by Xavier Neal
There's a small pause on the other end before he asks, “Lucky was wondering if you would like coffee or anything else this morning.”
“Coffee,” I hum at the dark fuel that is the foundation for most of my days. “Lots of sugar.”
“How much sugar?”
“Pour so much sugar in there that you convince yourself it's too much, then pour a little more.”
He chuckles as if I'm kidding. I'm not. I really like sugar in my coffee. “Anything else?”
For a moment my mind churns at the different food I typically have for breakfast, the majority of them meant to be had at lunch or dinner. Not much of an actual breakfast food person. Considering the fact it is the most skipped meal in my life it's not a surprise. While the idea of food choices fades from my mind, another one pops up.
“Bring it to me.”
“Excuse me?”
“I want you to bring me my coffee.”
“Penny will-”
“Yeah, no. The little-redheaded chick is most likely to spit in my coffee. I get the vibe she doesn't like me.”
“She-”
“Not up for discussion, puppet boy. You're the face and voice of the host, right? A good host accommodates his guest. I want you to bring me my coffee.”
J.T. lets out a defeated sigh. “Sure. I can do that. I'll see you in a few.”
The line goes dead and I sit up to place the phone back on the receiver. Looking around the dim room, I rest my back against the lush headboard and admire a setting I never imagined myself in. The spacious room feels three times the size of any bedroom I've had in my life. There's a king size bed, a couch, a large flat screen T.V., and a make-up vanity alongside an array of dressers and a wardrobe. Even if I lived a hundred lifetimes, there's no way I could ever fill the space in this room with things that belong to me. While I initially tossed my trash bag of shit in the walk in, which is close to the bathroom, the idea of unpacking it crossed my mind as I tossed and turned last night. Shortly after I arrived, I was taken to see my mom who could barely muster up enough strength to greet me. Rather than push her fragile state, I insisted she rest, keeping her company until she was back in a deep slumber before dismissing myself to attempt to unwind in my room. Seeing her so weak shifted something inside I'm not used to. Most things don't phase me for longer than the fleeting moment they roam by, but my mother is the exception. She's the strongest person I've ever met and to see her lack the very strength she drilled so fiercely into me is heart-shattering. I may not break down for much anymore, but seeing her in such a helpless state freed tears into the overly soft pillows intended for my sweet dreams rather than silent sobs.
I make my way across the cold hardwood floor to the bathroom where I give my teeth a quick brush and wrap my hair on top of my head in a messy bun. There's a light knocking on the bedroom door that grabs my attention before I can bother tossing on my favorite face accessory.
As soon as I open it, J.T.'s face begins to rubricate and his free hand attempts to shield his eyes. “I-I-I- I didn't realize you weren't dressed yet. I could've waited. I probably should've waited.”
“Chill out, my bikini covers less than this,” I casually remark in regards to the boy short underwear and tank top I slept in.
A brief smile flashes across his face.
“Thinkin' about that sight aren't you?”
“Yeah...I mean no. No,” he tries to firmly say. “Of course not. I meant...um..I brought you your coffee.”
“Thanks,” I hum, taking the cup and moving my body slightly into the doorway.
Without warning, I swiftly rip off the small device attached to his ear and toss it down the hallway.
“Hey!” J.T. yells in objection. “What the hell-”
“Come on.” My hand grabs his and yanks him forward. Once he's inside I shut the door tightly and giggle into the cup I'm holding. After a single sip of the beverage that's already the perfect temperature, I compliment him, “This...this is amazing. You did a really good job.”
Bafflement continues to bathe his expression. “Are you crazy?”
“Depends on who you ask.”
“Why did you take my phone?”
“You mean your Starship Enterprise communicator? So that Captain Kirk would leave the bridge and come down to formally introduce himself to me.”
He cocks his head to the side in further curiosity. “You think this will get you an introduction?”
I wink. “I know it will.”
J.T. slides his hands into his gray dress pants pockets. “How?”
“Trust me. I know people.” Another sip finds its way to my lips before I ask, “So this whole puppet boy thing, is that just for visitors on the property or is it an all the time thing?”
“First of all, stop calling me puppet boy,” he pleads leaning against the wall closest to the door. “Second of all, we don't get visitors.”
“I'm here.”
“You're....you're a very surprising exception.”
Story of my life. “You said we. You live in this mega mansion too?”
He nods slowly. “There's a guest house on the opposite end of the property, closer to the gates. It's where I live. The live-in staff occupies the large, private house where your mother is currently being taken care of.”
“And Captain Kirk?”
J.T. fights the urge to smile again. “Here in the main house. There are two more guest homes, but truthfully I'm not sure what they're for anymore.”
I only caught a glimpse of the estate yesterday. Just the distance from the main house to staff's felt like I was traveling the English countryside for hours. Thank God for those golf carts everyone seems to be driving around in.
“Question.”
“Shoot.”
“Why do you keep making Star Trek references?”
“Movie was on last night,” I answer with a small shrug.
“You were watching it too?”
Our small common interest causes me to grin. “You ever watch the reruns?”
J.T. lightly laughs. “Probably more than I should admit out loud to the opposite sex.”
“Me too! My dad was a huge fan of Star Trek: The Next Generation, so naturally that became my favorite. I remember being four of five and sitting in his lap while he tossed back a beer and quoted along. Pretty sure he was convinced he was Jean-Luc Picard in another lifetime.”
Another laugh escapes and J.T. sighs, “Lucky. We didn't have a T.V. in the house. I had to watch it through the neighbor's blinds on a good night.”
“You didn't have a T.V.?”
“It was always the first object to get pawned when we were short on cash.”
The reply resonates deeper in me than I was predicting it would. Considering what my father did for a living, there should've been no reason for us to ever struggle, for my mother to have to start cleaning the floors of the more fortunate, yet his addiction almost cost us the house more than once I later learned. Not to compare shades of disappointment but something about getting your house pawned feels shittier than having your television up for grabs.
Before our conversation can continue, there's a hard banging on the door that seems to vibrate the entire room. The fury in each pound causes J.T. to wince. His discomfort comes as a surprise. Maybe his boss isn't always this uptight. Maybe he's making a show of this for me.
“J.T.!” He shouts from the other side, his deep voice, smooth yet commanding. The sound saunters through my veins igniting intrigue of my favorite kind. “Out here. Now!”
J.T. moves to do as he's told when I hold up a hand to stop him. With a small push of the handle, I open the door to reveal the frame of a large man with his back to me. His body is covered from head to toe leaving nothing to be exposed. Nothing to be examined. Nothing to be presented.
“Good morning,” I greet warmly, cradling my cup of coffee.
“Morning,” he softly says in return.
Curious as to what he's hiding, I tease, “Did you come t
o join the pajama party or finally make an introduction?”
The comment shifts his stance. He buries his hands deeper in his sweatshirt pocket. “I'm Wes.”
“Brynley.”
Silence slides back and forth during the waiting process. I know he wants to see my face up close. I know that's the reason he came down here. He wanted a reason to be closer. To step from behind the curtain, even if only for a moment. The eruption of jealousy from a fake flirtation wasn't because he wished it was him so much as he wished he could feel the presence of someone new. He's no different than a fish who has been in a quarantine too long. There's a strong fear of being able to survive with the changes, but a stronger will to escape the solitude.
“J.T.!” He shouts again. “We've got a conference call!”
“Oh, other people get to see your face?”
“No. They see mine. They do get to hear his voice,” J.T. informs.
Irritation instantly tenses his shoulders.
He begins to move again when I hold my hand out to keep him still, insisting on just one more moment.
Sure enough, as predicted, Wes ever so slightly turns his head enough to barely expose one brown eye around his hood, and demands. “Now!”
“Coming,” he replies, opening the door wide enough to allow himself to exit.
“Thanks for the hot coffee and even hotter conversation, puppet boy.” My comment is met with what sounds like a small growl though I'm not certain from who. “And thanks, Wes, for leaving the throne to almost properly greet me.”
I expect him to slink off without another word, so I'm surprised when he says, “It's more than most people get.”
Knowing I don't find that hard to believe, I merely watch him disappear back down the hall, pride over pushing his buttons radiating off of me. He was given a fair warning when I arrived yesterday I would break most of his rules. If only he knew that was more than most people get from me.
The moment I round the corner into my office I grab J.T. by his jacket collar and swing his back against the wall. “What the fuck were you thinking?!”
Shock and fear flood his vision as he stutters out, “I-i-i-it wasn't my fault, Wes! I had no idea what she had planned!”
My eyes bore into his, searching for any sign of mistruth. Why would there be any? J.T.'s my best goddamn friend. He's never once lied to me or tried to hurt me. Why would he suddenly start now? Fuck. Why would I accuse him of that now? What is it about Brynley that's blinded my ability to think straight? How is it even possible in less than the span of a day one long legged, foul-mouthed woman has weaseled her way past so many of
my borders?
I release my grip, take a step back, and try to slow down my heaving chest.
After a long exchange of silence, J.T. readjusts his jacket. “Sorry, Wes. I didn't know her trick until it was already too late. I'd never set you up for something, you know that.”
“Yeah,” a deep sigh escapes. “I know.”
“Honestly though?” He continues, grabbing my attention. “Kinda glad she did.” When my eyebrows dart down he adds, “It's nice to see more than a shell of my best friend.”
Grumbling under my breath I deny, “I'm not a shell.”
“You're not when she's around and it's only been a day.”
The truth in his statement further frustrates me. One day. This woman has been in my life one fucking day and I'm already losing my sanity. And for what reason? Because she's beautiful? Because I love how every word that drips from her lips is coated in fire? Because she reminds me of a different life in a different world I could've led? This wasn't the turmoil I feared. This is so much goddamn worse.
“What is it about her that gets to you?” He continues to pursue as I stroll around to my wooden desk. “Is it because of who she is?””
I mutter quietly, “I don't know.”
“Is it something else?”
“I don't know.”
“Is it because you can't control her actions?”
“...I don't know.”
“Is it because you can predict her next one?”
“I. Don't. Know.”
“Fine. Tell me this. What pissed you off more? The fact we were alone without your consent or the fact you had no idea what we were doing behind those closed doors?”
The mental image of Brynley's voluptuous chest squeezed into the tiny black tank top hastily tears through my mind before effortlessly settling in my cock. Furor from the brief sight of her hardened nipples fights with frustration over the inexplicable jealousy that resides in the answer to both parts of his question.
A growl crawls out at the same time I drop down into my leather office chair. “It doesn't matter. None of that matters.”
J.T. slides his hands into his pocket and shakes his head.
“Look, I'm sorry about...um...” My hand motion proceeds a guilty shrug. “That. It was my mistake. I lost control. It won't happen again.”
He cocks a smirk. “Part of me doesn't believe you.”
That makes two of us.
“The other part of me doesn't want to believe you.”
“Samples,” Penny whispers from the doorway.
Unsure of how much and what exactly she overheard, I push down the possible embarrassment from someone else seeing my moment of weakness. “You can place them on the desk.”
“Of course,” she replies, pushing the cart in.
My eyes glance up to see J.T. admiring her with pure adoration. His mouth twitches like he wants to speak yet clamps shut in some sort of agony. When Penny was hired a year ago, I assumed his inconspicuous glances and inappropriately long stares were just a school boy crush on the fresh face in the house, but as time has gone on, it seems to have only gotten worse. While I have a personal preference for those who work for me to not sleep together I can't blame them when they do. Most of their time is spent crossing paths with only each other. It's bound to happen. Not sure J.T. is the prince charming for a girl like Penny, but what do I know? I haven't been with a woman in over a decade. My deepest understanding of the opposite sex at this point is what I've gathered from movies and trending social media topics.
Once the glass containers are placed on the edge of my desk, she meets eyes with me. “Will you two be needing anything else?”
I shake my head at the same time she places down the drink glasses.
“I'll be checking on the greenhouse if you change your mind.”
All of a sudden, the sound of a video chat ringing begins. After giving her a dismissal nod, I turn the monitor around to face J.T. who snaps out of the haze he had fallen into. He promptly sits in the chair on the other side of the desk.
When he's plastered on his most professional yet friendly expression, he hits the key and greets, “Morning Sully.”
“J.T.” The head of my largest distillery in the country, speaks in return.
“Everything running smooth?”
“As always,” he replies. “The team is anxious to hear about the samples you've acquired. We're grateful for the liberty Mr. Wilcox-”
“Wes,” I correct.
“Wes,” Sully instantly echoes. “has given us to explore new flavors. Are the two of you ready to begin?”
“Whenever you are,” my reply is followed by me leaning back in my chair.
Our conference regarding possible new additions to the lineup flows effortlessly as we cycle through the beverages we've been sent. While J.T. often makes business trips around the world to my many distilleries to check on employees, production, and quality, when additions or alterations are suggested, I personally have to approve, meaning they have to send them to me. Leaving the estate is a very rare and isolated choice. It's what's best for the company. If they were to catch a glimpse of the man responsible for their livelihood, my assumption is they would immediately look for another company to represent. That's why J.T. is perfect. Clean cut. Easy on the ears and eyes. Most people I do business with have only heard my voice. The Charlie's
Angel jokes got old after the first year.
By the time we've wrapped up the session, leaving only one of the samples a true possibility, J.T. is running behind for a lunch photo shoot with some financial blog desperate to represent my company in their monthly feature. As soon as he leaves, I make sure the path to the opposite side of the manor is clear before hustling across it for the gym. Midafternoon workouts aren't anything special to me. I work out whenever there's an imbalance in my world I can't control. Burying my sorrows in booze worked for the first year until Lauren had to call Matt because I wouldn't wake up one morning. Apparently, alcohol poisoning can be achieved quicker when no one is around to slow you down. It was the first death anniversary of my parents and she selflessly nursed me through the night like an angel of mercy. Mercy I didn't deserve might I add, especially not from her. Once I was sober enough to remember my own name, she threatened to quit if I didn't stop drinking like I had been. I wished I could say that was the turning point for my pathetic attempt to bury my chaotic emotions in terrible vices, but it wasn't. After alcohol, it was briefly sleeping pills. Then food. It wasn't until Lauren and J.T. both demanded I speak to a therapist that being physically active became a healthy alternative for my inability to deal with my self-loathing. Matt recommended Doctor Sawyer, and though I didn't work through all of the hatred, I finally got to a point I was no longer suicidal.