Chapter Four Briar
The music from three floors down filters into the awkward silence.
Below, the masked donors swirl around themselves, gorging on wealth and self-congratulation.
Here, there’s only the click of a bottle on glass, the muted city outside, and the slow burn of a situation evolving from simple containment to something else.
I settle into the couch, letting my body take up more space than is polite.
The upholstery is expensive and barely broken in, like most things in this suite.
Landon is cautious, sitting on the very edge, both hands clenched around his glass.
He’s so visibly uncomfortable that it’s almost cute.
I want to see how long it takes to push him further.
He looks up at me, meets my eyes for a split second, then immediately looks away, clearing his throat loudly.
I sip the wine and let the silence stretch, watching him try not to squirm. “I’m curious,” I say. “This is the first time you’ve ever been to an event like this, isn’t it?”
He nods, a short sharp jerk of his head. “I grew up thinking parties were just an excuse for the rich to avoid taxes.”
“They are.” I let myself smile at the line, because it’s true. “What did you expect to happen tonight?”
He studies the far wall, where my father’s painting—ugly, valuable—hangs in a frame worth more than his car. “Honestly, I figured I’d get thrown out before dessert. Maybe block-listed from every job in the city. Or… dead.” He trails off, hesitates. “I didn’t think I’d end up here.”
“Here,” I echo. “With me.”
He clears his throat. “With anyone.”
His face is flushed, either from the wine or the context, and he’s careful not to look at me. There’s a vulnerability to him that’s both raw and deliberate. He’s not trying to be strong; he’s just too stubborn to be weak.
I lean towards him, opening my legs and subtly moving over a few inches, closing the space between us. He tenses, just perceptibly. “Yeah, I suppose the invite didn’t leave you much choice, now did it?”
He blinks, then nods, downing the rest of his wine and putting it on the table beside him. He doesn’t set it on the crystal coaster, which makes me smile. There’s not a single wealthy bone on his body and he would die if he knew how much that table cost.
I study his face. In this light, he looks young, but the set of his jaw says otherwise. “So, Landon, tell me—what did you do for Valentine’s last year?”
He makes a face. “I watched a documentary on serial killers and ate half a pizza.” He shrugs. “The year before that, I think I worked late.”
“Anyone special?” I ask, as if the question is benign.
His gaze hardens. “No.”
“No girlfriends in college?”
He stares at the wall again, thinking. “A few, maybe. Nothing that lasted.”
The answers come fast, almost rehearsed, like he’s used to fending off these questions and is waiting for the real one.
I decide to dig deeper. “What’s the longest you’ve ever been with someone?”
He laughs, but it’s not self-deprecating; it’s a little mean, a little self-aware. “If you add up every date, maybe three weeks?”
I like the answer, mostly because it’s unembellished. “So you’re not sentimental.”
He picks at an invisible piece of lint on his pants before finally looking at me. “You don’t really care about this stuff. Why are you asking?”
I tilt my head, considering. “Maybe I want to see what makes you so interesting.”
“Why?” He puts the glass down, and I can see the tension in his hand, the way his fingers curl, then uncurl. “I don’t think there’s anything interesting in there.”
“I disagree,” I say. “You’re interesting because you’re not pretending. You’re the only one in this entire building who isn’t putting on a show.”
He considers this. “Maybe I just don’t have the energy for it.”
“You have enough energy to hack my board’s servers.” I let the line hang, gauging his response.
He flushes. “Yep. Sure did.”
“What did you find?” I already know, but I want him to say it out loud. To solidify the danger he is in if he chooses to back out on our deal.
His eyes narrow, searching my face. “Corruption, embezzlement, maybe evidence of a money laundering ring.”
“And did you?”
He smiles, small and tight. “You know I did.”
I sip the wine, swirl it in my mouth, let him stew in the silence. “What would you have done with it?”
He shrugs, but the motion is defensive. “Reported it. I don’t care about the fallout.”
“You don’t care who gets hurt?”
He holds my gaze. “I care about the truth.”
I set the glass aside. “That’s noble, in a masochistic way.”
He huffs, not quite a laugh. “You sound like you’ve never met anyone who means what they say.”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to. He’s right.
I push the conversation a little further. “Why are you still single?”
He seems genuinely confused by the question, then shrugs. “I guess I’m hard to be around.”
“Because you’re honest?”
He considers. “Because I’m… not good at the rest of it.”
“The rest of what?”
“Being vulnerable. Or, I guess, being wanted. Romance isn’t really my jam. I like computers, not emotions. They’re easy to control. Dating means I need to try understanding another human and I’m just not wired that way.”
The line hits me harder than expected. I glance away, pretending to study the wine’s legs in the glass.
He asks, softly, “What about you?”
I look back at him. “What about me?”
“Are you good at the rest of it?” He arches a brow, and for a second, the line between us blurs.
I feel the smile before I let it show. “I can fake it.”
He laughs. “That’s not the same.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
The next question is inevitable. “Have you ever been in love?” he asks.
“No.” The answer is too fast, too final.
He tilts his head, studying me. “Do you think you could be?”
I look at him, the openness of his face, the lack of guile. It’s so direct, it almost feels like an accusation. “Maybe,” I say. “But it would have to be on my terms.”
He nods, like he understands. “That sounds lonely.”
“It is,” I say. “But it’s safe.”
He leans back into the couch, finally letting himself relax. “That explains a lot.”
I laugh, low. “Does it?”
He looks at me, and his gaze is steady. “Yeah. You’re trying to figure out if I’m a threat, or just a nuisance.”
He’s not wrong. “Which are you?”
He grins. “Wouldn’t you rather find out?”
I feel the tension in my chest loosen, just a little. “I already have.”
He shakes his head, then asks, “Are you always like this?”
“Like what?”
He gestures at me, frustrated. “So controlled. Like you know what I’m going to say before I say it.”
I let the silence build again, then answer, “It’s how I survived my childhood.”
He doesn’t say anything to that. He doesn’t have to.
The silence is companionable now, the energy in the room different. I wonder if he feels it too.
I break the spell. “Do you want to ask me anything else?”
He hesitates. Then: “What exactly are you trying to figure out about me?”
The question lands with more force than it should. I pause, long enough that he notices. “I want to know if you’re as genuine as you seem,” I say, “or if it’s just a performance for sympathy.”
He looks at his hands, thinking. “I don’t know how to fake things. It’s not in me.”
I want to believe it. “Do you get lonely?”
He laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“No.” The answer is too honest. “Some of us get by just fine without the pomp and circumstance.”
He looks at me, eyes bright and glassy. “Do you?”
I don’t answer.
He leans in, a little. “You’re not as unreadable as you think.”
“Is that so?”
He nods. “I think you want something, but you’re not used to asking for it.”
I stare at him. The urge to break him, or to keep him, or both, is rising in me, fast and sharp.
I say, “Tell me about your sex life.”
He goes still. “What?”
I wait.
He hesitates, then says, “There’s not much to tell.”
I let my eyes drift over him. “You’ve never been with a man.”
It’s not a question, but he answers anyway. “No.”
“Ever wanted to?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it. The flush rises on his cheeks, all the way to his ears.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe?”
I watch him, enjoying his discomfort. “Do you want to find out?”
His mouth goes dry. I see the way his tongue presses against his teeth as he desperately tries to swallow. He doesn’t look away. “Are you offering?”
I smile, slow and wicked. “Maybe.”
He lets out a shaky breath. “I’ve never—”
I raise a hand. “I know.”
He’s silent, waiting.
I lean in, my mouth a whisper from his ear. “I could teach you.”
He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t look scared, either. “Would you be gentle?”
I almost laugh, but it would break the mood. “I don’t do gentle,” I say, nipping at his ear. “But I do honest.”
He shivers, and the sight of it is enough to make me want to keep him forever.
“Do you want this?” I ask, voice low.
He nods, quick, the smallest movement.
“Say it,” I order.
He licks his lips, then, barely audible, says, “I want you.”
It’s so honest, so raw, that for a second I forget to breathe.
I let the moment build, not wanting to shatter it, then pull back, studying his face. He’s not afraid. Not even a little.
I stand, slow, and grin. “Let me pour you a proper drink. You’re gonna need it.”
The bar cart is one of those modern atrocities, brushed steel and smoked glass, but it does the job. I move to it, not looking back, knowing the weight of my presence is enough to keep Landon rooted. I pour two drinks—vodka cranberry, three shots—and the color is electric under the pendant lights.
“Do you want ice?” I ask.
He nods, but I can tell it’s more habit than preference.
I drop a single cube in each glass, the sound a neat, satisfying crack.
The first one I hand to him. His fingers are cool when they meet mine, but the glass trembles a little as he takes it.
I let my hand linger a fraction longer than necessary, enough that he has to process the contact before he can process the drink.