by A. F. Henley
"Well, no. I don't think so anyway. He didn't mention one."
Glenda lifted her eyebrow. "Well, hopefully this outfit will work for you then."
"It's not like that," August said, stepping away from the offensive garments. "We're not … I'm not … well, we're just not. I'm his assistant."
"Funny." Glenda gave him a sideways stare. "I thought I felt a couple of vibes between the two of you."
"No."
"If you insist." She waved August off before he could reply. "Oh! I brought boots too. They match. Very hot. Anyway, I have to run. Lots to do. See you tonight, okay?"
"Yeah, thanks. See you tonight," August said, still staring at the outfit, horrified. Now what? He had two hours to come up with something decent. He glanced at the pants lying in a pile on the floor. There was no way he'd be able to get them laundered and dried in time. He'd have to pull the "emergency" credit card his dad had given him. A thought that incensed him as much as the idea of letting Doren pay for clothes. Still, an emergency was an emergency.
Glenda
"Well, at least one of us can get a job done right," Glenda said into the cell phone, preening for praise from her boss.
The rush she got from the pleasure in his voice when Anton purred, "Good girl! So he took the outfit?" was damn near sexual.
"Oh, yeah. He took it. But you got about six minutes to get the boutique in the hotel closed and stop him from leaving. Or, here's a better idea. See if he's got a credit card registered to his name and get it frozen. I have the feeling he's going to move hell and high water to find something else to wear, but there's no way he'll ask Doren for the money to do it."
"Done. Ursula is pulling up the records now. Glenda, you're an angel."
She smirked into the phone. "Not even close."
"And you know that's why I love you. Now get ready. The car will pick you up in an hour."
She carried her smile with her out the lobby door and into the rainy street.
August
"What do you mean it's declined? It can't be." August stared in unmasked confusion at the sales clerk who looked embarrassed beyond words.
"I'm sorry, sir. I've got a phone right here—would you like to call the credit card company?"
He shook his head. If the card had been declined, then his father’s disapproval went way deeper than August had thought. Yes, his father had reasoned with him not to go into the program in the first place. And yes, his father had said he would never make any money in the music industry. So when he'd told his dad he was dropping out, that he'd found a job and even if he hadn't there was no point in going back because he'd bombed the last semester so badly he had no chance of getting his grades to par, his mind had pictured the condemnation flashing in dear old Dad's eyes as if the man had been standing in front of him. He just had no idea it would be to such a degree. It was obviously his father's attempt at teaching him the lesson of: if this is what you want, then you deal with it on your own.
He'd been to four different stores when he realized the boutique had closed early, and God only knew why that was on a freaking weekend of all times, and even running his fool head off it had taken him over three hours to find something decent that was in his price range. Now with no hopes of procuring said find, only a couple of hours before they had to leave, a shower and shave on the docket, and a guest list that was a mile long to memorize, August was completely, one-hundred-percent screwed. He'd even considered scooping the discarded tux from Doren's room, but there wasn't a chance in hell it would even come close to fitting his frame. Not even tucking and rolling everything he could.
"Don't look at it," he kept telling himself while he got ready. "It won't look awful. I'll fit right in." But he felt like a complete and utter fool standing in front of the mirror, trussed up like a kid in a Halloween costume. If nothing else, August grimaced at his reflection, he could pass as Doren's escort.
He was running late—had, in fact, already answered one phone call from the limo driver and ignored the second—when he finally met up with the group in the lobby. The bassist, whom August struggled to recall the name of, whistled—a long, high note of approval. "Just look at you. I wouldn't have thought you had it in you."
Doren turned, smiling, but his face fell instantly. "That's what Glenda brought you to wear?"
August bit back the "fuck you" that flew to his lips. Instead, he offered Doren a smile back, fighting away the increase of already rampant self-consciousness. "You don't like it?"
"It's all right." Doren's eyes raked him up and down, a frown etched onto Doren's face. "It's just … I don't know. You look like … everybody else, I guess. I expected something different. It's not … you."
Right, August thought. It was okay for Doren to look like a street kid in his faded jeans and blood-spattered shirt. "At least I haven't slathered on eyeliner," August wanted to shout. "At least my hair is brushed." Rather, he offered another patient smile and tried to shift his stance as, suddenly, it felt like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. "Can't you even try to say something nice?"
Doren shook his head, resolve settling on his face. "No. I don't like it. I'm sorry."
August didn't know why he was taking it so personally. He knew Doren was right. But for God's sake, a little faking wouldn't kill him, would it? "Well, if you hate the outfit so much, you can always go by yourself."
Anger spiked in Doren's eyes. "I think you might be forgetting something here, Auggie. I offered to get you something decent to wear; you're the one who refused. So if I'm a little put off with the clown outfit then I think I have a right. And you work for me. If I say you're going to be there, then you're going to fucking be there."
The whole trip caught up with August at once: the lack of proper sleep, the incident on the bus, the attitude … that annoying voice in the back of his head that kept repeating: and this is the guy you decided to touch?
"Actually, Doren, you're the one who's missed something here." He bowed his head to the band, staring in unabashed amusement at their exchange. "I'm not your bitch." He spun on the slippery sole of the ridiculous boots, heading straight for the elevator.
"August, don't you fucking dare! Get back here and stop acting like one then."
Fate, you blessed beast, August thought as the elevator doors slid open and a man walked out into the lobby. He stepped into the metal box, thrilled at Doren's hesitation to follow, and punched the button to close the door.
"I don't need this," he mumbled at the floor, afraid to lift his face lest the tears he fought dare to wander. "I don't need you, I don't need this job, and I certainly don't need this fucking jacket." He was still trying to squirm out of it when the elevator opened on his floor. He was still spitting whispered profanities as he shoved open the door to his room and flung the jacket across it. As his fingers fumbled for the buttons, slipping on the satin, eyesight disturbed with obstructive waterworks, he had to force himself not to just start tearing the cloth off his back. As it was, the button on his left wrist succumbed to the rough treatment, skipping away to God only knew where, and August tossed the shirt on the bed in a crumpled pile.
Was this normal? That one minute Doren was acting like August was the greatest thing since sliced bread and the next Doren was acting like a four-year old who didn't like the flavor of Popsicle he'd been offered? He stared out the window of the hotel and watched the limo pulling away from the curb. Without thought, he lifted his middle finger and shoved his fist against the glass hard enough to rap his knuckles soundly.
"Right, Aug," he sniff-laughed. "Doren's the one acting like a child."
The phone started to ring and August jumped at the sound. He wasn't going to answer it, didn't want to listen to Doren's bullshit, but it was insistent and annoying as all hell. Three rings, four rings, five rings, then silence … and seconds later it started all over again. Rage got the better of him. Fine. If Doren wanted to keep fighting, he was game. He picked up the receiver and snarled, "What?"
"August, love?
It's Diana. From the office? Is that you?"
He gripped the phone and squeezed his eyes shut. "Yes, sorry. God, Diana, I apologize. I thought you were someone else."
"Is everything all right?"
"Yes. No." He shook his head pointlessly. "It's … complicated."
"August? Hon?" Diana's voice was like a long drink of water after a run in mid-summer. "Take a breath. Just relax. I know things are tense. I know these guys can be a handful. But everything's going to be fine, okay?" When he didn't reply, Diana huffed a soft sound of concern. "I know you have to get ready, so I'm sorry to be calling you so late. I just managed to trace a package I sent out to you and they tell me it's arriving as we speak. Have you seen any sign of it yet?"
He scanned the room, confused. "No, I don't think so."
"Okay, well, it's on its way. Just sit tight."
"What is it?"
"I have to apologize, August. I knew about the gala before you left and I should have said something to you before you packed. So I've sent something down for you to wear. You probably didn't have anything decent, did you?"
He looked at himself in the mirror, tight leather still stretched over his legs and hips ludicrously, and his shoulders slumped that much further. "Not really. But it doesn't matter. I'm not going."
Diana laughed. "Sure you are, love. Just wait, you'll see. August? Has Doren already left? Are you by yourself then?"
He nodded, as if Diana could see him from miles away. "Yeah. He left."
"It's all right," Diana said firmly. "I'll have a car come for you in half an hour. Wait in the lobby, okay?"
"I don't think so, Diana. I don't want to go. I don't belong there."
Diana's voice softened but became serious. "Listen, August, I need you there. Doren needs you there. Trust me. He needs you there more than he even knows he does. Get your chin up, straighten your spine, and if I'm right on my timing, I think your package will be there any second now. Can you do that for me, August? Can you tough it up and get out there?" As if on cue there was a knock at the door. "Call me if you have any trouble. I'm here. Any time, okay? But please hang in there, August. Trust me when I tell you that I knew you were the one for the job."
The package was in the hallway, a simple cardboard box, note-less and unimposing. But when he opened it, the tux inside of it had August lifting his eyebrows and digging for price tags. He didn't recognize the name in the lapel—it was very Italian and multi-syllabic—but the tux itself was midnight blue, with a sheen that, in the right light, would draw the eye of everyone that saw it. The lapels and thin strip of fabric that ran down the leg shone like satin and that, right there, August decided, was the right way for a man to wear shine. A white tuxedo shirt with faux-sapphire buttons was tucked into the jacket, along with a black bowtie and shoes, both very simple and yet, somehow, very stylish.
He almost felt foolish with how different he felt in the tux. But the moment the jacket fell over his shoulders and he tugged the fabric into place, August felt like a superstar. He left the leather on the floor and didn't look back, opting for the stairs like Doren would have done, taking them two at a time when he got to the last level.
"Now just look at you," August heard, and he turned towards the voice of the desk clerk that had helped him locate Doren the previous night. "A right proper gentleman in search of a right proper ride, I assume. How are you this evening, sir?"
August faked a bow. "Very well, my friend. And yourself?"
"Better now," the desk clerk smiled.
"Oh?"
August's question was waved off. "Nothing, nothing. Everything is back on track and the evening is going well." He patted the computer monitor in front of him. "Things go offline, times get tense, but we work through it until they come back again." He smiled and nodded. "They always come back again."
August parted his lips to reply but was stopped by a point at the glass doors at the front of the lobby. He turned to look at the white limo humming at the curb. "Your chariot has arrived. Hurry on, now. You don't want to miss it again."
A driver stepped out of the front seat, opened an umbrella, and stepped around the car to open the back door. August turned back to the desk, the "thank you" dying on his lips. The desk was empty, the clerk gone, and the phone began ringing to itself. As the line was caught by the answering service August shook his head for what seemed like the hundredth time that day and walked out the door to meet the driver.
*~*~*
The gala was being held at the most beautiful estate August had ever seen. The driveway was lit with hundreds of lights and trimmed with thousands of flowers. The door was manned by the best-dressed and most well-mannered staff he had ever had the pleasure to meet. They took over for the driver to open the door of the limo for him, requested his name, and just seemed to know that he was supposed to be there. A good thing, really, because Doren had left with the invitation and August had strong doubts Doren would have told anyone to expect him.
The foyer was immense and immaculate, the stairs teeming with guests, and after a few quick directions from the smiling waiters, August walked into the hall set up as ballroom. Tables were draped in rich red velvet, lighting was soft but adequate, and the air was rich with the scent of fantastic food and exotic cologne. He was just about to press his phone into life to try and locate Doren when August spied him. Surprisingly enough, though enveloped by a crowd of people who were there just to see him, Doren sat alone at a table by the bar, nursing a short glass with ice. He found a chair across from Doren's line of sight and waited for Doren to notice him. Why he even thought Doren would in the sea of linen, silk and perfumed fur August couldn't say. But he could hope.
He didn't wait long. Within seconds August saw him lift his head to the ceiling, close his eyes, and take a deep breath. And then, as always, Doren's eyes just seemed to find him. August smiled, more embarrassed than amused, as Doren rose in surprise. He stepped through the crowd, moving quickly, dragging a chair way too close before sitting down, wrong side forward, and exclaiming, "You came!"
August nodded. "I'm sorry. You were right. I was acting like an idiot."
"No!" Doren's eyes widened. "I'm sorry. And you were right." He pulled back and whistled through his teeth. "And what the hell happened? You look like a million bucks."
He grinned at August's eye roll. "Well, don't let that head get too swollen now. Inflation being what it is, Aug, a million isn't really worth what it used to be."
August snorted and ran a hand down the slippery lapel. "Yeah, well, you can thank Diana for this when you get back."
"Ah, of course." Doren leaned forward, tilting the chair dangerously and peering down at August's shoes before drawing his gaze all the way back up to August's eyes again. "Diana. The Queen of Administration. I should have known."
Doren stood and shoved his hand out. "Walk with me to the bar?"
"They have servers …" August said pointlessly, his wrist already snagged, his body being pulled out of the chair.
As they stood at the bar, shoulders comfortably close to one another, Doren cleared his throat and mumbled, "I'm sorry I took off and left. I seem to have a bad habit of doing that around you."
August shrugged as Doren handed him a glass of champagne, his eyes resting on Doren's glass of whiskey, grinning when Doren laughed. "You seemed like more of a champagne kind of guy. I can get you something else?"
"It's perfect," August told him. "As for the taking off thing, please don't even mention it. You shouldn't have to coddle me. I'm your assistant, not the other way around. And you had to be here. I didn't really leave you much choice."
Doren's expression turned hard and August followed his glare to where Anton sat, the king of his table, surrounded by his assistants and a dark-skinned woman that August hadn't met yet. "I know that bastard had something to do with that god-awful outfit," Doren snarled.
"Don't say anything," August warned. "I'm sure they were just trying to help. And if they weren't, don't give them the
satisfaction of letting them know it got under our skin." His face twisted into a smirk. "But we should, at the very least, go over and say hello."
"You're damn right we should," Doren nodded, finishing his drink in one quick draw and ordering another. "Let 'em see just how fine we look, yes?"
Doren looped his arm comically and August denied the gesture with a tsk. He should have known better. Doren merely reached out, secured August's hand, and held it on his arm. "Doren," August hissed. "Stop making us look like a couple of fair—"
"Doren!" Anton boomed. "Our man of the hour!" He waved at August. "And with the assistant in tow like a good little servant, too." He turned his attention to Glenda, obvious disappointment, if not outright anger, flashing in his eyes.
"Oh, August," Glenda pouted. "You didn't wear my outfit!"
August smiled coldly. "No, I'm sorry. The look just wasn't working for me."
Anton flicked his fingers at Glenda, silently insisting she move chairs, tapping it when she'd vacated it. "Doren, sit with us. Have a drink. We have so much to talk about. What do you think of this crazy weather?"
Doren raised an eyebrow: rakishly handsome in his simple clothes, the most brilliant genius in the entire room, and for that one night at least, that moment anyway, his attention was all August's. "We've actually started a conversation already. Very important. Lots of …" he wiggled his fingers at August, struggling for a prompt.
"Details," August provided. "Lots of details. Nothing you'd be interested in, Anton, I'm sure." Where the smug attitude was coming from, August had no idea. But he liked it. He felt strong. He felt … safe. Doren's arm muscles rippled underneath August's fingertips as Doren turned and looked at him. The smile August found there was worth any repercussion Anton would care to throw his way.
"Exactly," Doren nodded. "Lots and lots of details. We should get back to it." Doren saluted Anton, bowed to the ladies, and August kept his eyes off the lot of them as they said their goodbyes.
Within an hour August knew he would never remember a fraction of the names he was told, nor even recognize half of the faces that smiled into his own. He did know, however, as Doren leaned close enough to smell, as August drew that smile again and again to Doren's face, and every time their fingers, hands or shoulders touched, that he would never, ever forget the night.