Chapter -8- #2
Denz waits for him to finish. Spots of color flood his cheeks the second Whit marches back inside, ducking into her own cubicle, phone to her ear. Braylon chugs the last of his Varsity Orange, gathering their garbage.
He says, “Would you like a tour?” his previous sentence forgotten.
Afternoon sunlight glitters in from the floor-to-ceiling windows on the upper level. Beyond the sizable meeting table, a small study area, and rooms dedicated to mental health counseling is a corner office with a BORN THIS WAY rainbow flag on the door. Engraved on the gold plaque is:
NORA brIDGER
FOUNDER & CEO
“She’s on a trip to California,” Braylon explains. “Business stuff.” He doesn’t elaborate. Denz doesn’t ask any questions.
The buzzing phone in his back pocket alerts Denz that, technically, lunch is over.
He should return to the office. But he’s too captivated by Braylon reciting the nonprofit’s history.
He decides to record a video of Braylon talking about the fenced-in recreational space behind the building.
The minute-and-ten-second clip reveals one important detail to Denz: this is where Braylon’s meant to be.
He’s a leader here.
Denz wonders if anyone at 24 Carter Gold sees him that way.
If that same fire is in his eyes when he discusses social media numbers and company buzz and what he wants their next steps to be.
If anyone thinks of him as the next Kenneth Carter.
Can they picture him sitting at his dad’s desk?
How would Chief Executive Officer look under his name in an email signature?
Does anyone see him as a man on the verge of greatness?
Kami’s the strategist, the press darling, even when they try to break her. Nic is the rebellious prodigy, who never lets anyone see what cards she’s holding. Denz is… the fun one. But does enjoying life mean no one will ever view him as a leader?
It’s all he thinks about when they’re downstairs again. “And don’t mess with the espresso machine,” Braylon is saying in the hybrid lounge/kitchen, a shared space for staff and the teens, “or Whit will properly end you.”
“It’s true!” Whit shouts from her cubicle.
Braylon stage-whispers, “Once, she made an intern cry. Over not cleaning it properly.”
“And I’d do it again!”
Denz laughs.
“Oh,” he says, remembering why he’s really here, “what’re you wearing to the gala?”
Braylon leads them back toward his cubicle.
“A suit? Something… black?” Braylon pauses, a knot between his eyebrows. “Should I wear a bow tie?”
Denz can already hear Auntie Eva the moment Braylon walks into the ballroom: A basic, boring black tux on the biggest night of your boyfriend’s career? He doesn’t need that kind of stress in his life.
“Don’t wear red. Too cliché,” Whit warns from somewhere near the front.
“What are your measurements?” Denz unlocks his phone. If he hurries, maybe Eva can work another Devil Wears Prada miracle.
“Why?” Braylon crosses his arms, clearly aware of what Denz is attempting. “What are you wearing?”
Denz hasn’t decided. He’s leaning toward the Mikah-approved ivory single-breasted Tom Ford blazer with coral slacks. “I have options,” he tells him, swiping through outfits on his phone. “Nothing gray or black or—”
“Boring?”
“I-I didn’t say that.” If he stammers, it’s not because Braylon’s firm chest is suddenly pressed against the wings of Denz’s shoulder blades. His chin hovering over Denz’s taut shoulder.
“Your face implied it.”
“That’s harsh.”
Braylon swipes back one photo. “The maroon. Not as flashy as everyone expects the Carters’ Golden Boy”—he ignores Denz’s offended gasp—“to look, but I like it.”
“You do?”
Braylon never answers. A cacophony of voices comes through the front door. Five teens in scarves and hats and heavy coats. They toss garments around like this is home. Conversations abruptly change directions, one after another, until eyes fall on Braylon and Denz.
“Holy sh—” A Black girl with lavender knotless braids cuts herself off. “Is that hashtag notthatdenzel?”
“Kennedi,” a freckle-faced white boy with multicolored braces hisses. “There’s no way Denz Carter is—”
Denz grins, waving.
“Patrick, it’s him,” Kennedi squeals. She smacks the shoulder of a lanky brown-skinned boy next to her. “Malik, weren’t you just watching that video of him talking to LeBron and—”
“Quite the scene you’ve caused,” Braylon whispers to Denz.
Denz doesn’t go rigid at the ghost of warm breath against his ear. His stomach doesn’t knot, and his cock certainly doesn’t plump up just a little. He’s a twenty-five-year-old adult with self-control.
“Denzel Carter,” Braylon announces, edging away, “please meet some of the teens I work with: Kennedi, Patrick, Quinn, Malik, and Rowan. They’re in a work-study program, which is why they’re not in class.”
Denz slips on his most charming, effervescent smile.
“Hello.”
Instantly, a dozen questions are launched at him. Things like: How much is he paid for ads? What free stuff does he receive? What equipment does he use? Is he related to Jay-Z and, therefore, Beyoncé?
He laughs, answering one at a time.
When Rowan, a short nonbinary teen, asks, “How do you know Mr. Adams?” Denz hesitates. In his periphery, Braylon’s frozen.
“College,” Denz says.
“We have—” Braylon rubs his jaw. “—history.”
“That means sex,” Quinn stage-whispers.
The group giggles, waggling their eyebrows. Braylon face-palms. Denz fights off a snort, absently moving an inch to his left.
Closer to Braylon.
He doesn’t notice it at first. Braylon’s arm sliding around his waist. But as more questions pour in, he inhales notes of cardamom, feels protective fingers on his hip, hears the rasp of laughter somewhere above him.
“That’s quite enough,” Braylon says, stepping back.
Is it? Denz thinks, until he realizes Braylon’s talking to the teens.
“You lot have work to do, correct?”
“Okay, Mr. A,” Malik concedes. His gaze shifts to Denz. “You’ll come back, right?”
Denz glances up. He forgets to be angry about the height difference between him and Braylon, too caught on the question in those brown eyes.
Will you come back?
“Uh, yeah,” Denz stammers. “Definitely.”
Several texts are awaiting Denz when he’s outside. All from Eric ranting about a Real Housewife who’s furious she was left off the mayor’s invite list. As if anyone’s forgotten the married politician she drunkenly flirted with at the last party she attended.
Denz adds a reminder to call her later.
The afternoon breeze kisses pink into Braylon’s cheeks. The same shade of his bow-shaped lips. Denz’s eyes linger for a second. Then five. He should go.
Problem is, he’s not sure how to say goodbye?
It was one spontaneous lunch. It’s not like he needs to hug Braylon or kiss him on the cheek. No one’s around to see them together.
“That was fun,” Denz gets out.
“Even being forced to eat food from The Varsity?”
“‘Forced’ is a strong word,” Denz says, jamming hands into his coat pockets. “Coerced, maybe.”
Braylon bites his lower lip. A flash of white teeth that used to leave gentle indentations around Denz’s nipple. God, he needs to go.
“Well,” Denz tries. “I won’t keep you. I have extra work now that we didn’t get much done.”
Braylon sniffs. “Are you calling me a distraction?”
“I’m saying get your ass inside before you catch the flu.” Denz exhales a plume of white smoke. Braylon’s slipped outside with only a beanie on, no coat. “You can’t have the flu with my big day around the corner.”
“ Your big day? That’s not very boyfriend-like.”
Denz unhappily tilts his chin up. “Ours?”
“Better.” Braylon grins. “Next time, I won’t be so chatty. We’ll work at separate cubicles.”
Next time. Is that an open invitation? Denz wishes Braylon’s face wasn’t so enigmatic.
“Cool.” Denz coughs. “I’m just gonna—”
“Wait.”
Braylon edges closer. Denz can smell a hint of vinegar as he exhales. His warmth is overpowering, his soft palm grazing Denz’s cheek, his thumb stroking over Denz’s upper lip.
“You have—”
An unprovoked rush of muscle memory overtakes Denz. He steps onto his toes. His hands instinctively rest on Braylon’s chest for balance. His head tilts. He’s ready for…
“—ketchup. Right here,” Braylon finishes, pupils widening at Denz’s sudden proximity.
At Denz being inches from his mouth. From kissing him.
“Shit!” Denz stumbles back. “I shouldn’t have—”
“No, no. It’s fi—”
“Sorry. Oh fuck. I’m so sorry.”
“Denz, are you—”
“Going,” he rushes out before Braylon finishes. “Bye!”
In the safety of his car, heat blasting, fingers gripping the steering wheel, Denz replays the last two minutes. From I’m just gonna to Bye!
Every painful second.
He anticipates a text from Braylon. Any moment now. An official ending of their agreement.
When the message never arrives, Denz slumps in his seat. Calm seeps into his bones. Reality slowly shifts from the margins into focus.
Somewhere in those two mortifying minutes, he thinks Braylon Adams said it was fine that Denz almost kissed him.