9. King of Nothing
King of Nothing
King
Ten Years Ago
“Hey, Glasses. Can you get me another drink?”
Gritting my jaw, I reach my hand out and take the empty glass from Kevin, our senior manager.
“The name’s Ambrose,” I say politely. A please would be nice, too.
“Yeah, sorry. Can you get me another drink, Ambrose ?” Kevin says, his voice slightly slurred.
“Sure. No problem.”
Turning and walking away, I mutter expletives under my breath as Christmas music permeates through the building.
Feels strange to be celebrating Christmas when we’re in the middle of a California heat wave, but whatever.
Being from upstate New York means that upward of eighty-five degrees in December is… strange.
But I’m here nonetheless, sweating my balls off and fetching drinks like I’m the bus boy and not the intern.
Once I have Kevin’s drink in hand, I quickly march back to where he’s sitting, telling a story with a voice that’s too loud and teeth that are too white.
“Hey, Glasses. How much did that hurt?”
I turn around and narrow my eyes at Arnold, the boomer senior vice president. One day, I’ll have your job, Arnold.
“How much did what hurt?” I ask, crossing my arms and lifting one side of my mouth into a smirk.
“The nose piercing. My granddaughter is sixteen and she wants one, but I told her it’s hard to be taken seriously when you look unemployable.”
I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t tell him to fuck right off.
The thing about these guys is that they’re not used to seeing punk kids like me in their building.
They’re not used to the short hair I dye black, or the piercings and tattoos I hide behind my Brooks Brothers jacket by day.
I’m the only one here in a black button-up and slacks instead of a suit.
The shirt fits a little too loose, hanging off my scrawny body, but I’ve never needed size or bulk to get under someone’s skin.
I don’t fit their mold.
But one day, I’ll break it.
“Ha ha. Very funny,” I say, giving Arnold my best polite-but-fuck-off smile.
“Next time,” Arnold says, patting my shoulder in the patronizing way he loves to do, “ditch the Halloween costume. We’ve had complaints from middle management.”
I don’t flinch. Instead, I just tilt my head and smile, wondering if he feels good about putting an intern down.
I’m just about to retort when someone speaks up.
“Aw, give him a break, Arn. At least he’s got his own sense of style.”
I turn toward the voice.
Asher Harrison.
He walks into the middle of the group like he belongs.
Broad shoulders. Loose tie. Laugh already halfway out his mouth.
He’s a walking, talking Ken doll, and he makes me nervous as hell.
His eyes and smile are easy, like he’s never had to work for anything in his life.
He’s the kind of man who makes you forget how to breathe just by standing under good lighting.
Or maybe it’s just me.
For a second, our eyes meet. Something flickers in his expression—curiosity, maybe? But then he looks past me. Over my shoulder. He’s already turning away, saying something to another associate, glass tipping toward his mouth.
He looked at me.
He looked right at me—and then looked right past me.
And I felt it. That split second of… something. Then, the drop of disappointment.
I’m invisible to him.
As always.
I excuse myself and walk over to the bar, despite not being able to legally drink yet. The woman winks at me and slides a beer over to me discreetly, and I tip my head as I walk to the back of the bar. Taking a seat on a barstool, I slowly drink my beer as Christmas music assaults my eardrums.
“Don’t you ever smile?”
The voice takes me by surprise, and I turn around to see Asher standing by the back door, adjusting his dress shirt like he just left the bathroom behind him.
“Not while anyone can see me. Wouldn’t want them to think I had emotions. It’s not part of the job description, you see.”
That makes his mouth tic up into an easy smile. “Point made.”
To my utter surprise and horror, he takes a seat next to me. I stiffen, trying to subtly push my beer away without him noticing.
“It’s fine. You’re twenty-one, right?” he says, smirking and clinking his glass of whiskey with my beer.
“Yeah. Twenty-one,” I repeat, sipping the bitter liquid slowly and pretending this isn’t the weirdest thing to ever happen.
Asher Harrison is a legend in our office. Strategic Implementation Senior Manager is his official title. I hardly ever work with him directly, but I do process his expense reports. He’s the only one who gets them to me on time, so I’ve taken notice of him—among other reasons.
My eyes flick to his ring finger, which is bare.
Not that it matters. The guy next to me is probably as straight as a straw of hay.
“So, how are you enjoying the internship? You’ve been here for a few months, right?”
I nod. “Yup. Four months next week.”
“You want to go into finance? Or is this just a stop before you go somewhere… more fun?” he asks. I can smell the whiskey on his breath.
“Yeah, hopefully. I’d like to open my own firm one day.”
“Maybe you will. One day,” he adds, smiling.
I know I’m not imagining the fact that his knee just brushed mine under the bar.
It’s hard not to dissect every single word out of his mouth—every single movement.
Every glance.
His eyes dip to my lips—so briefly that I tell myself I’m seeing things.
“How old are you?” he asks, his voice low. Playful. Is he… flirting?
“Nineteen.”
He nods and then he laughs, looking away. “So much life ahead of you. Don’t waste it.”
“I don’t intend to,” I tell him firmly.
He glances at me again, this time longer. There’s something unreadable in his expression.
Like he’s debating whether or not to ask me something.
“God, nineteen,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “You remind me of myself at nineteen. Always so sure of everything. Like the world hasn’t had the chance to wear you down yet.”
I tilt my head and finish my beer. I don’t really drink, so it makes my head feel fuzzy.
“Is that a compliment or a warning?”
He huffs a laugh. “Bit of both, I suppose.”
I don’t know what makes me say it, but I do, blurting out exactly what I’m thinking. “You don’t seem all that worn down. You’re… what? Thirty?”
“Thirty-seven,” he answers, taking a sip of his drink and setting his glass down a little too hard. “It’s just good angles,” he answers. “Good genes, too.”
I shrug. “You look good.”
He turns slightly, giving me a sidelong glance. “Yeah?”
His knee brushes against mine. I’m sure of it this time, too.
It’s not an accident. Something shifts between us, and I can feel the static electricity firing between us.
His bright blue eyes dip to my lips once again, and something heavy drops low into my stomach at the way he’s watching me.
And then he licks his lips, and I feel my pulse electrifying every nerve ending.
Does he have to be so hot? Makes it really hard to disengage with him.
The air around me turns quiet and thick—like a held breath.
“What else have you noticed about me, Glasses?” he asks, his smile teasing. Though now, his eyes are darker—and they’re boring into mine with such intensity that I have to wipe my sweaty palms on my slacks.
“It’s Ambrose.”
He nods. “Cool name.”
With every exhale, I can smell the whiskey on his breath, and I wonder how drunk he is. He seems like the kind of guy to be able to hold his liquor well.
Fuck.
I should go. I’m reading this all wrong. He’s just teasing me like all the guys in the office do.
“Have a nice night, Mr. Harrison,” I say politely.
His hand reaches out and wraps around my wrist, and I suck in a breath as he shakes his head once.
“You didn’t answer my question, Ambrose .”
Shit. What was his question? Because all I can think about right now is how warm and firm his hand feels around my wrist.
“W-what question?”
“What else have you noticed about me?” he asks, his voice barely a murmur.
When his eyes drop to my lips again, I swallow thickly. “This is a bad idea.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I’m just asking an innocent question, Ambrose. Humor me.”
The silence that passes between us is charged, and I hate the fact that I’m rock hard inside of my slacks.
I hate myself even more because I’m wondering if Asher is hard, too. I refuse to glance down—I can’t let myself go there yet.
Then he downs the rest of his whiskey in a single swallow and stands abruptly. “I need the bathroom.”
But he doesn’t walk away immediately. He hesitates—long enough to make it clear that he wants me to follow.
Long enough to make it my choice.
So I do.
I wait ten seconds, then slip off my stool and follow him through the dim hallway that leads to the back of the bar, past the storage closet, past the emergency exit. The bathroom door is cracked open.
He’s inside, bracing his hands on either side of the sink, head bowed like he’s arguing with his own reflection. He’s chewing on something—a mint, I think.
He sees me in the mirror, straightening and turning slowly. “You shouldn’t have followed me in here,” he says. His voice is low. Hoarse. Like he’s fighting this decision with everything he has—and losing.
“I think we both know you wanted me to.”
“You’re nineteen.”
“True. But you already knew that.”
His throat moves like he’s having trouble swallowing. “This doesn’t mean anything,” he says. “If it happens.”
I nod. “Okay.”
His gaze flicks to the door behind me. “You can still leave.”
I step forward instead. The space between us is small. So small. My heart’s in my throat, pounding like I just ran here.
“You want me to leave?”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move.
Just looks at me like I’m the worst mistake he’s ever wanted to make.
And then he walks over to the door and locks it.
I take another step forward. We’re only inches apart now. His breath stirs the space between us—smelling like spearmint or peppermint. He reaches up slowly, giving me all the time in the world to back away.
I don’t.
His fingers graze the side of my neck. Rest against my jaw. Still no movement. Just contact.
“I’m going to regret this,” he whispers, breathing heavily. He looks haunted yet turned on—stressed, but with dilated pupils. He wants this and is terrified, all at the same time. “I always do.”
“Me too,” I breathe. “Probably, I mean. I’ve never—you’re the first?—”
He cuts me off by kissing me. It’s not soft or sweet. It’s desperate, like something inside him cracked wide open and this is what spilled out. His hands are on me before I can think, fisting the front of my jacket like he’s angry at it, or at me, or maybe at himself.
His mouth moves against mine like it’s punishment.
Like he needs this to hurt.
He tastes like whiskey and adrenaline, and it’s intoxicating.
His tongue slides past my lips, uninvited but not unwelcome, like he’s trying to carve the moment into muscle memory.
Like if he kisses me hard enough, maybe it won’t count.
A low, guttural sound rips straight from his throat. A growl, or a moan. Maybe both.
Whatever it is, I feel it all the way down to my spine—and my cock.
His breath stutters against mine as he presses in closer—too close, too much. It’s suffocating and also the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
Out of instinct, despite never doing this before, I reach forward and touch his belt. I can feel his hard length behind the material of his pants. He groans again, his teeth roughly nibbling my lower lip, and I buck against him once.
Just when I think he might fall apart, he pulls away.
It’s abrupt and leaves me breathless. His gaze doesn’t meet mine as his jaw tightens. His hand falls from my chest like it never belonged there in the first place.
And in that awful, echoing second after he breaks the kiss, I know.
He already regrets it.
And I already don’t.
I know without a doubt that I just made a very stupid mistake.
“Shit—fuck,” he sputters, pacing the bathroom. “Go home, Ambrose,” he says. “This never happened, okay?”
He unlocks the door and leaves, not looking back.
And I don’t follow.
I stay in that dim little bathroom for another ten minutes, willing my heart to stop racing.
It wasn’t just a kiss.
It was my first.
And he acted like it broke him.
I don’t sleep when I get home. I just lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. Every second replays in my head on a loop—his breath against my mouth, his fingers on my jaw, the feel of his cock, the long, thick length I felt with my hands, the way his entire body tensed like he was bracing for impact.
Like touching me was something shameful.
The sun comes up and paints my ceiling pale and gray.
And just as my alarm buzzes, my phone dings.
Subject: Internship Status Update
From: Human Resources
Message: Effective immediately, your internship with Waycross Holdings has been terminated. Your manager will ensure your timekeeping has been updated for your final paycheck. For any questions, please utilize the employee portal.
That’s it—no reason. No contact. Like I meant nothing. Which… I guess I didn’t.
I know Asher is behind it.
However, I remember the way he looked at me. The way he kissed me like he’d been starving for it. Like I was a secret he wanted to bury under his skin.
I wasn’t nothing.
I was his mistake .
One he couldn’t stand to look at in the morning.
And that’s the part that sticks—that’s the part that festers.
That’s the part that grows.