by Clancy Nacht
“Or one not on the clock,” another intoned, which made Lance bite his lip and look away.
He wasn’t going to laugh. Corey had tried to help, but still, Corey’s preference for women he could pay to leave was apparently an open secret.
Or she was just being snide.
“It just so happens that Lance here is on the clock himself, so just consider him my date and leave him alone, you vultures.” Corey grinned and put an arm around Lance.
“And here I thought the fixer was for Elliot’s benefit. I should’ve known. He’s too much of a Boy Scout to need someone to clean up messes. You, on the other hand…” She tugged Corey’s tie and laughed.
Corey joined in. “I resemble that remark.”
Shortly after, the party broke up. Men and women quietly passed Corey envelopes as Elliot and Susan saw the guests out with grateful handshakes and jokes. A nanny had put the kids to bed.
Lance shadowed Corey, figuring he was a safe distraction and as good a person as any to check in with before he went upstairs to change. As the last couple of guests queued up, Lance nodded to Corey and slipped away.
Back in his own clothes, Lance sighed in relief. As himself, he was more in control. He wasn’t some faker let in on the lifestyles of the straight and wealthy. He wasn’t trying to appear normal. He was Lance Gatsby, public relations, non-threatening homosexual.
There was a soft knock at the door. Lance eyed the cast-off suit provided for him and rushed to hang it up. “Yes?”
Elliot opened the door. He smiled, but his gaze went right to the suit. He frowned briefly but turned his attention back on Lance. His face lit up. “Just wanted to thank you for being here. You did great. That suit looked even better on you than I imagined it would.”
“Oh?” Lance hadn’t thought much about the suit or its origins, but now that Elliot brought it up, Lance realized he’d been laboring under the notion Susan had picked it out. Maybe if he’d known it had been Elliot…
No. He finished arranging it on the hanger. “It fit surprisingly well.”
“I have an eye for sizes. Keep it.” Elliot entered the room and shut the door softly behind him.
Lance’s pulse raced as he tried to size up the situation. He’d done well that evening. Certainly hadn’t offended anyone as far as he knew. He’d drunk beer, talked sports—which he only followed enough to be conversant in—and avoided politics, even though that was why everyone was there. Still, there was something off about Elliot’s intense stare and the gift of a handpicked suit.
“Thank you.” Lance hugged the suit to his chest as he braced for what was likely to be a firing. He hadn’t wanted to work in politics anyway.
Getting away from the too-attractive married man was the safer bet.
That was probably what this was about. He’d been making googly eyes at Elliot all night. Of course someone had noticed that. Lance hated himself for being so ridiculous. He looked down at the suit in his arms and steeled himself for what was coming.
Yet, Elliot wasn’t speaking.
Lance cleared his throat. “Seems like it was a good night. Did you meet your financial goals?”
“Corey and Susan are downstairs counting the money and opening champagne. Went better than we hoped. You were part of that, you know.” Elliot was smiling. He crossed to Lance, took the suit from him, and laid it on the bed. “Think they figure if I have a full-time fixer that I must be a real contender.”
Lance looked down as Elliot’s hand flattened Lance’s lapels, all too aware of how close it brought them. “That’s not really what I do.”
He was lightheaded, gasping, but Elliot simply smiled, a hint of wicked to the curve of his lips. “That’s not really why you’re here.”
Before Lance could speak, Elliot slid his hands up Lance’s chest to grab the back of his head, holding him in place as their lips pressed together. The kiss was abrupt, powerful, a clash of tooth and lip that opened into a molten heat. Their bodies collided as Elliot’s hands moved from Lance’s neck to his ass.
The sudden closeness short-circuited Lance’s brain long enough that he submitted and fell back onto the bed, relishing Elliot’s weight and the way his hands roamed over Lance’s body as if he had a right to it.
But when Elliot rubbed his cock through his pants, something deep and involuntary inside of him reminded him that Elliot was a married man and he knocked them away. “No.”
Elliot propped himself on one elbow and gazed down at him, pain etched on his face as he gazed into what felt like Lance’s soul. “No?”
As if he’d never heard the word before, and maybe he hadn’t.
Lance squirmed out from under him, licking his lips to taste the cognac Elliot had with dessert. Regaining his feet also restored some of Lance’s composure. “No. You’re married. To a woman.”
Elliot rolled onto his side and tilted his head. “Noticed that about her, did you?”
“Not funny.” Lance let out a shaky breath as he straightened his clothes. He chuckled slightly in spite of himself, more nervous than humored. “Look, I don’t know what you think is going on here, but I’m not some extra-expensive rent boy with a fancy title. I am a serious public relations professional. I have a degree and everything. If you’re looking to get laid on the sly, there are apps for that.”
“And non-disclosure agreements. Yes, I know.” Elliot sat up, looking more insulted than he had any right to be in the situation. “You think that’s what this is?”
Lance blinked, then scanned the room, looking anywhere but at Elliot. “You said I wasn’t here to be your fixer.”
“I…” Elliot’s cheeks turned red. Lance didn’t think he’d ever seen him blush before, but apparently being caught in the middle of his lies at least brought him some shame. “I didn’t need a PR person here tonight. I just… Maybe I was showing off a little.”
“For who?”
“Everyone, I guess. I don’t know.” Elliot glared at the floor.
Lance folded his arms. As much as part of him was charmed, the refrain kept playing in Lance’s head: He’s married.
Granted, in political circles, that didn’t always mean what it did in the rest of the world, but as entertaining as his little crush had been when it was one-sided, Lance didn’t get involved with married men anymore.
Elliot gazed at Lance and took a step toward him. “The way you look at me, the way your face lights up… Do you know how long it’s been since a man like you has looked at me that way?”
Lance closed his eyes as Elliot stroked his cheek, hating himself for not realizing sooner how he’d been behaving. “You’re married.”
“You’ve known that all along.”
“Doesn’t mean it was right. It was wrong. I was wrong. This isn’t what I—”
Elliot cut him off by kissing him again, softer this time. “Don’t quit. I know what this looks like to you. I shouldn’t have… I didn’t intend to….”
Lance turned his face away and inhaled slowly. “I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you’re…”
The look Elliot gave him broke Lance’s heart, and he averted his gaze. “I don’t know what you want, Elliot.”
“I don’t either.” He traced Lance’s lips. “I know about the apps. That’s not what I’m looking for. I came on too strong.”
“Yeah, you did.” Lance twisted away, his stomach churning at being compromised. He needed to get out, but his heart was torn. He was hearing what he wanted to hear, but he reminded himself that this was a politician. Saying what his constituents wanted to hear was second nature to him.
Lance was not that foolish. He hoped he wasn’t, anyway.
“I’m sorry.”
“I need to go. Give my apologizes to your wife.” Lance checked his pockets for his keys and started for the door.
“Wait.”
Lance stopped, caught, though not sure by what. He needed to escape. He had to quit the campaign, maybe leave the state.
Elliot was behind h
im and Lance held his breath, not sure what he hoped to hear. “Don’t forget your suit.”
The hanger was in his hand. Lance grabbed it and took off like a shot for his car.
Once home, Lance threw the suit on his bed and pulled out his phone. With a few clicks, he had Grindr up. It only took a few swipes before he found a tall, dark haired man with a crooked nose. Not quite as handsome as Elliot, but he’d do.
He’d just poured a glass of wine when the doorbell rang.
He answered with a smile.
“You Lance?”
“Come on in.”
Chapter Two
Lance woke alone. He was disappointed that his midnight companion—Nicky? Mickey? Whatever—wasn’t there. Not because it had been such a pleasant evening—it had been all right—but Lance could’ve used the distraction of morning pleasantries not to feel so ill about kissing Elliot.
What was he going to do?
Vowing not to think about it, Lance occupied himself with a shower and shave, coffee, and his flashiest suit. He’d performed enough masculinity for the moment. Maybe that was why he’d gotten so caught up in the senator’s wake? Lance was off-balance lately, trying to learn too much about politics, be someone and something he wasn’t. Now was the time to reclaim the person he believed he was.
The drive into the office was uneventful. Surprisingly, Talia was already there. She wasn’t much of a morning person, unless she’d been up all night gaming or working on one of her outside projects—the ones Lance tactfully never asked about. People as talented as Talia were rare enough that he didn’t mind her quirks.
Lance ducked into her office. “Hey. Morning.”
She was bleary-eyed but awake. “Oh yeah, that’s a thing, huh?”
“Want some coffee?”
“Yeah.”
Lance brewed a pot, poured himself a cup, and then brought her a mug and the pot, setting both on her desk.
Talia smirked. “How was your night?”
“Um.” Lance leaned against her desk.
Her dark eyes scanned him, and then she shook her head. “Politician duck his head out of the closet just long enough that you got a glimpse?”
“What are you, a witch?” Lance stared into his mug, feeling exposed.
Talia was very intuitive. When he’d once asked her about it, she said white people were easy to read, that they didn’t feel the need to blend in or guard their expressions. Though he saw her point—he definitely operated from a place of privilege—sometimes her observations were downright creepy.
“That guy was eyefucking you something fierce. I’m shocked your clothes didn’t combust on the spot.” Talia snorted and sipped her coffee. “Ugh, weak. You gotta put your back into this coffee, man.”
“Whatever.” Lance took a sip of his coffee. She was right about that, too. “What do you think I should do?”
“More grounds.”
“No.”
She batted her lashes and smirked as she took another sip. “You fuck him or some rando last night?”
“Rando.”
“Ah.” She looked Lance up and down. “He in your head?”
“Yeah.”
She clucked her tongue and looked away. “What’s he paying?”
“More than I’m worth.” Lance shifted his weight.
“For fucking or PR services?”
“Both, now I’m thinking about it.” Lance turned, ready to leave. She wasn’t interested in giving advice, just giving him shit, and he didn’t need that.
“Don’t underestimate the worth of your PR services,” she called after him.
Lance sighed, but before he could retort his phone rang.
Corey.
He probably wanted to ask why Lance bolted, and Lance wasn’t sure he had an answer. Now he thought about it, surely Corey knew about Elliot. That was probably why Corey wanted Lance on the campaign. This was probably the plan all along.
Fucker.
Lance sent the call to voicemail and went to his desk. He unlocked his laptop to several emails from Corey, subject: Pick up the phone, each with more colorful phrasing as Lance let his phone buzz and buzz in his pocket.
It only took ten minutes for Lance to give in. “For fuck’s sake, Corey, I’m not a sex worker; I’m a PR guy.”
“Not mutually exclusive, but not what I’m calling about. Need your talents for something else.”
“My talents, huh? That what we’re calling it now?” Lance selected all the emails from Corey and deleted them.
“I need you to be a fixer. I have a situation. It’s a great career move, Lance.”
“I’m really not up to seeing Senator Swardson today, all right? I need a couple of days.”
Corey huffed impatience. “I have a situation, and you won’t have to see the senator.”
“Different client?”
“Tangentially involved. Interested?”
Lance drained his coffee. “Shoot.”
✽ ✽ ✽
As it turned out, not all the big fish who donated to Swardson’s campaign had been in attendance the night before. Vernon Scott, age 73, had taken advantage of his wife being out of town to invite a sex worker to the Driskill Hotel under the cover of the dinner party. Maybe it was age or excitement, or a combination of both with Viagra, but the sex worker had called Corey to warn him about Vernon’s death.
Why she had Corey’s name wasn’t something Lance had thought to ask until he was on his way there. By then, he didn’t want to know.
Corey had given him the room number and said, “I have a guy already in place. Just...go be oversight.”
“A guy?”
“My guy.”
“You have a guy, Corey?”
“He’s actually a lot of people’s guy, but for today’s purposes, he’s my guy, which makes him your guy.”
Lance exhaled as he locked his computer and grabbed his keys. “And what is this guy for?”
“Go in, assess the situation, and he’ll handle the body.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“That’s someone else’s guy, but feel free to bring him in if you think he’ll help.” Corey snorted at his own joke.
“When’s the wife home?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Got it.” Lance hung up and hopped into his car. This was not the sort of job they talked about in the college’s public relations program. If it had said anything, it had been not to get involved. Call the police.
Except, of course, it would be difficult to explain why a 73-year-old man was staying at a hotel alone when his wife was out of town. Even if Lance could count on the wife not making a fuss, the story had enough legs for a journalist to use. Vernon Scott was an outspoken member of the business community, one who’d railed against gay marriage and held a host of other backward political views.
Covering for him felt perverse, but if Vernon went down this way, everyone he’d backed politically would be dragged into the ensuing scandal. That included Elliot, who probably deserved it, but technically was still Lance’s client.
The whole situation was demented, and yet, Lance was following through. He left his car in the parking garage and made his way to Vernon’s door, knocking softly.
Whatever Lance had been expecting Corey’s guy to look like, he didn’t anticipate the nattily dressed, doe-eyed man in front of him. This guy wasn’t dressed to handle a body, more like… Lance didn’t know. Role play as Doctor Who? Full three-piece suit, a silk pocket square, and a caustic, ready smirk that involved only one side of his face.
He said nothing, just stepped back to let Lance in, and then followed him to the bed where the old man lay motionless, eyes open as if he, too, was shocked to be in this position.
“Hooker’s in the wind. You want me to nail that down?”
Lance turned to face the man. He didn’t need to ask what “nail that down” meant in the guy’s vernacular. “Sex worker.”
The man raised an eyebrow as he sized Lance up. “As you say.�
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“What happened to her? She called it in, but she left?”
“Had somewhere else to be when I showed up. I have that effect on people.” The guy leaned against the wall, looking almost bored. There was something strangely alluring about him. Lance had met a few “guys” in his time, but they’d all been burly, with haunted eyes or just plain cold. This one carried his career as if handling and moving corpses gave him nothing but a passion for fashion and terminal ennui.
After a long silence Lance spent staring at him, the guy prompted, “So what’s the plan? You want me to disappear him?”
“What? No!” Lance whirled around to take in the body. There was nothing incriminating about him a sponge bath couldn’t remedy. “Just take him home, put him to bed, and let his wife find him. I’ll double check there’s no hotel record in his name, but surely he wasn’t that stupid.”
“Never underestimate the hubris of wealth.” The guy sighed, sounding tired and a little sad.
“You sound like the voice of experience.” Lance retreated into the short hall beside the guy so he wouldn’t have to look at the body.
“Yeah? Well, my experience tells me your sex worker is a loose end.” The guy’s lips quirked up as if he were amused Lance had sought refuge near him. Almost casually he turned to face Lance and shifted his lanky frame, hips jutting out like some kind of challenge.
Lance averted his gaze. “Sex workers you take to the Driskill aren’t the sort to make a fuss.”
The guy rolled his eyes and then peeled off the wall to step into Lance’s personal space. He slid his hand down Lance’s side and then into his pocket to fish out Lance’s phone. The gesture was overly familiar, unnerving, but Lance didn’t fight it, just watched as the guy punched numbers into the phone.
“You need a burner, but this number will reach my service. Let it ring three times and hang up. I’ll find you. What do you want to call me?”
“Excuse me?” Lance looked at his phone and then at the guy. Had Lance walked into another dimension?
“For your phone, so you can call me. You need a name for your contact.”
“What’s wrong with your name?” Lance looked at his phone in the guy’s elegant hands, reading the number upside down, taking in the blank space for a contact name.