The Rare Event

by P D Singer

  Geoff Gorman was nowhere to be seen, off on another “due diligence” trip—once again, the only person with the clout to interfere wasn’t there to do it. ‘Due dilly’, my ass. If Geoff stuck around and minded the store, there’d be a hell of a lot less dilly-dally. Maybe a united front would back him off? More likely, it would provide a mass hiring opportunity for some Wall Street wannabes. Jon tried not to fret about what he couldn’t change, but there had to be something….

  Inviting Ricky back to his office with a toss of his head, Jon braced himself for at least one explosion. Could be two, back to back. The slam of the door, complete with the meaty thud that could have meant a broken nose for whoever was following Ricky too closely strongly suggested that Jon not turn around and try to take his seething lover in his arms. Or maybe that would soften him and allow reason to prevail.

  No. Hugging a dragon would have been safer—Ricky was doing everything but breathing the fire.

  “Short-term profits? The little kind?”

  “Take them and run, Ricky; they fit in your pocket just fine.” Jon leaned a hip against the table laden with papers. He’d do his best to keep this on a business footing.

  “You think that I got into this position for a momentum play? That I didn’t look at fundamentals?” Ricky stalked nearer but didn’t come close enough to touch, nor did Jon reach.

  “I think you looked at fundamentals, Ricky. You know what you’re looking for.” The assessment did nothing to appease Ricky, though. Jon regarded him steadily. “What you didn’t get was all the information up and down the pipeline that will ricochet back on those companies, or you’d have this mess on your desk.” Jon waved his hand at the dangerous stacks. “It’s taken us days to get through it; you’re welcome to look. Check our conclusions.”

  “I’ve already come to my conclusions.” Ricky dismissed days of work. “That’s why I bought what I bought.” He came a step closer and looked into Jon’s face.

  “And you’ll make some money with it, if you’re ready to bail before it goes bad.” Standing up and into Ricky’s space, Jon tried to slip his arms around Ricky’s waist.

  Suddenly his goal was a step out of reach. “I don’t think I want you to touch me. Did you have enough condoms with you last night?” Ricky sneered.

  “Oh, that’s rich, coming from you.” Jon stood up and made Ricky take a step back to maintain the distance. “Yes, I had all the condoms I needed, which was zero.”

  “So why’d you ask me if I had any?” That slit-eyed glare cut Jon to the quick.

  “Because you knew damned well I wasn’t going to help you need any at Yankee Stadium. The only reason you’d even bring some is if you were going hunting.” Kevin’s term seemed horribly appropriate. Jon swallowed hard. “And here’s Davis, right there, or maybe some random guy. Anything to alleviate the boredom; you’d be prepared.”

  “I don’t ‘hunt’ when I’m with you. I brought them because you and I might find somewhere private.” Ricky was taken aback; his eyes widened.

  “If I won’t play in the backrooms where we won’t get arrested for public indecency, what makes you think I’d do it at Yankee Stadium, where we would?” Jon threw up his hand, tossing the question to the universe.

  “We might have wanted them later, but no, you had to get Davis home,” Ricky hissed. “Did you at least get goodnight kisses?”

  “Goodni—good Lord, why does everyone think I am such a pervert where Davis is concerned?” Despair washed over Jon, buckling his knees and putting his butt back against the table. “Why the hell would I kiss him?”

  “Oh, maybe because he’s gorgeous and looks at you like you’re a big, juicy steak?” The paper in Ricky’s hand rattled as he crumpled it. “What is he to you, anyway?”

  “I grew up with him, you asshole. His mother and mine are best friends; his brother Spencer and I”—Jon stumbled over the verb tense—“were best friends, and Davis was part of the deal. He’s like my little brother.”

  “Your little brother?” Ricky repeated. “You’ve never mentioned him—how do you completely fail to mention a brother, or this other guy?”

  “Same way I’ve dated you for two years and never met your parents.” Jon had suggested taking them out to dinner once, and Ricky had let it drop without a response.

  “My father hasn’t spoken to me since he found out I’m gay, and my mom won’t go against his wishes, although she sure cashes the checks. I’m not going to drag you out to Hoboken to see if we’ll get a door slammed in our faces.” Ricky scowled. “Seriously. What’s with the friendly disappearing brother?”

  “It’s—complicated.” Understatement of the world. The complications sat like a stone in Jon’s belly, with the added horror of Ricky’s story. How could a parent…?

  “No kidding.” Ricky wasn’t stopping to feel sorry for himself; no, he was pursuing things Jon didn’t want to talk about. “Why haven’t you at least talked about him?”

  “I haven’t seen either of them in ten years. Also, you’ve never really seemed interested.”

  “Brother or not, he’s sure interested in you.” Ricky snorted. “Maybe he’s misplaced the family feeling or—”

  “Stop right there!” Jon would not listen to another word of that. “You are way off base. We were really close once, and he’s glad to see me again.”

  “He’s glad to see you all right.” Ricky crossed his arms. “And he remembers, even if you don’t, that mommies being friends doesn’t make you family.”

  “Will you quit that!” Jon bounded to his feet and paced in the few feet of available space. “As far as I’m concerned, he is, and that’s why I asked you about the condoms. Because he is so off limits, Ricky.” Jon fixed his lover with angry eyes. “You do not even try with Davis. Do not touch him, do not smile seductively at him, do not offer to show him your etchings. Nothing. Got that?”

  “You’re the guy with the Old Masters on the wall—that’s what he wants to look at,” Ricky shot back. “Or has he already seen them?”

  “Don’t even go there.” Jon fought the urge to shake Ricky ’til he rattled. “You do not touch Davis.”

  “The way I want to touch Davis is to punch his face!” Ricky nearly shouted.

  “You don’t do that, either.” Jon poked Ricky’s breastbone hard enough to hurt his forefinger. “Off limits in every way.”

  “You mean I have to watch him be with you and do nothing?” Ricky slapped Jon’s hand away.

  “It will bore you worse than baseball, but yeah, do nothing.” Jon snorted angrily. “Just like I get to do nothing when someone you’ve fucked watches us walk out of the bathroom wearing nothing but towels.”

  “That was an accident!” Ricky protested, the paper fluttering from his fingers to the floor.

  “We have that kind of accident because you keep adding accident candidates. Don’t add Davis. Any man in the world, but not him.”

  “Any man in the world but him, huh.” Ricky grimaced. “I can do that.” He turned on his heel and stomped out, leaving the door gaping.

  The adrenaline started to leave Jon, draining the strength from his legs. He sank into the chair, the relief that Ricky had actually acceded to his demand making him nearly dizzy. The paper on the floor caught his eye; it was probably Ricky’s morning sketch. He scooted the chair toward it, nearly toppling over when he bent to pick it up. Smoothing out the wrinkles, Jon understood that Ricky was a lot more interested in punching Davis than screwing him. Ricky’d drawn a man, unmistakably Davis with that square jaw line and hair combed back in waves, his eyes X-ed out and tongue protruding, bent double over a baseball thrown hard into his belly.

  The wording of Ricky’s promise suddenly struck him. “Any man in the world but him—I can do that.” Ricky was mad enough that he probably would try to do that. Jon put his head in his hands and wished he had fallen in love with a faithful man.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “ARE we still on for Marimba’s?” Jon didn’t have a lot
of hope—Ricky had remained sequestered in his office all day, with Logan running in and out bearing sacks, cups, and the occasional piece of paper. No clipboards, though, and therefore no stop-loss orders on the new holdings.

  At least there had been no explosions about the one Jon had slipped in on him. With luck, that would go forever undiscovered, forever unneeded. Intens had bounced in a narrow range all day, never dipping low enough to trigger the order, and ending the day slightly higher. All well and good.

  “Is Davis joining us?” The challenge in Ricky’s voice suggested that there was no right answer.

  “I didn’t ask him to dinner; I asked you.” Maybe calm reason would help. “I want to feed you something nicer than a ball park hot dog.”

  “Mmm, okay. You want to go home first or leave your jacket at my place?” Ricky turned off his Bloomberg terminal and shut down his computer.

  Jon considered his migrating wardrobe—a suit hung on the back of his office door, his gym bag, still under his desk, contained the shirt and dress shoes he’d exchanged for a T-shirt and boat shoes to go to the game, and his tan suit had gone home on Ricky. Too bad his casual clothing remained stubbornly in his own closet. “How about we start from my place? I want to get out of this suit.”

  “Just take off your tie and loosen the shirt. You won’t look too formal.” Ricky swiveled around in the chair and catapulted into Jon’s arms. “I like the way your ass looks in dress pants.” Placing his palms against Jon’s buttocks, Ricky used the leverage to grind their groins together. “I like the way your ass looks out of dress pants.”

  Tension eased in Jon’s shoulders—the fury of the morning seemed to be gone, and he captured Ricky’s mouth for a deep kiss. One thrust of his hips against Ricky’s, and he backed up. “The door isn’t shut—let’s get home and you can look all you like.”

  “I can lick all I like?” Ricky pinched a cheek, lifting Jon onto his toes before letting go.

  “That too,” Jon agreed, slightly off balance with both desire and relief that the storm had passed. He’d wanted to change shoes more than anything else; if wingtip footwear all night was the price of peace, he’d find another way not to pay it. “I’ll meet you at your place—I really want to get out of these clothes.”

  “Corresponding perfectly with my desire to get you out of those clothes.” Ricky pulled the knot of Jon’s tie down a few inches and tweaked open the top button of his shirt. “Come with me.” The brilliant white of Ricky’s smile against his slightly olive skin was nearly enough to get an agreement out of Jon, but there was the small issue of food.

  “EF or FF?” Jon wanted to know, trying to make it sound like he’d agreed; once on the subway they could go farther than Ricky’s destination. Or he’d go alone and meet Ricky after he’d had the chance to change.

  “Both.” A throaty laugh promised a really good time. Jon was both glad and relieved to hear that—Ricky had to know his accusations of the morning were baseless. Still, Jon considered on the trip down the elevator and out to the street, having Ricky feeling a little proprietary wasn’t a bad thing. His warm hand on Jon’s elbow, physical contact and an announcement to the world, left a tiny lump in Jon’s throat. Maybe he’d see that it went both ways.

  They had to squish in the subway; it was the height of rush hour and the flight of financial types from lower Manhattan. Ricky enlivened the journey with little hip movements against Jon’s butt and whispered promises near Jon’s ear.

  “I owe you, big time,” Ricky murmured, and Jon, facing away, couldn’t say anything that he didn’t want half a dozen fellow commuters to hear. “Gonna get you on your belly and shove your knees wide apart….” Jon was afraid he was flushing from all the suggestions. Mostly people didn’t look into each other’s faces on the train, but there was one man across the car who watched with interest. Jon refused to meet his eyes, looking instead at the shoulder of the stranger in front of him and listening to Ricky’s active imagination. “You’ll feel my tongue, all soft and wet, poking….” Jon shuddered, wishing they didn’t have so far to go, and abandoned all his intentions of changing trains and going home. The few blocks from the station to Ricky’s building were going to be way too long as it was.

  They emerged, blinking in the sunlight, from the depths of the subway. Ricky didn’t quite pull Jon into a run down the sidewalk, but they strode with as much speed and deliberation as their arousal permitted. Halfway to Ricky’s apartment, Jon’s phone twittered the opening bars of “La Habanera.”

  “It’s Mother. I need to get this.” Jon was certain he’d be done with the call before they got off the elevator and into enough privacy to complete Ricky’s lascivious suggestions. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hello, dear. I’m glad you got to the ball game; it’s been so long….” Jessica went through the pleasantries, and it was an extremely good thing she didn’t see the eye-rolling and cheek-puffing that Jon permitted himself, all while he responded calmly and counted the steps to Ricky’s front lobby. Ricky didn’t help one bit by taking Jon’s hand and tickling his palm with a hidden middle finger. “Oh, by the way, Jon, have you set up an appointment with Ben Fleisher yet?”

  Squashing Ricky’s hand kept the salacious stroking to a minimum but didn’t stop it. Ricky worked a little harder to stroke. Jon had to admit that he hadn’t called his financial advisor. “But I’ll call him tomorrow, I promise, okay? Bye—”

  Jessica talked right over that farewell. “Oh, and Jon, Davis needs to talk to you. Love you, here he is.”

  A much deeper voice came through the phone, not one that Jon wanted to hear right then, not with his hand in Ricky’s and the front door in sight. “Hey, Jon.”

  “Hi, Davis. Hey, I only have a minute—” A minute could be enough to anger Ricky again; he’d stopped tickling Jon’s palm.

  “I won’t keep you, but do you have time to look at a couple of places with me? The agent has a list. The appointment is Saturday, one o’clock, but I could change it.”

  “Sure, no problem. Saturday. I’ll call you.” Ricky stopped trying to move his finger inside Jon’s grasp. “Bye.” Anxious to salvage the great mood, Jon snapped the phone shut. “Real estate. Where were we?”

  “Not sure.” Ricky pulled his hand away, and the last few yards to the front door were silent. The city held on to its late-summer heat, but the atmosphere between the men had grown noticeably cooler.

  Once in the elevator, Jon had to ask. “What exactly is the problem here?” They were alone, but the smoky mirrored walls reflected the men enough to create a crowd.

  “You’re supposed to be on Fire Island on Saturday. With me.” Ricky looked straight ahead at the elevator doors.

  “This is the first you’ve mentioned it.” More than the movement of the elevator unsettled Jon’s stomach. Had he double-booked? He ran through his calendar out loud. “I was there last weekend, but not the weekend before.”

  “I didn’t think I had to specify. It’s one of the last weekends of the season, and the weather could turn; we might not have another chance ’til next spring.” The elevator opened on Ricky’s floor, but Ricky didn’t move. Jon put a hand out to catch the door before they got hijacked by machinery.

  “I’ve been there every other week with you all summer. I plan around that.” Jon didn’t think Ricky’d ever swapped his weekends—he tried to recall one instance, and failed.

  “Planning, ugh. Be spontaneous. Come with me.” Ricky put his hand at the small of Jon’s back, urging him into the corridor. Jon stepped out, Ricky close at his shoulder, their heels clicking on the granite tiles.

  “I’d like to, Ricky, you know that, but I’ve made other commitments.” Three on Saturday alone, and only one he could break easily, Jon calculated sadly, though the other two could be evaded at a price. Breaking the personal training session would cost only money—broken promises to Davis and his parents would exact a different toll.

  “But nothing as much fun as coming to Fire Island.” Ricky needed both
hands to get his door unlocked, but once through, he swung Jon into his arms. “You’d rather be with me.”

  “I would, but I’ve already set things up.” Several things were setting up: Jon was stiffening within his trousers, and Ricky thrust against him, hardening sideways inside the fabric prison of his clothes. They had to struggle apart enough to drop suit jackets on the floor.

  “Why?” Ricky got a hand all the way down the back of Jon’s trousers this time, gripping one cheek and kneading. “You don’t have to do them.”

  “I get only X amount of your time.” That sentence had several pauses in it—Ricky’s tongue was demanding, and Jon yielded to it every few words. “So I do other things, same as you.” Except Ricky was probably doing other people, something Jon forbore to say.

  “This weekend I want more.” With his groin pressed to Jon’s hip now, Ricky had room to pull Jon’s belt open, then his fly. With his face tipped up and their mouths together, Jon didn’t want to say no to anything Ricky suggested, especially since he’d worked Jon’s cock out of his clothing and started pumping it slowly, palm against shaft, with two fingers pressing down between his balls. The hand in back slid over, cupping Jon’s ass, and then Ricky spread Jon’s cheeks with two fingers and let them come together. “I want to do everything.” He parted Jon’s cheeks again and held them separate, his other hand still rising and falling with slow suggestion on Jon’s erect cock. “I want to do it with you.”

  With his throat exposed, Jon’s ability to think of anything besides Ricky’s hands and mouth, now tracing small wet tracks over his skin, dwindled to nothing. One arm around Ricky’s waist kept him from falling; his other hand had enough coordination to strip the speckled silk away from Ricky’s neck and undo the shirt buttons. He hitched his hip sideways, feeling the hidden hardness that he’d expose soon, and felt Ricky thrust back against him.

  Bending suddenly, Ricky thrust his arm farther into Jon’s slacks, curving his hand between Jon’s spread thighs, reaching the smooth-shaven sack still hidden in clothing. “Damn, you are sexy. I’ve been wanting you all day.” His warm, cradling hand made Jon gasp.