by Amy Lane
“Owen.” Wendy’s voice interrupted Owen from his less–than-happy thoughts, and he sighed and pushed up, herding all of the components into a little metallic puddle on the floor.
“Do you really need me?” he asked, preparing to go downstairs anyway.
“It’s something of an emergency.” Wendy’s voice, always a little high-pitched, sounded especially shrill when it echoed up that stairwell.
“Oh Jesus.” Owen ran down the stairs—it seemed to be the umpteenth time today. “Is there any possible way you could tell everybody to chill the fuck out until I get this disentangled? It’s going to take a week to fix all the bugs this goddamned server started.” He actually looked forward to the challenge, if only everyone would leave him alone and let him work.
“Yeah, I know, Owen. It’s just, your boyfriend—the wanker with the glare?—he’s outside, stalking around like a big cat.”
“Malcolm?” Malcolm who had fallen asleep on him before sex two nights ago because of work? He was here in the middle of the day?
She blew against her fringe. “Same guy. Still acts like he’s got a stick up his arse—can’t you cure that?”
Owen’s lips twitched. Well, he’d actually been putting one there on a regular basis. “I do my best,” he said soberly. “Tell everyone I’m taking ten, and I’ll come back and fix the world afterward, ’kay?”
He got outside and smiled, glad to see Mal, even if the timing was fucked raw and bleeding.
“Oh my God! Was there a wrinkle in the fabric of time?” he asked, swinging outside the slowly closing glass door. “Some sort of disturbance in the Force? You mean, it’s before midnight and you’re not at work?”
Malcolm turned around and squinted at him. “Hilarious. Didn’t know this was an episode of The IT Crowd.”
“Yeah, well, I’m busy trying to work miracles right now. C’mere.” Owen reached out, grabbed his hand, and pulled Malcolm toward him before Malcolm realized what he was doing. There was some resistance in his body at first, but as they stood, close enough for the plackets of their trousers to rub together, Malcolm’s spine relaxed beneath his hand.
Owen bent down and spoke directly into his ear. “Nobody cares on this street,” he said quietly. “You could even kiss me, and we’d be just . . .” Malcolm’s eyes had grown huge, the dark specks in the pale blue standing out even more, and his fair skin had gone blotchy as his tight, fire-plug body was reminded of what it had missed out on the night before. “Fine,” Owen whispered and he took Mal’s mouth in a short, sweet, public kiss with just the hint of tongue.
Of course Mal jerked back after a moment, took a step away and looked around, his lip curled in annoyance. Owen grinned at him, just to piss him off more.
Two faint pink crescents appeared over Malcolm’s cheekbones, and Owen wondered if maybe the grin had done the opposite of pissing Malcolm off. Well, that would be good too.
“I, uhm . . .” Malcolm took a deep breath and assumed his British dourness like a mantle of entitlement. “Not accustomed to necking on my lunch hour. That might take some time.”
“Well, Mal, I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, but time seems to be the one thing you don’t usually have. What’s up? You showed up all spit-polished and pretty, but I don’t see you have any food. Since you won’t let me kiss you, seriously, I’m starting to wonder how useful you are at all.” Owen’s voice was rising playfully, but he was curious. Malcolm had shown up at work maybe three other times since their Cambridge adventure, and it had always been on a Friday night or a Saturday as Owen finished up work and their weekend truly began.
Malcolm perked up then, as though reminded of why he’d actually come. “No, no, mate—you’re going to see, I’m a right handy bugger to have around.”
Owen’s good mood abruptly vanished. “Well, yes. Having you around would definitely be an improvement.”
That throbbing vein in Malcolm’s temple that usually popped up when he was in a cab stuck in traffic started to pulse, and Owen knew he was grinding his teeth.
“I warned you,” he said, his eyebrows drawn tight. “I told you my hours would be a bear and—”
Owen sighed. “And I don’t want to fight. I’m glad to see you. Why are you here?”
Malcolm perked up and reached inside his suit vest pocket for a little card. “Oh that’s all good news, mate. See, what you need to do is get on a computer—maybe the one at home—and go to this site. It’s our online application website. The bank needs a new IT guy, and I told them I knew someone up for the job.”
Owen swallowed, blinked, swallowed, took a deep breath, and swallowed again.
He did not reach for the business card that Malcolm was holding out to him so hopefully.
Apparently, his mother had been right. Six weeks, and Malcolm had dropped the first bomb. Let relationship Armageddon commence.
“I know the job’s budgeted at thirty-five to forty grand, which is what, twice what you’re making now? And that means that’s the price you can negotiate once they’ve offered. And the head of the team has been making noises about early retirement in five years or so, so there’s a job coming up in five that pays at least twice that. You might have to jockey some databases for that, but as usual, they’ll train you on the job.” Malcolm lifted an eyebrow. “It’s a nice office in a good area, the IT guys are all . . . geeky and stuff, and you might even get away with wearing black jeans, though I wouldn’t recommend it in the first six month while you’re on probation. The head of operations can be a right cunt about it. No wonder, he’s German.”
“Malcolm.”
Malcolm frowned. “What? It’s a great opportunity. You get proper pension benefits and private medical and a gym pass, and you say you like that here . . .”
“Malcolm, just . . . just, shut up.” He hadn’t meant to say that, because maybe, yes, it was disrespectful to tell your partner to shut up during an argument, and talking rather than not talking solved problems, but it was like his wishes didn’t figure at all. None of this had made it into Malcolm’s thick skull, or he was just stubborn on top of ignorant and self-absorbed, and after six weeks, somehow that was too much. Much too much to deal with—it wasn’t cute anymore, it was fucking infuriating.
“What?” Malcolm—being Malcolm—hadn’t heard the “shut up.” He was still stuck on the “no” it implied. “I know it’s not saving kittens or orphans or whatever the hell it is you’re doing here, but—”
“But it’s not what I want to do! Jesus, why would you think I want a job where you work? Your job is killing you! What makes you think I want to be a part of that in any way, shape, or form?”
Malcolm pulled back short. “You don’t seem to complain when that job gets us the nice things, do you?”
For the first time in his life, ever, Owen’s vision went red. “You don’t seem to hear me when I say I don’t need that shit to be happy. I’ve never needed that shit to be happy. It wasn’t your fucking apartment that came and stopped me in the damned train station, it was you!”
Malcolm wiped his mouth with the palm of a shaking hand. “We’re having this argument in public,” he said, and Owen looked around. So far, they’d gathered a few avid glances and a wide berth, and he wasn’t particularly interested in either.
“So we can have sex in public, but we can’t have an argument? Awesome. I don’t want your bloody fucking job, Malcolm. I don’t want your hours. All I ever wanted was you, but you apparently fell in love with some sort of power executive who doesn’t live here, because you certainly aren’t offering that bullshit to me.”
“Well, who’s been mooching in my house, eating my food, using my hot water, then? Because that bloke owes me a blowjob.”
“Well that bloke doesn’t have to come home then.” It was a bad idea to push Malcolm—not here, not now, not over this, when it should be discussed with a clear head. But he didn’t have a clear head. He just had a sore chest and a trembly stomach and the urge to beat Malcolm until his capped teeth shattered a
nd he saw sense.
Malcolm took a shocked breath and backed up, and Owen closed his eyes. Great.
“Well that’s, that’s just nonsense.” Malcolm looked visibly shaken and took another step back. “All I fucking did was try to get you a job where you’re financially independent.”
That was it. Trying to bend reality to his will again—and make Owen look and sound unreasonable—that was just the straw that broke the camel’s back. Owen blew out an angry breath and turned, shaking with anger but determined to not slug the guy he was supposed to love. Instead, he slammed the door behind him with a last baleful stare that said Don’t fucking follow me.
Malcolm barely managed to focus on work for the rest of the day. He’d look bloody stupid, too, if the IT team showed up on his floor, after cozying up to them over the last days. The head of his desk had already started looking weirdly at him. Penney considered IT guys with the same disdain he had for everything outside trading, even the nonnegotiable constraints of life (which included clients and gravity), and Malcolm had usually followed Penney’s lead. Cuddling up to the hired help who likely couldn’t tell a collar from a butterfly strategy made him look weird.
And then of course there was the whole rogue trader scandal that had blown up at another bank, so compliance had unleashed the furies from hell, and half the emails he got were about tightening security on the trading floor and annoying “reminders” written in the passive-aggressive style that the head of compliance was so good at. They were even on his arse for placing his private mobile phone on his desk. God knew how many rules he’d break if he dared to make personal call while logged in.
And then the CEO sent another email telling them that he and the board had decided to cut “at least” 30% in equities, and “possibly up to 50%” over the next eighteen months. Malcolm figured the victims would likely be announced by Christmas, to cut down on bonuses due.
With that and the looming staff reduction, the last thing he needed was a boyfriend who flipped out on him for bringing home the bacon. On Owen’s salary, he’d be lucky to be able to rent a room in a shared flat somewhere in East or South-East London or (shudder) a pile of shit like Lewisham or Croydon. And while, at Owen’s age, it was likely okay to eat humble pie for a few years until maybe the third job or at the very least the second promotion or substantial raise, it was simply so much more fun in London if you didn’t have to count the pennies. So why didn’t Owen get that?
He blew out a breath and shut down his computer at the end of the trading day. Then the phone rang. The one on his desk. He reached over. “Kavanagh.”
“Malcolm, how are you doing? Time for a pint after work? I’m just outside your building.”
Who the hell was that?
Might be a client, so, uhm, play along. “Sure.”
“Perfect. I’ll see you downstairs.”
Malcolm ended the call and grabbed his coat and briefcase and headed down to the lobby. And there stood . . .
Percy.
Wearing a very stylish coat and a large grin. Malcolm hadn’t seen him for two years—ever since Percy’s departure as head of sales, to be exact. Wasn’t he now in corporate communications of some description?
“Fox and Hound?”
Their nickname for the Fox, an old pub just around the corner. Not one where he expected to see any colleagues, either. “Sure. You’re looking good. What happened?”
“Oh, my divorce is through. Missus has taken me to the cleaners.”
“Ouch.” Now there was another reason to keep up with old contacts. He should really have known that. “I’m sorry to hear.”
“Well. She gets the old box in Sussex. The commute is killer anyway, so fuck her.”
Eighteen years, and it had ended on a “fuck her.” Malcolm gulped. “I really only have time for one . . .”
“That’s fine.” They marched down the road together, tucked into their coats against the nasty drizzle creeping down their necks. “So, I’m hearing you guys are getting laid off?”
“Wow, you’re on the ball.”
“E-careersNews broke the story this afternoon. I guess one of you just forwarded the email to the journos. Naughty naughty.”
“Well. After the way the markets have been going the last years, I’m frankly shocked it’s not worse.”
Percy grinned and held the pub door open for him. “What are you having?”
“Same.”
Malcolm found them a place to sit that was as much protected from prying eyes as possible and waited for Percy to return with two pints. He took off his glasses and cleaned the water off them.
“So, you going to gloat over the jobs? What are you up to these days anyway?”
“I’m working for a law firm. European head of PR and corporate communications.”
“Nice.”
“Any idiot can do that job, but at least it’s not killing me anymore. And I can use my connections.”
As ex-head of sales, Percy knew everybody in the city. Rich, charming, powerful, and a nasty bugger if crossed.
“So, if you want to do constructive dismissal . . .” Percy grinned.
“No. I’m leaving when they push me. And, okay, equities has had a pig of a time, but we can’t not trade equities, for God’s sake. Somebody still has to buy and sell. I think they’ll kick out a couple juniors and maybe offer a nice handshake to the older guys, those who’re almost dead on their feet. I have another ten years or so in me. With my fucking penthouse and the last few bonus seasons what they were, I need them, too.”
“Ten years? No wonder your trading sucked. You’re an optimist.” Percy laughed into his beer, apparently immune to Malcolm’s glare. “In this market, being an optimist has to be especially painful.”
Backpedal. He couldn’t win a battle of snark with Percy. “So you’re working for lawyers now? What about that divorce?”
“You know what they say in the City, Malcolm. If it flies, drives, or fornicates, it’s cheaper to rent it. Well, I had some trouble with the Missus when she discovered I also had a rental going.”
Ugh. Tales of marital infidelity. And he’d thought this catching-up thing might be fun. Maybe if he drank the beer really quickly . . .
“A mistress?”
“No, she caught me with a rentboy.”
Percy?
“I didn’t know you swung that way?” Malcolm stuttered.
“Well, I always figured you did, hence I’m telling you. Of course I wasn’t out in the bank.”
Malcolm took a sip of his beer and wished the glass were smaller.
“Well, and he was Jamaican. Not sure if it was the gender or the skin tone, but yeah, that set our custody battle off for the cats. Whatever. What I’m saying is . . . what was I saying? Yeah, that was that divorce thing. If I’d still worked at your place, that would have been bad.”
Jamaican rentboys would absolutely go down like a lead balloon in sales, that much was clear. The traders would likely have mocked Percy for weeks. Especially for not signing pre-nups, but fucking a guy left the doors wide open for more mockery and casual homophobia.
“Well, it’s not exactly a place that flies the rainbow flag,” Malcolm conceded.
“Don’t even have a GLBTQ group. Not that the lawyers do, but hey, they are lawyers. Less testosterone overall. And it’s changing with the big law firms. Eventually, that change is going to filter through to the rest of the City. Anyway. Do you swing that way?”
“Err.” Malcolm hid behind the glass again. “If I tell you, everybody knows.”
“Come on. With your dress sense and vanity? You must be gay, or bisexual at least.”
“Don’t tell me we’re here because you saw my profile on Grindr.”
Percy laughed. “I’m renting these days. But it’s just so fucking lonely as a sexual minority sometimes.”
“I guess there’s an argument for that.” Though the thought hurt that dating was always dangerous, and it was nice to be accepted not for the content of his w
allet. Though he did care about the content of his wallet. He emptied the glass and pushed it back. Contrary to normal etiquette, he didn’t offer to get the second round. “I have to head home. I’m knackered.”
Percy looked up. “Somebody waiting for you?”
“Yeah.” I hope.
Percy nodded and slid over a business card. “I’ll be hitting the clubs. Drop me a call if you want to meet up. No ulterior motive. You’re not my type, okay?”
“Okay.” Too white? Too old? Didn’t really matter, because in Perceval Millington-Smythe’s world of old boy networks and the Eton schoolboy mafia, “You’re not my type” was perfectly polite. Not that Malcolm wanted to be Percy’s type. It was just that his ego had already taken plenty of knocks today. He still took Percy’s card.
He ducked out of the pub, rushed to the Tube station, and arrived at home on time for a good day—one without meetings.
But the flat was dark and empty.
“Augh!” Owen was lying on his side, working on the damned tower in the adoption agency, when his finger slipped on the teeny-tiny screwdriver and he displaced three chips on the motherboard.
He beat the floor with the side of his fist, wondering if the cheap wool was going to give him splinters, or if the creaky wood floor would give way under his fist before that. Oh, of all the . . .
“Esrgh!” He sat up, hung his head between his knees, and let out another growl of frustration, pounding the floor with both hands. God, he could not concentrate, and he needed to concentrate, because doing his fucking job was the one thing that could ease the red fury throbbing behind his eyes.
And he needed to back off that, because if he couldn’t, he’d go back to the flat, pack his shit up, and use his deferred ticket to Paris. And from there, he’d go back to his mother to cry out his misery on her. Damn Malcolm and his stiff-necked pride. How could he think that was okay?
“Owen?”
Owen breathed out a sigh of relief. It was Emmaline, not Wendy. Wendy had been way too interested in comforting him after he’d come storming back from his little “discussion” with Malcolm in the middle of the sidewalk.