by P D Singer
Dwight went to fetch the paperwork, complicated by the boner he got from watching Jon, all professional competence and exultation, a sleek predator who’d just brought down his prey after a lengthy stalk and a quick pounce. Jon would never touch him, though, never take him to the executive washroom for a quick anything; Jon would never take him anywhere else for anything else. The papers on the clipboard masked his problem well enough, until it became a matter of needing to hide both his groin and his face, because Ricky’d come out of his office with questions.
“Profits?” he asked, and Dwight had to nod. “Big ones?” Dwight nodded again. “Let’s see.” Ricky took the clipboard with all the assurance of having the right to inspect another trader’s decisions, and Dwight could either fight him for information that would come out soon enough, or let go. He let go. The small defeat at least deflated his other problem.
“What did he cover at?” Ricky demanded. “I know where he shorted originally.”
“Not sure,” Dwight hedged. He’d get that when Jon got off the phone.
“Yo, Jon!” Ricky pushed past him, yelling through the open door. “What did you cover at?”
“Seven thirty-eight!” Jon yelled back. “Hang on, here—I’m still on the phone!”
Ricky whirled back onto the main trading floor. “That’s…. Damn! That’s over five million bucks!”
That shouldn’t have been a surprise, though, and probably wasn’t to anyone but Logan, who stood making gaffed-fish mouths. The number still brought cheers from the others, and the pandemonium probably shortened Jon’s call. He came out of his office to the sound of his acclaim. Dwight yelled as loud as any other when Jon announced, “Five point four three million!” But Jon wasn’t having any of it when Ricky tried to propel him down the aisle between the desks, refusing to lead a conga line or any other sort of celebration. He did laugh when Corbin pushed him into a chair and picked him up in it, with Ricky’s help, and an instant later, Dwight’s, because Jon came perilously close to tipping out as they danced him through the room. No way would Dwight allow his mentor, ticket to success, and favorite fantasy to get bounced on the floor.
“Down, guys, put me down,” the star of the moment commanded, laughing, and he got his way at last. Ricky would put his hand on Jon’s shoulder, ignoring how Jon moved away just that bit and shook his head ever so slightly when Ricky lifted his brows an invitational fraction of an inch and tossed his chin in a “let’s get out of here” movement. Dwight stopped wondering what had bowed Ricky’s shoulders this morning.
Dwight had been prepared to work solo for an hour while the noise died down and Jon got his immediate celebrations accomplished. He wasn’t prepared to be dragged by the arm back into the office.
“Let’s figure out what we do next.” Jon spoke through gritted teeth and wouldn’t look out the door, though Ricky stayed in line of sight, not coming in but not leaving. Awkward—Dwight didn’t think he should acknowledge any of what looked like Lover’s Spat 1.2. Sitting down in his chair, Dwight started running calculations on the third lender on his list, determining how much money they might make if the prices dropped to various levels. Jon worked away on his own legal pad, and Ricky eventually left. Jon wrote more and more slowly, until at last he only looked down at his paper, and then glanced once at the door.
More awkward. Desperate for something to take Jon’s mind off his pain, Dwight said the first thing that occurred to him. “Must have been a good game Wednesday.” Immediately he cursed himself for bringing up trivia.
“It was. Exciting finish.” Jon looked up from the columns of figures that had had nothing added to them in fifteen minutes. “You follow the Yankees?”
“Yeah, although I never go. Mets games are easier to get to; the stadium’s straight up the G line.” Jon pulled back and glowered for an instant before smoothing away the outrage. Dwight approved of the change—the trivia had jarred something loose. He never went to Mets games, either, but it was a good way to poke a Yankees fan.
“Damn.” Jon dropped his pencil with a clatter. “I had a fourth ticket; I didn’t even think to ask if you wanted to go.”
Damn indeed. “It isn’t like you knew I’d be interested.” Dwight had watched the byplay between Davis and Ricky without even an introduction; he knew perfectly well that he was only furniture at that particular moment.
“Still, that’s the sort of thing I should know.” Jon fixed Dwight with a curious look. If the heat in his neck meant a thing, Dwight was now redder than the ink on Orewatt’s ledger. “Next time.”
“You don’t have to.” Dwight wanted to wiggle under that gaze. “It’s not like….”
“You’re a colleague, you’re a nice guy, why not?” Jon asked.
“Because….” The truth of those words didn’t begin to bridge the social gap that loomed between them. “I’m…. You’re….” Dwight sputtered to a halt.
“I’m what?”
Dwight wilted under that puzzled look. “One of the cool guys. I’m not.”
“That is so high school.” Jon leaned back in his chair, brows wrinkled.
“Like some things ever go away?” Bitterness leaked out.
“Did you ever think that some things are due to the choices you make?” Jon probed. He slapped the legal pad down on the table, making Dwight jump. “You can lift your coolness quotient with a couple quick changes.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Yeah, right!” Jon was on his feet now, and dragging Dwight upright. “Look at you. You’re all slumped over. Stand up!” He went around behind, digging his thumbs into Dwight’s shoulder blades. “Suck in your gut, shoulders back. You’re eight degrees cooler already.”
“Like it’s that simple.” Jon could leave his hands right where they were, or move them here and there….
“Own your space, Dwight.” Jon stalked back around to Dwight’s front, inspecting critically. “If you’re going to stand there looking all meechy and humble, you’re going to get treated like crap. You’re a big guy, don’t try to shrink.”
“Like I don’t need to shrink?” Dwight had been thinking about buying some larger pants.
“Longer term issue, yeah. But honestly, don’t try to take less space. Demand more than you take up; people will buy it.” Jon wrenched Dwight’s shoulders back again; he’d been trying to curl up to his previous posture. “And if you insist on dressing like an unmade bed, that’s going to make a difference.”
That stung. “I’ve got a tie on.”
Jon gave that neckwear a good tweak. “So what? It’s got computer monitors on it. Your shirt isn’t pressed, your haircut looks like you did it yourself with some blunt scissors, and no one’s worn aviator glasses since the early nineties. Appearances matter, buddy.”
Dwight did slouch over now, completely ashamed at his idol’s assessment.
“Hey!” Jon slapped his shoulder, making Dwight stand straighter. “All that’s fixable. Come on!” He marched out of the office, slamming and locking the door once Dwight had followed him. “Due dilly!” Jon called to the office at large. “Dwight and I have some stuff to check out! See you Monday!” He didn’t wait for any responses, nor did he make sure Dwight followed, apparently serene in the knowledge that his assistant was drawn along in the magnetic field that was Jonathan Hogenboom. They left down the hall past the executive washroom. Dwight was sure he didn’t imagine the wistful look Jon gave that door, though he could imagine Ricky on that brocade couch, slumped over and waiting for a Jon who sailed right by. With Dwight.
Never in his wildest dreams had Dwight considered monopolizing Jon’s attention over Ricky.
Then again, he was only a pawn in Lover’s Spat 1.2, second level.
“First we find you some better glasses and a haircut,” Jon decreed in the elevator. “Is that prescription current?”
That was only the beginning of the whirlwind, from optometrist to barber shop to department store, all in a haze because the optometrist kept his glasses. Jon st
eered him around obstacles and helped Dwight make choices that he couldn’t see well enough to say yea or nay to. Snipped, puffed, dressed, turned, pinned, admired, and relieved of large sums of money at every turn, his armloads of bags grew. His dreams of owning his own apartment receded—Dwight tried not to think of each suit as so many square feet. Worth every cent though, because for these few hours, Dwight was the center of Jon’s attention.
Jon left Dwight in the hands of the tailor, who turned off-the-rack into dapper with quick swipes of his chalk. Jon returned with handfuls of bright silk. “And these. Stripes, dots, paisleys, not novelty patterns. You need to look like the success you plan to be.”
“Jon!” Dwight protested. His credit card would surely go up in flames if he tried to use it again.
“You need them.” Pulling out his own wallet, Jon paid for the ties, earning a sideways look from the clerk. Dwight wondered if he should accept it as a gift or try to pay Jon back. He had no idea how to even broach the subject.
“I’m going to get mugged on the train twice a week dressed like this. Starting tonight—all these bags with the fancy logos.” Muggers probably wouldn’t take just the shmata exercise clothes Jon had pushed him into buying.
“Own your space. The odds go down if you don’t look like a target.” Jon glanced at his watch. “Let’s find dinner, and you can catch a cab back later.”
Dwight’s belly had been making suggestions for some time. “There’s a McDonald’s one corner over.”
“Just because it’s there doesn’t mean that’s where we eat.” Jon shuddered. “Part of your new coolness is knowing about a lot of different things. Ever had tapas?”
“No….” Dwight had heard the word.
“You’re in for some education with dinner.” His mentor pulled a shirt out of the shopping bag to hand to the clerk. “Steam the wrinkles out of this for my friend.”
Redressed and knowing he looked almost good enough to be mistaken for Jon’s date, aside from some flab that he resolved to lose in the shortest time possible, Dwight strode out of the department store feeling like he might even come back without his escort.
Dinner was crisp mouthfuls of things he had no name for, velvety bites of tanginess and barely recognizable tidbits spiced in ways Dwight had never met. “This is quick coolness 101,” Jon explained, sending the waiter back for another couple of dishes that they’d share. “It doesn’t matter if you really understand what you’re getting, as long as you don’t try to talk dueling chorizos.”
Dwight mopped up some sauce with a bit of bread. “You keep ordering a couple things at a time until you’re full?”
“Pretty much,” Jon agreed “You’re cooler already for trying new things with confidence. It’s acting, but after a while you start believing it.”
Confidence and no trace of pain might be what Jon had been projecting all night, but now the little slump and unguarded expression broke his act. It was gone almost more quickly than it had come, and Dwight sat again with a man who had no further concern than that the wine and the tapas harmonized. They talked far into the evening.
Dwight at last looked at his watch. “I suppose I could catch a cab now, it’s late. The train will take me close to an hour to get home from here, and I’ve got all this stuff.”
Jon yawned. “You can stay at my place if you want; it’s about ten minutes’ walk.”
Hell yes! “Thanks, I will.” Of course Jon was too suave to make any kind of overt pass in the restaurant, but Dwight spent the one long block and three short blocks walking tall, unprompted, and hoping there might be more invitations once they were indoors again. If it was only a move to level three in Lovers’ Spat 1.2, he’d take it anyway.
But no, once they were at Jon’s apartment and Dwight had admired the night view, Jon tossed sheets, blankets, and a pillow at the couch. “It’s a little short, sorry.”
All the confidence drained out of Dwight, slumping his shoulders. Jon noticed. “The offer really was for a place to sleep.”
“It’s okay, I just thought… maybe you had more to show me?” Dwight wanted to put his arms around Jon, kiss him, touch him, maybe demonstrate some skills that didn’t require coaching.
“Not in bed.” Pity was not the look he wanted from Jon, damn it! “Good night.” The door shut behind Jon, the click of the latch ending the evening.
Dwight would have fallen asleep much sooner had he given in and stroked himself; as it was, the image of Jon in bed, only steps away in space but a million miles away in possibilities, kept him turning over. When sleep did come, it took him heavily, so much that the warm hand on his shoulder had to shake him with increasing amplitude to bring him back to awareness. “Rise and shine! Sweating time!” was not the morning greeting he wanted from Jon.
Dwight opened one eye. “Wha…?”
“You have some exercise clothes here, and my personal trainer’s going to meet us down in the gym in about, oh, twenty minutes. Up and at ’em; more coolness lessons coming at you.” Was Jon always this chipper in the morning? Or was this his idea of paybacks for the assumptions of the night before? Dwight wanted to hide under the pillow to escape that much blinding cheer, but Jon stole it off his face, though thankfully he didn’t jerk on the blanket to expose Dwight’s morning wood. “I’ll have some protein glop ready in a sec; get dressed.”
There was no way Dwight could stand tall and confident in a T-shirt and shorts. He followed Jon out the door, getting a cluck of disapproval for punching the elevator button. “You aren’t going to ride to the gym!” At least it was thirteen flights of stairs downward.
“Meet Carlos.” The hunk of toned muscle assessed Dwight’s condition and probably wanted to shake his head sadly. “Carlos, Dwight’s just getting started; he can have my session. Teach him what he’ll need to do on his own for the next month or two.” Jon disappeared, leaving Dwight facing his taskmaster and ruing the moment he’d mentioned baseball.
Chapter Fifteen
IF HE pushed himself through another circuit, Jon thought he might tire himself into a few hours of oblivion. Catching Ricky in the corner of his eye, reflected in the wall-sized mirrors that surrounded the exercise machines, wasn’t adding to his peace of mind at the moment. Of course Ricky wasn’t there, it was someone else doing miles on the treadmill or reps on the weights; when he looked closely, the wavy dark hair belonged to the woman from 4B and the bare arms to a man from the seventeenth floor.
Jon cursed himself for a fool and left the gym with his soaked towel around his neck and a half-finished bottle of water. He bypassed the elevator, now disgorging more people in exercise clothes, finding a certain humor in their repetition of Dwight’s error, riding down gravity’s well to the basement gym. He finished his workout with thirteen flights of stairs to home, and said nothing about Dwight’s determined stance at the elevator. If Dwight was so wiped that he needed to ride and ballsy enough to insist on it, he’d taken two steps in the right direction. Out the door with his bags was a third good step, though Jon regretted nothing about pushing the guy into making some desperately needed changes, and the entire evening had been an excellent distraction. That suggestion at the end of the night had come as a bit of a surprise, though. There’d been no one in his bed besides Ricky for more than two years; the night of their breakup wasn’t the night he’d change that.
Nor would he change it with Dwight, for a lot of reasons. For a bright guy, he sure missed some signals. Jon would give him another nudge in the right direction if Dwight didn’t figure it out for himself.
The phone rang before he got to the bedroom, catching Jon with his soaked shirt over his head. Untangling, he grabbed the phone without looking.
“We’ll pick you up at one,” Davis reminded him. Right. Real estate. Into the shower first. His mother had probably directed Davis to a decent agent, who might even earn her cut of the sale. Jon looked around, calculating how much more he could sell this apartment for than he’d paid for it. He hunted in the drawer for
some chino shorts and a white V-necked shirt.
One o'clock rolled around; a few minutes and a few blocks put them in an area with a completely different feel. “Interesting neighborhood,” Jon commented while the real estate agent paid the cabbie. He was slightly horrified to be directed to the glass and balcony monstrosity next to the brick and wrought iron warehouse building with the discreet “lofts available” sign. “Why are we going in here?”
“Because there’s a really lovely one-bedroom on the fourteenth floor that Davis needs to see,” wittered the agent, who did have the sense to be quiet and let the two look around.
“What do you think?” Davis asked, looking out the window and down.
“I think this building looks like Miami and not New York,” Jon replied, and didn’t add that he’d made the same mistake. “What about the lofts next door, if you like the area?”
“The plumbing is in the roughed-in stage in the two remaining units,” the agent reported after a quick call back to her office. She followed them down the elevator and out the door.
“That could be a pretty good investment and a nice chance to build exactly the way you want it.” Jon eyed the building, a relic of a more industrial time in the neighborhood.
“I was hoping for a move-in ready place.” Davis the architect was probably getting more information about the building’s construction than Jon was, from a visual. “Remodeling could be one hell of a task. But we could look.”
“No answer,” the agent sighed, but not entirely unhappily, Jon thought. The raw loft was probably half the cost and four times the size of the finished unit they’d just inspected. “I’ll set something up, though.”