reminded himself with an inward sad sigh, who owned a Maserati and could afford to have someone drive him to Bridgeton and back, after he paid everyone's tab at the bar—