by Daryl Banner
When it’s noon and I’m taking a quick fifteen in the break room, there’s still been no sign of Mr. Gage. Three employees are gathered at the counter by the fridge whispering to each other. I pick up a few of their words as I eat one half of the peanut butter and honey sandwich I’d made myself at Elijah’s.
“He is totally here,” the dimply redhead tells the two guys whose names I confuse—Brady or Brandon or whoever. “He’s just in his office dealing with that one client from New Jersey we keep having to redo paperwork for. The punk singer.”
“No, no. His office has been dark all morning,” insists the handsome one with the beard. “He’s not even here. If he comes in, he might just—”
“I’m the one Rebekah keeps handing the Lynette Torrington files to,” asserts the third, the annoyingly hot one who replaced the toner into the copier for me on my first day. “She whispered to me that one summer, Mr. Gage actually used a couple interns as personal assistants during a tough time with a client whose image was going to shit. It was his worst client ever.”
“You mean that young homophobic politician and his ‘tryst’ in a public bathroom with an underage boy a couple years back?”
“Anyway,” the third one goes on, not answering, “I’m certain that Lynette—from what I’ve read and researched—might be his big problem this year. I can just feel it.”
“Oh, I see. You think you’re gonna become Mr. Gage’s little pet protégé and reap all the glittery benefits,” sasses the redhead, turning his nose up. “Well, why don’t you tell us what wonderful successes those quote ‘personal assistants’ unquote are up to today after their time with Mr. Gage years ago? You think they’re making six figures with their own firms? Or maybe I should go check the local fast food joints to see which of them has been promoted to manager yet, or if they’re still nuking french fries and frozen fish patties.”
“No shame in working in fast food,” quietly mutters the other blond, the bearded one. “That was my job all through high school. Learned a lot. Manager was a dick, though.”
The other two give him one look, then roll their eyes. “You can flash your Lynette files in his face all you want, Brady,” the redhead tells the cocky one, “but in the end, we’re all just peons in a big office soup. You’d be lucky if you’re just standing in the back of a conference room filled with sixty-six other wannabes, all their heads blocking the dry erase board on which Mr. Gage writes.”
The one named Brady, king of toner, leans toward him. “I’ll be in the front of that room, Jimmy, guaranteed. I’ll be the one whose name he actually remembers after this shit summer. I’ll be the one he calls up when there’s a client in need of someone reliable and smart. I’ll be the one who brings the bacon, boys.”
Satisfied with himself, Brady smooths out his tie, deposits the trash from his lunch into a waste bin, then saunters out of the room. He pays me as much mind as a breadcrumb when he passes.
The redhead Jimmy and the bearded hottie Brandon look at one another. “More like he’ll bring the Starbucks order,” mumbles Jimmy, and the two of them share a laugh.
As for my face, it’s straight and unsmiling as steel. I’m focused on finishing my sandwich so I can get back on the floor, because when Mr. Gage comes in, I want him to see me busy. I want him to see me dirty with my efforts. I want him to see me hard at work.
“I need six copies of this program for Mr. Gage’s conference meeting,” Rebekah instructs me ten minutes later.
I accept the sheet of paper from her and head for the copier. Once I insert it in, tap the “6”, then push the red button, I wait as the machine gently hums. One copy, two copies, three, four, five …
Then it stops. No sixth copy.
Shit.
And right then: “Mr. Gage is here,” hisses a lady nearby to a dude buried in the files, who perks up at the words like a deer in the filing cabinet forest. “He’s just come in. He’s here.”
Crap. And I’m stuck waiting on the sixth copy to spit out of this machine instead of preparing myself to meet the boss. I set my jaw and examine the copier, only to find the screen blinking at me: a dildo-shaped icon. Toner.
I won’t let this thwart me.
I move to the shelf right by the copier and produce a new box of toner, then set it down on the long table by the copier with the cutting board. With the finesse of a skilled technician, I pop open the front of the machine—per Brady’s example a week ago—and then pull on the old toner.
And it’s stuck.
I don’t scowl. I don’t grunt. I don’t let out an under-the-breath expletive. Instead, I calmly pull harder in an attempt to free the old toner. Still stuck. I pull harder yet. Still stuck.
“Dude,” comes the voice of Elijah off to my side. “Boss man’s here. Interns are gathering at the table to meet him. Like, legit! Rebekah is even going to introduce us all.”
I answer him in a calm, not-freaked-out, totally-got-my-shit-together voice. “I’ll be there soon.”
“Drop all of this and come, dude. He’ll be there in seconds, and if you’re not—”
I give the toner another tug. Nothing. “Just go, Elijah.” My tone is sweet and patient. “I’m making these copies for him.”
“Alright, bro!” And he’s gone.
I peer into the machine to see if there’s some kind of latch or something. Nothing. I clench my teeth one last time and pull hard, then harder, then even harder.
And it finally comes free—along with a thick cloud of inky, black toner all over me.
With the burden of a clock counting down, I ignore the mess and shove the new toner in its place, then slap the machine closed and let it finish its job. Swiping the six copies and the original from the machine, I hurry off in the direction of the long table toward the backs of all my fellow interns. Rebekah’s nasally voice is introducing us one by one to Mr. Gage, whose squared shoulders in a tight black blazer are all I see through the crowd.
“And where is he?” comes Rebekah’s voice. “He has the copies of the programs.”
“Here, ma’am!” I call out, slipping through the crowd. “I have them right—!”
My foot catches the edge of the table leg just as I come out from between two blonds. My tripped-up footing turns into something of a sad, awkward tap dance as I, for one glorious second, truly believe I can save myself from falling.
The maneuver swiftly becomes an Olympic dive into the swimming pool of grey-white tile right in front of everyone.
The six copies fly into the air like unfolded paper pigeons.
When I open my eyes, I’m staring at the shiny dress shoes of Mr. Gage, who looms over me.
“S-Sorry. I’m sorry.” I climb to my feet and brush myself off, only to discover that the little “cloud of toner” at the copier was more like a detonation of darkness all down the front of my shirt and slate pants. I look like I wrestled with an octopus and lost.
“That was quite an entrance,” states Mr. Gage. “And you are?”
I look up, prepared to introduce myself.
Then I freeze.
His beautiful eyes meet mine, then turn to stone as recognition dawns in them.
10
Benjamin starts to sweat.
“This is Trevor,” Rebekah announces, introducing the pretty boy standing terrified in front of me, the pretty boy with the giant explosion of copier toner all down his front.
The one I took home Friday night.
The one I haven’t stopped thinking about all weekend.
The one who called me a rich, cocky prick, then left me high and dry with a boner in my pants.
“Trevor,” I state simply, keeping my face absolutely untelling and blank.
Impressively, he takes just one solid second to regain his composure before extending his own hand. “The p-pleasure is mine, Mr. Gage,” he gets out, eye contact never breaking.
I accept his handshake firmly. Our hands linger a second too long before finally letting go.
“And that i
s all of them,” explains Rebekah. “Now what I’ve had them prepare for you—”
She goes on to explain a bunch of things, but all I do is watch as Trevor reluctantly bends over to collect the six copies of the program he just made. Those tapered pants are doing so much for his ass right now, it’s taking everything in me not to grab him and pull his tight, sexy body against my hardening crotch.
I want to punish him for being such a cock tease—working a man up all night, then ditching him. I want to punish him right now.
Oblivious, Trevor rises off the floor with the six copies—and then doesn’t seem to know what to do with them. He moves to hand them to Rebekah, changes his mind, and takes a step toward me. Then, with his eyes clamping shut and snapping back open, he finally extends the copies to Rebekah—who takes them without so much as a second of interruption in her endless self-important rambling. Trevor slowly backs into the crowd of interns with a sheen of sweat over his forehead, then stands there with his arms folded and his head hanging, staring at the floor and wide-eyed.
Well, this summer just became a whole lot more interesting.
“I am going to my office now,” I declare, cutting off Rebekah midsentence, “as I have a lot to catch up on. Rebekah, call a team together in the conference room. I’ll be there in five.”
“Yes, sir.” Rebekah’s smile is flat as she gathers her folders and nods at the interns. “Dismissed back to your duties.”
Trevor looks up from his daze and returns to his duties at the table without so much as a glance my way. The poor kid looks like he’s shitting bricks. I almost feel sorry for him.
Almost.
When I reach my office, I shut the door behind me and lean against it. The silence and darkness of the office offers me no peace of mind.
Because my mind is too busy screaming: Holy fucking shit.
How is it that, in a city of over two million people, I happen to hook up with the one cute boy at the nightclub who happens to be a newly hired intern of mine?
I have a higher chance of being struck by lightning. Twice.
Which is exactly how I feel right now, by the way. I can’t move. I can’t even blink, my eyelids stuck open and my fingers tingling with anticipation. What do I do? Do I act totally normal? Do I go about my day pretending like there isn’t some kid out there who I just opened up my soul to—as well as my pants? I brought him to my home. He half met my dog.
There’s a knock on the door, which I feel through the three loud raps at my back. “Mr. Gage?” comes Rebekah’s voice.
I grab hold of my worries, stuff them down, then turn around and pull open the door. “Rebekah.”
“Raymond’s wife is in labor,” she tells me right away, “and Emilio is still in the city taking pictures. So we have the option of a meeting without them, or I pull—”
“Replacements,” I state, answering her before she’s asked the question. “Notes will be taken and forwarded to both of them. We need to handle the Jersey kid, and now.”
“Got it. I’ll get stand-ins for Raymond and Emilio. Your team will be in the conference room in five, as requested. And don’t forget about Benson’s lawyers at four.”
She’s gone as quickly as she’d come, and I shut myself in the darkness once again, eyes closed, my breathing strictly controlled. With a sudden lift of my chin, I decide to dismiss my worries about Trevor. Besides, judging from the look in his eyes, he’s probably as freaked out as I am.
Except I’m not freaked out.
I have everything under control.
I put myself at my computer and start to sift through all the email. Twice, I accidentally delete a message I mean to file away, cursing myself as I fish them out of the trash folder. I see a subject line with the word “Texas” in it and all I read is “sexy”. Then there is an email with the phrase “acute warning” and my eyes tell me I’m reading “a cute warm boy”. I’m seeing the word “blond” where it doesn’t belong, and “boner”, and “tight firm ass”.
An email titled “Re: on-the-clock” becomes “Re: on-my-cock.”
In the five minutes I gave myself, I get absolutely nothing done on account of my horribly perverted mind.
And it’s all that damned intern’s fault.
Or is it? Is it my fault for succumbing to the emptiness in my soul Friday night when I decided to hit the town for the first time in ages? Maybe if I had been stronger and chose to stay home with Lance and binge Netflix while catching up on emails, I wouldn’t be caught in this situation.
I whip off my blazer and fling it over the back of my chair. I’m working up a sweat thinking about all of this.
But if Trevor and I didn’t hook up Friday night and I was meeting him for the first time today, would I still have the same reaction? Would I see him among my crop of new employees this summer and think: That one stands out. That one is curious, driven, and focused. That one has something special about him …
I shouldn’t worry. The interns never meddle much directly in my affairs in the office anyway. Rebekah keeps them occupied with organizing files, running errands, taking calls … busywork, more or less. I decided years ago that my summer internship program would be a way to “share the wealth” of my company, bringing new, bright faces in every summer from all the local universities so they can work in a real office, gain experience, and get to jot my name down on their little résumés when they go off into the big world. Sometimes, I even take a few of them under my wing when there’s a big enough client who needs extra attention.
Yeah. Sometimes I’m a really hands-on kind of boss.
But I never let the interns get close—and certainly not as close as I let Trevor Friday night.
Friday night …
Wait a second. Trevor worked in the office for a whole week before we met, right? And he was chosen months ago after all of the interviews. He’s known about me all this time.
Doesn’t that mean he already knew what I look like?
Does that mean he knew who I was at the club?
I drop back into my chair, staring at the wall in a stupor. Was this all just an elaborate plan of Trevor’s? Did he know who I was at the nightclub, targeted me, then went home with me in hopes of gaining some advantage here in the office?
My jaw tightens up at the realization. Of course. Like every other desperate guy who waltzes into my life, he’s just another hot boy who wants something from me.
Just like all the others.
Well, he’s going to learn really fast who’s boss within these four walls. I’m in control of everything. I have to remind myself of that very important fact. Things will remain under my control as long as I maintain my control, no matter how sexy Trevor is.
The interns never work directly with me—not unless I request it. And so I simply won’t request it. As it’s of utmost importance to enforce an air of absolute professionalism, it’s completely within my power to maintain appropriate workplace behavior, to keep him busy away from me, and to salvage my brand of peace and tranquility I can only find here.
Hell. When I put it that way, it sounds downright easy to keep my peaceful atmosphere.
Another knock at the door. “Mr. Gage?”
“WHAT??” I shout out, exasperated. Then, I blink away my anxiety—shit, I’m jumpy—and run a shaky hand down my tie. I go for a calmer tone. “What is it, Rebekah?”
She slips her head inside. “Urgent memo. Just forwarded it to you from an Irene Kingston,” she tells me, her voice turning into a near-inaudible rasp on the last two words.
I quirk an eyebrow. “From who?”
“She put that it’s very urgent in the subject line. Isn’t she one of your secret clients? Never mind, not my business. Just thought you’d like to know before the meeting,” Rebekah finishes, all in a raspy whisper, before excusing herself, the door shutting as softly as a secret.
After a thought, I push my worries of Trevor to the side and pull out my personal tablet from my briefcase, then tap it to life and log in
to my private account—the secret part of my business I keep completely off the mainframe network. As I suspected, “Irene Kingston” is really Jazz using a fake name. Jazz is my totally off-the-books partner-in-crime hacker assistant who no one knows exists except me. Since she didn’t text me, I figure something’s up with her phone and it may be somehow compromised. I open a VPN client and connect to her through an encrypted IP tunnel.
Her face pops up on my tablet, but it’s half covered in shadow at the top by a wide-brimmed hat and the bottom by a puffy knit scarf. The only part of her face in focus are her eyes in high-contrast black and white. The way she looks is so comically mysterious that even I sometimes wonder how she doesn’t see herself as a caricature ripped right out of some 90s crime flick about the technological revolution.
“Sound check,” mutters Jazz in her German dialect through the screen—or rather, just her eyes, as I can’t see her mouth.
“Check,” I mutter back. “I have a meeting I’m already late to, Jazz, so give it to me quick.”
“Angelina Marie and her friend Lukas Pulaski split up.”
I squint at her. “Angelina Marie—Wait a second. Melena’s daughter’s boyfriend? The one who received the nude video?”
“Videos. More than one. I suspect he has a computer savvy friend of his own, sadly, because the hold I had on his cellular traffic is broken. I cannot regain control—I am being blocked—but I am still able to watch.” Her words are clipped and cold, made sharper by her thick dialect. “He contacted some John Doe—that is the literal screen name this man goes by—who is more than interested in buying the nude videos. There are two. Lukas is just awaiting payment.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and shake my head. “And you even warned me he’d be a problem. Damn it.”
“I just call the things by what they are, my friend. One of the videos involves chocolate syrup.”
“I don’t want to know.”