by Sidney Bell
He gave his friend an apologetic, worried look, and Mario’s shoulders sagged as he gave up.
“Now we’re in sixth grade. Okay, he might have laughed once, right before he gave me back the phone. At you, I think, not with you. This is not evidence that you should do anything, because it was the kind of exasperated laughter that precedes murder. I mean it, Brogan. The fact that he thought you were amusing in a juvenile way once does not make you soul mates.”
“Obviously,” Brogan said, trying to seem sober and dignified, like he was grieving for his lost chance at happiness. But it was hard, because, dorky as it was, he really wanted to fist pump. He’d made Embry laugh.
Mario saw this, of course, because Mario wasn’t a moron. But he seemed to realize that Brogan was hopeless, because he only sat there in resignation while Brogan pulled into his driveway.
“You better use a condom if you fuck him,” Mario bit out finally.
“Hey, look, we’re here,” Brogan said, and escaped into his garage.
* * *
The next night, during his overnight shift, he sat with Nora and made inane conversation while half of his mind focused on his conversation with Mario about Embry. Mario’s point about the Brogan-saving-people thing was true enough. Brogan had almost single-handedly kept his family going as a kid, and it was difficult for him to do anything but clean up after people he cared about. That meant a lot of one-night stands to avoid doing stupid shit that would bite him in the ass later.
It wasn’t something he was proud of.
Mario’s friendship was the lone exception, because Mario was a fucking grown-up who handled his shit.
With Mario’s cautions in mind, Brogan replayed his interactions with Embry. Some of them were predictable (the feel of Embry hard beneath black cotton, or the way he’d melted into the kiss as if all he wanted was to press himself against Brogan) and some of them were less predictable, such as Embry’s surprisingly arousing ability to disconnect a security camera or put Brogan into a leverage hold.
Martial arts training definitely didn’t speak to Embry being a helpless executive assistant being preyed on by a boss with anger management issues. It seemed more in sync with the kind of man who could pick a lock in thirty seconds. Which made sense, because Embry could do that, too.
No, Brogan decided. About this at least, Mario was wrong. Embry might be in trouble, but he wasn’t helpless and he didn’t want saving.
Brogan replayed that little nod Embry had given him when Brogan was on his knees. It had been desire driving that choice, he was sure of it. There was nothing at all manipulative about it. Nothing to suggest that Embry was playing him.
Nothing at all.
Chapter Seven
The morning of his first shift back on days ran long. Brogan spent his time hovering behind Henniton during an endless meeting with a marketing firm in the large conference room. Touring was in the process of attempting a brand relaunch in an effort to appeal to women—which apparently meant lots of pink and bows in the ad campaign, leaving Brogan a little offended on behalf of womankind—and so the room was overtaken by a trio of shiny salesmen with slick hair and slicker manners, men who could sell salt water to the dehydrated.
Through sheer dumb luck—or fate, depending on how romantic he wanted to be—Brogan was relieved for lunch at the exact same time that Embry entered the conference room and passed Henniton a message. Brogan loitered outside and argued with himself for the minute it took for Embry to emerge. He reminded himself of his conversation with Mario in particular, because even if Embry didn’t want saving, Mario had still made good points about the whole fired/shredded rep/thugs thing. At the very least, Brogan’s heart could end up trampled.
And then Embry stepped out into the hallway, saw him, and somehow managed to blush and look annoyed at the same time. Brogan’s willpower evaporated.
“Lunch?” Brogan offered. “Nachos in the employee cafeteria? Chicken fingers?”
“I strike you as someone who eats chicken fingers?” Embry said, striding past him, typing on his smartphone. His cheeks were still pink, but he’d already regained his equilibrium. Brogan was impressed enough that it took him a second to remember what they were talking about.
“You strike me as someone who could use some chicken fingers,” Brogan corrected.
“If this is seguing into an argument about why I should let you bring more meat into my life, please spare me the euphemism.”
Brogan’s eyebrows rose. “You dirty little cat. That honestly hadn’t occurred to me. I was going to mention that you would benefit from the psychological rewards of eating something as informal as greasy finger food, but I much prefer your answer. I’m appropriating it.” He cleared his throat, let his voice drop a register. “Yes, Embry, let me ply you with more meat.”
Unbelievably, Embry remained indifferent. “Get bent,” he said absentmindedly, still typing. Brogan followed him, unoffended.
They ended up side by side in the elevator bay. Brogan leaned a shoulder against the wall as they waited. “Are all of the staff as terrified of you as that intern was? I felt rather bad for her. Poor girl looked ready to faint.”
“Fear is a useful motivation tool under the correct circumstances.”
“What circumstances are those, mein diktator?”
Embry huffed. “The ones where the employee continues to blow bubbles with her gum, make personal calls, and text during business hours despite being warned several times by her supervisor. Unlike said supervisor, I don’t waste my time defining professionalism. I gave her the choice between doing as she’s told and taking a hike.”
“How many people have you had fired since you’ve worked here?”
Embry turned his head and glared at him pointedly. “Not as many as I’d like.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to read anything into that,” Brogan said cheerfully. “Can I come to your office? I want to talk.”
“No,” Embry said under his breath. He glanced around then coughed against the back of his hand. “You think no one will notice you walking into my office and staying there for ten minutes? You think he won’t want to know why you were there for so long when he hears about it? And he will, because the people in this office are fucking busybodies. Besides, I answered all your questions.”
“I didn’t say I had questions.”
“Then what?” Embry asked, irritated.
Brogan studied him. “Did you forget the thing about how I like talking to you? I noticed you have IGN on your phone. I was thinking maybe we could play online sometime.”
Embry refused to look at him, and his mouth twisted. “I don’t play anymore, not since... I know what you’re doing. You want sex.”
“I can have sex with anyone. Finding a gamer I can play with more than once is harder.”
“I realize that I’m turning into a hypocrite as I say this, but if that’s true, you need to think about your sexual choices.”
“Oh, I’m thinking about my choice,” Brogan said, the innuendo in his words so over the top that he felt a little guilty when a woman clip-clopping past the elevator bay in sky-high heels almost stumbled as she did a double take.
Embry was bright pink again, even as he scowled. “Would you keep your voice down?”
“Think about it. Borderlands 2? What kind of console do you have?”
Embry hesitated. “I don’t have one.”
“Henniton doesn’t approve?”
“I’m not playing online with you,” Embry said. He coughed again, and only Embry could make a cough sound hostile. “And we have nothing to talk about anyway.”
“I can come up with countless topics. For instance, you owe me a lecture.”
Embry ignored him.
Brogan poked him in the shoulder. “About the proper use of company
technology and the importance of good spelling and my shoddy criteria for defining quality pornography...ringing any bells? I deserve to be chastised. I was very naughty.”
Embry’s teeth were going to be small mounds of ground enamel if he kept working his jaw that way, Brogan thought. He almost felt bad for the guy. Not bad enough to let him off the hook, though, so he added, “I realize it’s not on par with interns blowing bubbles, but I do think you have a responsibility to at least address the boob emoticon.”
Embry continued to ignore him.
The elevator arrived, and they walked in together. They were immediately assaulted with a jazz rendition of Can You Feel the Love Tonight?
“Alone at last,” Brogan said. “Whatever will we do on the ride?”
“I’m not making out with you in here,” Embry warned. “Keep your hands to yourself.”
“I wouldn’t,” Brogan said, wounded. “There are cameras. It’s very gestapo. Seriously, though, do you want to stop for chicken fingers before we head up?”
“I want you to leave me alone.”
“Do you?” Brogan watched carefully and had the pleasure of seeing the simple question make Embry’s eyes widen and his breathing stutter.
“I...yes.”
“Embry. Do you?”
For a long moment, Embry only gazed up at him. His mouth opened, but he didn’t speak and even though his expression seemed to say “stay,” Brogan wondered if he’d been seeing what he wanted to see. Maybe instead of bringing Embry a few rare moments of fun and teasing, he was making Embry feel hunted.
The thought bothered him considerably.
“Because I will, if you really mean it, I will. Tell me to leave and I’m gone. No pressure.”
He meant it. It would hurt, but he’d do it.
Embry breathed out, his brow creasing. His body shifted minutely toward Brogan, then jerked back. “I—I can’t talk about this right now.”
“What does he have on you to make you stay?” Brogan asked. “I hate the idea that you’re with him against your will.”
“I’m not,” Embry said, his head coming up. His eyes were open now—too wide—and they flitted in the direction of the camera even though there were no microphones to capture their words. “I want to be with him.”
“You’re almost convincing. Except not really.”
“I do,” Embry insisted. “He’s very...” And then he stalled out, clearly searching for words, getting more and more agitated as he couldn’t come up with anything. Brogan felt a flicker of concern, and then the elevator doors opened and Embry stumbled out, heading down the hall in the direction of his office. He unlocked the door with a shaking hand and hurried inside. Brogan took a quick glance around, saw that the hallway was empty but for a woman at the far end going through a file cabinet, and spared only a brief moment for the security cameras. Embry was throwing off enough stress signals that only the threat of Henniton finding out would make him leave Embry alone right now. He slid into the office before shutting the door and stopping dead in surprise.
Embry was pawing through his briefcase, mouth tight. He found what he wanted and pulled it out—an apparatus like nothing Brogan had ever seen, a piece of plastic the length of his hand with a scale of numbers printed on it in three zones of color—green, yellow and red.
Embry blew into one end of the apparatus, then looked at the results.
“What does yellow mean?” Brogan asked, approaching to peer over his shoulder. Standing that closely, he could hear a faint wheeze in Embry’s breathing. Funny that he’d never considered what a threatening sound that was, not until now, when it meant Embry couldn’t breathe.
“You have asthma,” Brogan realized. “Do you have an inhaler? Do you need me to call 911?”
“I’ve got it. It’s not that bad yet.” Embry eased past him, the wheezing becoming more pronounced as he walked around the corner of his desk and pushed his chair out of the way. He was using complete sentences, Brogan noted, and seemed relatively composed—tense, yes, and he had some adrenaline pumping no doubt, but he wasn’t panicking.
“You sure?” Brogan asked. “I could get you an ambulance.”
“You’re making too big a deal out of this,” Embry replied. “I’ve done this a hundred times.”
Brogan lurked beside him, watching as Embry pulled an inhaler out of a transparent cup in his second desk drawer. He wondered what he should be doing. Maybe keeping Embry calm? He searched for a neutral topic.
“Your drawers are freakishly neat,” Brogan said, keeping his voice quiet. “I can’t believe you labeled your staple slot. You really can’t tell those are staples without a label?”
Against all odds, Embry flashed him a wry, self-deprecating smile. “It was a chance to use the label maker.” He shook the inhaler.
“You’re an enormous dork,” Brogan said. He studied Embry for signs of distress as he continued to blather on. “Shouldn’t I have known this by now? I feel like you’re springing this on me. The tailored suits are a complete misdirection.”
The smile only widened, and now there were dimples. “My rubber bands are all grouped together by width. It’s dreadful.”
Something in Brogan’s chest stumbled and fell at his feet as he smiled back. “It figures that you would flirt and be adorable only on the verge of death.”
Embry blew out what little air he had, something that made Brogan antsy, and then took a hit of the medicine. He held his breath for a while then all but coughed it out in order to suck in new air. When he’d caught up on oxygen, he said, “I am not on the verge of death.” He gasped again and a spasm of discomfort crossed his face before he wrestled it back. “If there’s wheezing, there’s air. And I’m not flirting.”
“Would you stop talking? Save your breath,” Brogan said, going to his side. “Okay. We can take care of this.”
“You’re freaking out,” Embry said, sounding surprised. His lips twitched.
“I am not. Okay, we’re gonna sit,” Brogan said, taking his arm and tugging him into a chair. He knelt beside him to wait for the meds to kick in. “Let’s calm down. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Embry nodded as if he already knew this. “You are too freaking out. You’re all—” he made a wobbly, abrupt gesture with his hands “—erratic.”
“Well, I’m in the presence of a soon-to-be dead guy. If he doesn’t shut up, anyway. That’s a freaky thing.”
Embry repeated the inhaler process. He managed to breathe out more slowly this time, then said, “I wasn’t even sure you could freak out. You don’t take anything seriously.”
“I take loads of things seriously.” He cast about for something he took seriously and came up empty. “Maybe not loads of things. I take my work seriously.”
“You’ve been flirting with your client’s boyfriend,” Embry reminded him. There was still a slight wheeze in his words.
“That’s not untrue,” Brogan said, frowning.
“It’s weird to see you all tense and manic.”
“I’m not tense and manic.”
“I’m not dying,” Embry countered. Sweat gleamed on his brow. He contemplated the inhaler in his hand for a moment then took a third puff.
“Fine,” Brogan replied, only pouting a little. “We’re all very calm and alive.”
Embry glanced at the clock. Brogan plucked the inhaler out of Embry’s hand to read the label. “This is useless,” he pointed out. “It doesn’t say when I’m supposed to save you by throwing you over my shoulder and carrying you manfully to the emergency room.”
“It’ll work,” Embry said, and his voice was constrained, thin.
“Of course it’ll work.” Brogan gave the inhaler back all the same.
“Don’t throw me anywhere.”
“Well, not if I don’t have to.” H
e smiled reassuringly, and felt no small amount of relief when Embry managed a shaky one in return. “What caused this? You were fine five minutes ago.”
“I’ve been coughing some the last few days. I was hoping it was just a cold. When I’m already rocky, stress is all it takes sometimes.”
“Shit. It was me, wasn’t it? Pushing you to talk to me downstairs and in the elevator. Fuck, I’m sorry.” Brogan lifted a hand, threaded his fingers through the thick curls at the nape of Embry’s neck, and rubbed. Embry jolted at the touch, wide-eyed.
“Easy,” Brogan murmured. “You’re all right.”
“I—I know.”
“You don’t like talking, do you? I mean, you’re fine if you’re insulting me or talking about work, but as soon as we get into personal stuff, it really takes it out of you, doesn’t it?”
If it were possible for someone sitting down to stumble due to being startled, Embry would’ve managed it. “How did you—”
“Well, it helps that I’m not an idiot,” Brogan countered, and Embry’s lips curved upward sheepishly, almost shyly. It was...charming, and sweet, and Brogan’s tone softened. “I’m not going to make you talk to me, Embry, okay?”
“I don’t—” Embry bit his lip and wrenched his gaze away. He managed a fourth puff on his inhaler. When he was done, Brogan dug his thumb into the column of Embry’s neck, and had the pleasure of watching Embry’s eyes close halfway.
“I won’t push anymore,” he promised. “You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to. Although, if talking to me is going to make your asthma act up, you should tell me to get lost instead of dying.”
Embry’s lips lifted in another faint smile. “I’m not going to die, you big baby. You don’t have to get—” He shook his head as if frustrated, then said more strongly, “I’m not going to die if you stick around.”
There weren’t adequate words for the feeling that overcame Brogan then—it was some strange mixture of being cleansed and worthy and fortunate all at once. It filled him to his fingertips and left him every bit as out of breath as Embry. He had no choice but to change the subject. “Okay. Then I’ll call downstairs, let them know I’m going to take you home.”