by Artemis Hunt
His uncle is an antique collector. Personally, Brian can never stomach antiques.
Jefferson Morton’s office is behind two paneled oak doors. Hubert, his bespectacled British PA, sits behind a desk. He looks up as Brian approaches.
“Brian,” he says appreciatively. Hubert is gay and he always had an eye for pretty men. Having a gay PA is just one of Jefferson’s attempts to promote corporate diversity.
“Hubert.”
Brian is always polite to Hubert, though the man’s penetrating gaze disarms him. Hubert always undresses him mentally – running his eyes up and down Brian’s tall frame. Not that Brian is a homophobe. Far from it – but such frank sexual interest from another man is always a little disconcerting.
“Your uncle is expecting you.”
“That’s what the phone call is to prime him for.”
“Step right in.”
Brian pushes the doors open. His uncle’s office is designed to wow, to intimidate. Brian has never been easily intimidated. But today is different. Today is . . . well, today going to be humbling.
Jefferson Morton is a huge man. His size has not been diminished by his fight against cancer. Now fully cured, he is larger than before. His shock of black hair – dyed – belies his true age. As the eldest son and patriarch of the family, he is almost seventy. He has single-handedly launched the Morton family into prominence, bringing them all up from the lower middle class immigrants they once were to become one of the wealthiest families in Chicago. The fact that most of his siblings and the children of his siblings are disappointing does not prohibit him from helping them.
To an extent.
He does not seem to want to forget his considerable family, however. The office is decorated with photos. Brian’s gaze slides over a medium-sized photo on a shelf behind his uncle’s chair. His father and mother pose with him as a five-year-old child in a studio shot. They appear happy. But of course, that was before his father started drinking and gambling heavily.
Jefferson’s eyes are a vivid blue. “Sit down, Brian.”
Brian pulls a chair and sits.
“And what do I owe this unexpected visit?” his uncle says.
Brian slides a document over his uncle’s handsome oak table, as wide as any found in a boardroom.
He pulls in a deep breath.
“I’ve come to put in my resignation as President and CEO of Vanguard.”
His uncle’s gaze does not waver. “I was expecting it. You saved me the trouble of asking you to step down.”
Brian shrugs. “Our clients were threatening to leave. The publicity is proving too hot for them to handle. I had no choice. It was the right thing to do.”
Especially for a company he has helped build from scratch. He loves it too much to allow the hemorrhage. Especially one caused by him. So he has to amputate himself from the body before he can cause it irreparable harm.
Vanguard is still his. But he would no longer pilot it – steer its daily planning and cycle. He would no longer come to his own office every day and hold strategic brainstorming meetings. Advertising is his pulse and lifeblood, and now he has to step away from doing what he loves best.
It hurts.
It hurts so much that it is a physical ache in his chest. But he would never tell his uncle this, of course.
“Yes, it is the right thing to do. I’m glad you came to the same conclusion, Brian. I was afraid that your youth and pride prohibited you from thinking straight. You were always brilliant. But you’ve lacked the discipline required in true leadership. When I gave you the reins of Vanguard, I’ve always been certain that you would muck it up somehow with your constant carousing.”
“What I do outside of Vanguard is none of anyone’s business.”
“Unless the two worlds merge.”
Brian knows it’s true. He doesn’t say anything.
Now there’s that little thing about money. No one is going to hire him right away. At least, not unless this thing is cleared up. If it ever clears up. Otherwise, he is looking at a prison sentence. His money is almost entirely tied up in company stocks and in trust. Money he can’t touch easily.
Whatever he has earned from Vanguard, he has plowed back into the business. And in decorating his penthouse with expensive Italian furniture. And in buying the entire Armani spring collection. He has expensive tastes and he looks the part, dresses the part.
Now he’s sorry he hasn’t tried to save more of it. But he never reckoned on being poor. Not even for a day. He’s not exactly poor now either. Just downgraded.
“What are you going to do now?” his uncle asks.
“I don’t know. Clear my name. And then I’ll think of something.”
He does not ask for money or even any help, and his uncle does not offer. Brian wasn’t expecting him to. He knows this is something he has to go through alone to prove something to himself. And to his uncle.
His uncle nods. There’s a glimmer of respect in his eyes. Respect Brian doesn’t often see.
“Good luck in clearing your name, Brian. It’s going to be an uphill task, from what I read about your case.”
“I know.”
His uncle stands up and proffers his hand for Brian to shake. Brian takes it.
When he steps out of his uncle’s office, he feels as if a load has been taken off his shoulders.
20
“Interesting,” Sam says as she peruses the documents the private investigator has given her. “So her real name is Adele Jankovic. Why did she change it?”
“No reason stated.”
“She changed it last year, along with her apartment, her job.” Her life, Sam thinks.
“She even had a visit to a plastic surgeon around that time.”
“Really?” Sam’s mind is running wild. “To change her face?”
“Boob and nose job.”
“Oh wow.” Sam can never understand people who do that. Sure, she’s as insecure about her ability to attract men as the next woman (though her insecurities have gotten a lot less since she started sleeping with Brian). “Why do you think?”
“I’m only able to produce hard facts, Ms. Fox, not the reasons behind it, unless she has visited a therapist.”
“Has she?”
“Not yet.”
“Interesting.” Sam flips to the next page. “She works for an upstart pharmaceutical company which specializes in new, cutting-edge technology.”
The PI stabs his thumb on a dossier. “I thought you would find this interesting.”
Sam takes it. The file is on an experimental drug called CKZ2486 which is hailed as the new Ambien. She reads quickly and arrives at what the PI has circled in red ink: OVERDOSE MAY CAUSE SERUM SODIUM AND POTASSIUM ABNORMALITIES, AS WELL AS ELEVATED BLOOD UREA AND SERUM CREATININE.
*
Sam stares at the walls of her new apartment. She hasn’t even fully unpacked yet. There are not yet any pictures on the walls of her lounge, which is half the size of Brian’s bedroom. The lovely new white sofa is a vision amongst the red-and-white striped armchairs.
Unless she gets a new job at the same salary, she’s going to have to give all this up after her retrenchment package runs out.
Her computer is alight in front of her, her browser latched to Jobstreet.com. Why isn’t anyone hiring these days? But of course, the economy hasn’t recovered, and people are firing instead of the other way around. She can try suing Rutgard for falsely leading her on, but she doubts the courts are going to award anything in her favor.
Besides, she can’t afford to hire a lawyer.
The doorbell rings. It’s about the time. She called for pizza delivery an hour ago.
“Come in,” she calls. “And I hope you remembered the olives this time.”
The door whines open. “I hope you like olives with wonton.”
“Brian!”
She can’t help smiling as he strides in, his arms full. He juggles her pizza with several takeaway bags littered with Chinese characters. He
puts them down on her coffee table.
“I thought we’d celebrate being unemployed,” he announces. He’s dressed in a white T-shirt and a pair of ragged jeans.
“That’s a cause for celebration,” she remarks.
“What’s not to celebrate? Waking up at noon to birdsong and sunshine. A leisurely hour sipping coffee at a sidewalk café, watching all the poor schmucks spilling their lattes as they rush down South Michigan Avenue to get back to their respective ball and chains.”
He plunks himself down on the sofa and puts his legs up. He’s attempting a grin, but underneath it all, she knows he is hurting as much as she is.
She seizes a carton and holds a pair of chopsticks up to him. “So here we are, celebrating our first day of freedom.”
Only it feels so empty.
He takes the carton and chopsticks from her. “I’m going to try tweezing a pizza with these. I’m going to have all the time in the world to learn new tricks.” He glimpses her computer screen. “Sending out resumes?”
“Yeah.” She sighs. “Only there are probably a thousand applicants for each one.”
“Maybe now is the time to follow that dream.” He waves a prawn ball with his chopsticks. She notes that he wields them like a pro. Probably spends his entire life eating take-out dinners.
“What dream?”
“The gym dream.”
“Brian, I don’t even have the money to keep this apartment, let alone start a gym.”
“I’ll give you the money.” He observes her face. “OK, I’ll lend you the money as a partner. It will be our gym. You can run it, since I know fuck all about running gyms, and I can do the marketing and advertising.”
She stares at him as if he has suddenly grown a third eye. “Are you serious?”
“If I were any more serious, I’d be dead.”
“I thought you were unemployed.”
“Doesn’t mean I’ve lost all my money overnight. I’ll still get profits from Vanguard, provided it hasn’t fallen into the red by my very public misdemeanors. I’ll have more than enough to pump something into our gym, pardon the pun.”
He sounds so earnest that she wants to believe him.
“Wow,” she says, “you really are serious about this.”
“Want to nail my coffin shut?”
She’s not going to tell him about Adele Jankovic. At least, not until she has time to check it out.
She’s not going to tell him how much she loves him either.
*
When they have finished dinner, they fall into bed. Her bed.
He tears off his T-shirt and whispers, “I’m going to make it up to you for the other night.”
She lies there, never taking her eyes off him. How can she? He’s so beautiful, with his large eyes lighted up like that, and his sleek, well-toned body gleaming in her lamplight.
He climbs on top of her. She’s fully dressed, but not for long. He begins to teasingly grope her breasts beneath her top until her nipples are all perky and flushed. Then he bends his head down to kiss her.
And oh, what a kiss. Compared to the other night, he seems to have shed most of his burdens. His lips are hungry, ravenous, imbued with a need she hasn’t felt from him in a long time. He scrunches her T-shirt as his mouth devours hers, and after a while – with the hardening apparent between his legs – he seizes its hem and rips it over her tousled head.
They shack their clothes systematically. His jeans drop to the floor beside hers. Underwear off, followed by her pretty red bra. When they are both naked, he clasps her hand and guides it to his erection – now magnificent and as solid as his determination.
“Feel it,” he says.
Her hand grabs the thick shaft of his penis and lovingly runs back and forth. She massages his glistening knob, feeling it grow harder – if possible – under her expert rub.
“Oh wow, baby’s back,” she breathes.
“For many more sequels . . . in the same night.”
He tongues her neck, her chin, the depression between her collar bones. She shivers in anticipation, her entire body quivering and primed to his delicate touch. He moves his tongue in a line between her breasts, and buries his face there, licking and tasting her. His fingers flip her nipples back and forth. Then his mouth closes on her right nipple, and he begins an intense sucking that makes her toes curl.
She claws his hair – his wonderfully thick dark hair, which is highlighted with golden. Her pussy clenches with need. It has been such an awful week, and they haven’t fucked since the ice-cream parlor incident. She realizes how much she wants him. She needs him inside her – so much it’s actually a physical craving. A dependency.
That’s dangerous. She’s scared.
You can’t get too close to a man like this.
Still, their bodies are close as close can be defined. He rolls off her and reaches for his jeans to take out a condom. He tears the foil with his teeth and hands it to her.
“Go on,” he says softly, “put it on me.”
She takes it. His body is poised above hers and his cock is ramrod straight. She gingerly slides the moist rubber over his crown.
Now ready, he parts her thighs.
“How would you like it tonight? Slow . . . or . . . ?”
He lets it trail. His eyes hold an emotion she has rarely seen since this whole episode began – uncertainty. Her stomach writhes. But he has done nothing wrong. She knows this now. Something about the whole Adele Jankovic business raises her hackles, and she’s going to get to the bottom of it. For his sake and hers.
Because she loves him.
She says, “I want it rough tonight, Brian. Fuck me . . . hard.”
“Are you sure?”
She strokes his cheek. “Yes.”
She senses he needs to overcome a hurdle in his own mind. A validation of sorts that he hasn’t turned into a monster overnight.
“You’re beautiful,” she says to him, and her emotion is heartfelt. “You will always be beautiful.”
He smiles tenderly at her. “You’re beautiful too.”
He raises his hips to straddle hers. He penetrates her slowly at first, taking his time to fill her snug, warm tube. She pushes her head back into the pillow – ohhhhhh. How she loves the silky feel of his sheathed rod against her moist walls. Her creams are flowing copiously now, lubricating him. He pushes himself into her until he can go no more – the way she likes it. His body is warm against hers. They are chest to chest, belly to belly.
He lowers his mouth to hers again and kisses her passionately as he starts to move his hips. His thrusts are gentle at first, and then he grows bolder, more confident – because she responds so wonderfully to him by moaning against his mouth and arching her back.
She lifts her hips up to meet his. His movements escalate. He kisses her periodically. Deep, searching, wet, open-mouthed kisses that send a thrilling heat into the base of her skull. The pleasure of his strokes stimulates her every fiber down there – her every recess, her every fold. She can drown in the ecstasy of it all, especially in the sweetness and glory and warmth of his mouth.
No.
She doesn’t believe for one second that this man could ever rape another person.
Her oral encouragement spurs him on, and soon, he is humping and pounding her with as much confidence and tenacity as before. His breathing grows labored, and he grunts with each thrust. Through her own moans, she watches his face – his closed eyes, his raptured expression. He is seemingly transported to another place . . . and that place is inside her.
Her climax builds despite her attempts to stave it off – so that she can watch him for a while longer. But the friction of his cock against her G-spot becomes erotically unbearable. His kisses become similarly overheated. Her muscles clench and her vagina closes around his organ like a fist. And she comes – explosively, mind-blowingly, satisfyingly – and screams out his name against the roaring of blood within her ears.
He allows himself to come too. His
sweat-beaded body rolls off hers. He pants, his glistening chest rising and falling. He reaches down to peel off his cum-filled condom.
They lie in each other’s arms that night, thinking their disparate thoughts as their respective troubles returns after the pleasurable but brief respite.
“What’s going to happen to us, Brian?” she asks sadly.
He kisses the top of her head. “We’ll take it one step at a time.”
21
“So how much do you think I can get for it?” Brian asks.
The realtor – a short middle-aged man in a business suit – scans the lounge of Brian’s penthouse, now nicely put back in place. The glass fragments have been cleaned up and thrown away. The lampstand and table have been replaced. The curtain has been neatly hung.
“I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Morton. The market is soft right now. Once folks find out who you are, they’re going to try to take advantage of your current situation.”
“I know. But I’ll have to ultimately sell anyway.”
Brian has made an inventory of things that have to go, including his expensive Italian furniture, his modern art and his collections of rare magazines, rare pens, and Jaegar LeCoultre Reverso watches. He figures he might be able to actually get a profit out of them.
Then there’s always that pair of diamond earrings he had bought for Sam, tucked away in its little velvet box snugly in his safe.
No. He doesn’t want to sell those.
He knows he hasn’t been exactly honest with Sam. He didn’t exactly have the money to fund her new gym. The amount required is considerable. There is space to rent. Equipment to buy. Lots of fixtures to put in. He would have to liquidate something to generate the cash flow.
The only asset he has is his apartment.
But he would have to downgrade anyway to reflect his current status. The party is over – at least for now.