3. Long Live the King
Long Live the King
Asher
The restaurant where lunch is being held is quieter than I expected—dim lights, Scandi-style furniture, roaring fires in cozy fireplaces, and lots of linens and furs. I’m halfway across the room in search of alcohol when someone calls my name.
“Asher Harrison?”
I turn, spine stiffening automatically. And there he is. Walter Davenport. The whole reason I agreed to this godforsaken retreat in the first place.
He’s in a navy cashmere sweater, slim-cut slacks, and a smile that always feels just a little too knowing. He closes the distance with easy confidence and pulls me into a quick, two-handed shake that borders on affectionate.
“Didn’t know you were coming to this,” Walter says, giving me a once-over. “Strategic Partnerships? West Coast?”
“New York now, actually,” I say.
He makes a hum of approval. “You clean up well.”
Before I can reply, a man in a sharply tailored suit steps up beside him. Late forties, silver at the temples, warm brown eyes.
“This is Jacques, my husband,” Walter says.
Jacques offers a hand, and I take it. His grip is firm.
My brain is buzzing with what to say to keep Walter here. I need more time—more opportunities to speak with him about his financial readiness. He would be my biggest client to date, and I don’t plan on leaving this retreat until it’s a done deal.
But I have to start slow. He’ll run in the other direction if he knows I’m trying to acquire him as a client, and execs with his kind of power can sniff that out from a mile away. I agreed to attend knowing that after a few drinks, I could likely drop in the suggestion casually.
I decide to ask about the retreat, since he’s the one who organized it. Everyone loves a compliment.
“This place is incredible, by the way. How did you find?—”
“There you are,” King says, appearing at my elbow like a summoned demon. His hand grazes the small of my back in a move that feels far too natural for him.
I go still. Not because I’m offended, but because something inside of me reacts.
It’s not the kind of touch I’m used to.
Brooklyn, Ari, and all the other women I’ve dated always had a featherlight touch, hovering more than landing.
But King’s touch? It’s a statement, sure and controlled. It’s confident , just like everything else about him.
Something sharp and inconvenient stirs to life under my skin.
I tell myself it’s irritation. It has to be irritation. Because whatever it is, I don’t have time for it.
Shifting my weight forward a bit, away from his touch, I force my focus back where it belongs.
Walter raises a pleased eyebrow. “Mr. King. So nice to see you again. I didn’t realize…” He gestures between the two of us, looking both surprised and delighted at the same time.
“Oh, this?” King says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “Yeah, it just sort of happened last year. What can I say? Couldn’t resist those blue eyes.”
My throat clicks as I swallow. I feel every molecule in the room shift as Jacques’s eyebrows lift and Walter’s mouth curves in amusement.
I turn my head to look at King, keeping my hardened jaw as subtle as I can. “That’s right.”
“How wonderful,” Walter says, grinning. “What a power couple you two make. We were just about to get drinks. Join us?”
“We’d love to,” King says smoothly, his hand squeezing my shoulder once.
Jacques and Walter walk ahead of us, and King leans down to murmur into my ear. “You’re welcome.”
“Fuck off,” I mutter back through my teeth.
We’re led to a private seating lounge just off the main restaurant.
The area is full of high-level players and their partners.
I recognize at least three CFOs and a regional VP of a competitor firm with their wives.
And now I’m sitting next to King, across from Walter and his partner, trying to keep my breathing steady.
Walter smiles at us like we’re adorable.
I try and focus on anything other than the unfavorable emotions roiling inside of me.
The leather chairs, the low lighting, the carafe of wine already waiting.
I take it all in, trying to compose myself.
King pours for everyone like he’s done it a thousand times before.
Walter and Jacques slip into comfortable banter about the retreat’s programming. Infrared saunas. Cold plunges. Couples yoga. Shadow work. All of it sounds like psychological torture, if I’m being honest, but I keep the smile plastered on my face.
I try to keep up, but I’m painfully aware of how close King is sitting, and it’s distracting as fuck.
He smells like cinnamon and cloves, and when he removes his jacket, I try not to stare when he rolls his shirtsleeves up, exposing tanned, corded forearms covered in ink.
My eyes take in the tattoos, zeroing in on a large one on the inside of his forearm—a shaded gravestone with random numbers and ‘AK’ in bolded text.
The stone is in black ink, and surrounding the gravestone are bright, orangish-red wild roses.
I can’t help but watch the muscles pull across his tan skin with every movement.
How much is this guy benching?
“You two seem comfortable,” Jacques says at one point, eyes flicking between us.
King hums. “Thank you.” In the next second, he snakes an arm around my shoulders once again, and I want to punch him. He’s only touching me because he knows it makes me uncomfortable.
Walter watches us both, like he’s collecting data, and I relax my shoulders and lean into King as much as my body and mind will let me. “How long have you been at the New York office, Asher?”
“Almost two years,” I say, giving him a warm smile as I place a hand on King’s thigh. He jumps in surprise. Two can play this fucking game .
“He started the West Coast branch before helping the New York office expand,” King offers up.
I glance sideways. Why is he helping me?
Jacques nods approvingly. “Impressive.” His eyes flick between us, and he smiles faintly, obviously buying whatever it is we’re selling.
“It’s interesting to see partners who work at different firms. I’m not in the same industry as Walter so I can’t even imagine.
You’d think there’d be competition, no?”
I stiffen, looking at King. He only arches a brow as if to dare me to say something, so fuck it.
“He poached one of my biggest clients, actually,” I say.
Walter chortles before whistling. “I’d heard of Mr. King’s cutthroat business style, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” He glances at King. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“It’s how we met, actually,” King says, removing his arm from around my shoulders and placing his hand on top of mine.
I squeeze King’s thigh tightly— too tightly—and relish the way I can hear the tiny, little inhale of air through his lips. His nails dig into my palm as he squeezes my hand tightly—a reaction to me—and something hot and electric flashes through me.
I pull my hand away from under his, ignoring the way my mind is currently spinning. Taking a deep breath to calm my jittery nerves, I try to pay attention to the conversation King is having with Jacques, but my head’s still thinking back to how my body reacted to the way he roughly handled me.
I catch the last part of Walter’s question—something about how I must miss the California weather.
“I—uh—yeah. Sometimes. Truthfully, though, I enjoy the seasons. I’d miss New York a lot if I had to move back.”
“And the people here, I presume?” Jacques asks, winking.
I look at King again, and he leans back and spreads his legs so that our thighs are touching.
“And the people here,” I confirm, giving Jacques what I hope is a genuine smile.
“He’s not allowed to leave,” King says, reaching over and placing a territorial hand on my upper thigh.
Something zings through me again at the contact, but I don’t move or react.
Why is he playing the perfect fake boyfriend all of a sudden? What’s the angle? Is he trying to soften me up for something else? Or is this just another one of his mind games—get me on edge, throw me off-balance, keep me guessing until I screw something up?
We all chat some more, and after an hour of uncomfortable business talk—uncomfortable because of King’s hand inches away from my erection—Walter excuses himself to use the restroom.
Jacques heads to the bar right after, which leaves King and me alone.
He doesn’t immediately remove his hand, so I stand up to get away from him.
“You could’ve said no,” I growl.
“To drinks with the man who… I’m only guessing here… holds your professional fate in his palm?” King murmurs, leaning back casually. Looking wholly unaffected. “You’re welcome.”
“Stop helping me.”
He cocks his head slightly. “Why? Is it making you feel things you don’t know how to process?”
I grit my teeth. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“It’s not flattery if it’s accurate.”
Before I can bite back, Walter reappears, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “I’d love to have coffee with you on Tuesday, Asher.”
I blink. “Really?”
He nods. “I’ve been meaning to get a better sense of your trajectory,” he says, like this has been in the works for weeks. “Figure this retreat is the perfect place to start, being away from work and feeling relaxed. Who knows? Maybe we’ll find a way to work together in a more official capacity.”
Before I can respond, Jacques returns—just in time to hand King something small and glossy that looks a hell of a lot like a business card. Great. They’re bonding. I swear I catch the words double date murmured near King’s ear, followed by an easy laugh that twists in my gut.
“It’s refreshing, honestly,” Walter murmurs.
“There aren’t many of us—older gay men—still standing in this industry, at least not without a few scars.
When I meet someone who gets the terrain the way you do, I pay attention.
I trust that instinct. And I think we could build something solid together. ”
“Of course,” I say, shaking his hand, my grip steady even as my mind reels.
Older gay men.
I don’t correct him. Not here. Not now.
But as King’s eyes flick knowingly to mine, I can feel the smile forming behind his lips before it even hits his face.
As Walter and Jacques walk away, I down the rest of my whiskey in one go.