6. Chapter 6
Henrik
“M al?” I call out, stepping into my penthouse slowly. Luckily, there are no shoes strewn on the floor, so I’m able to walk inside without incident.
I set my collapsible cane on the table and make my way into the living room, stopping to listen.
There’s some rustling coming from down the hall, so I follow the sound to the guest bedroom, pausing in the open doorway.
Mal is clearly inside, but he must not notice me because he continues unpacking something into the dresser.
“ Jesus ,” he gasps after a moment. “I didn’t see you.”
I’m tempted to make a joke— funny, I didn’t see you either —but I refrain.
“You’re unpacking?” I ask, even though it’s obvious.
“Yeah. Charles helped me move everything, which wasn’t much,” he mutters.
“He said you didn’t make it back until an hour ago,” I point out, curious why it would’ve taken him all day if he didn’t have much to pack.
It wasn’t that I was trying to keep tabs on him, but I’d asked Charles to inform me when he was available so I’d know whether or not to schedule a different driver to bring me home.
Mal hesitates. “Yeah, I swung by to see a few of my friends. And, uh…then I kinda quit my job.”
That brings me up short. “You quit your job?”
“Well, yeah…” he says slowly. “Because of the exclusivity thing.”
Ah. I didn’t realize Mal had been actively seeing another long-term escort client. That explains it. Maybe I should feel bad about monopolizing his company, and yet, I don’t.
“Right. Well, I’ll be in the kitchen making dinner.”
His voice follows as I turn from the door. “Okay.”
Mal continues unloading the contents of his bags as I pull ingredients out of the fridge and cupboards, all stocked and labeled meticulously in braille by Benji.
The man has been managing the minutiae of my business and personal life seamlessly for the better part of a decade, ever since my vision became a real problem, and I honestly don’t know what I’d do without him.
I’d get by, I’m sure, but he makes my life multitudes easier by labeling my dry cleaning so I know I’m not stepping outside the house in a ridiculously uncoordinated outfit, doing the same with my groceries and meds so I’m aware of what I’m grabbing, handling correspondences outside of the office, and even transcribing important business files or contracts to speech or braille so that I can read them.
The man earns every one of the exorbitant dollars I pay him.
Even when he’s being a pain in my ass.
“Yes, Benjamin?” I say, accepting his incoming call. I pop my Bluetooth earbud in so I can continue cooking.
“I need the deets.”
“Details,” I correct him. I mean, really, Benjamin isn’t much younger than me. Yet he acts like a child.
“I’m rolling my eyes,” he informs me. “That boy is a snack .”
“Don’t call him that,” I grit out, chopping the bell peppers with a little more force than necessary before throwing them in the pot of sautéing butter and garlic.
I don’t know which part I’m more bothered by: Benji calling him a boy when, for whatever reason, I’ve already dismissed him as such, or the implication of him being a snack .
“Was that a growl? Oh my.”
“Benjamin,” I bark.
“Boss,” he barks back without nearly as much bite. “You can cut the stuffy bullshit. We both know you’re not all that proper underneath the buttoned-up suit.”
I look down the hall before remembering I can’t see down the hall. Some habits die hard. Mal shuts what sounds like his closet door, so I continue on in a low voice. “I am not talking about this with you.”
Benji sighs. “ Fine . Then I guess I won’t tell you what I saw when I stopped by last night.”
That gives me pause. “What do you mean?”
“Now you’re curious? Well, well, look at that.”
“Benjamin, spill it.”
The smartass loves riling me up.
“It was his eyes,” he says cryptically.
I frown. “What about them? He told me they’re blue.”
Benji chuckles, the sound throaty and low. “Not that. They were glued to you the entire time I was there. Took the kid three times as long to get through the contract because he kept looking up and watching you.”
“I…” My heart beats a little more staccato inside my chest. “So what?”
“So what?” Benji repeats. “The others were always checking out your place like they were calculating your net worth. He likes you.”
I turn off the burner, straining the gnocchi carefully. “You sound juvenile,” I tell him, even though his words have me going back through my interactions with Mal, wondering if what he’s saying is true. It’d be an unfortunate complication. I’m not looking for attachments.
“Whatever. Do with that information what you will. I think you should plow him into your—”
“ Ben .”
Benjamin laughs. “Right. I’ll see you Monday for that meeting with the charitable board.”
Silence greets my ear before I have a chance to hang up on him. “Pain in my ass,” I mutter.
“Was that Benji?” Mal asks, just about giving me a heart attack.
“ Fuck .” I grip the counter as my racing pulse returns to normal.
“Sorry,” Mal says, sounding contrite. “Turnabout is fair play?”
I release the counter and snort. Grabbing the colander of gnocchi, I dump it into the vegetables, stirring the whole thing together. “Would you grab the parmesan from the cheese drawer on the left?”
Mal opens the fridge, making a curious sound. “Everything is labeled,” he notes.
“Benjamin does that,” I explain. “And yes, that was him on the phone.”
I bring the dish over to the table while Mal grabs the plates and silverware, giving me a wide berth as he follows me into the adjoining dining room. We’re still learning our way around one another, but I can’t deny I’m glad he’s here.
Although there’s still time for him to disappoint me.
As we take our seats, Mal asks, “Does he ever punk you?”
“ Punk me?” I repeat, eyebrows flying up.
Mal laughs. “Yeah, like mislabel something if you’re being a dick. Not that you are a dick to him or anything.” He mutters something that sounds like, “Christ, Mal, shut it.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “As far as I am aware, he hasn’t mislabeled anything on purpose before.”
Mal picks up his fork, and then he makes a sound, like a hum, in the back of his throat. “This is really good.”
I nod my head once. “Thank you.”
“I have a feeling I’m going to get spoiled here,” he says, letting out a soft puff of air.
“Are you not accustomed to that?” I ask, starting in on my own food. I would’ve assumed as an escort, Mal gets treated to luxury often.
Mal finishes chewing, and it sounds as if he’s shaking his head. “No, not at all.”
“When did you start escorting?” I ask, making a mental note to read the file Genevieve sent over. It may give me some insight into this man and his life.
“About six months ago?” he replies. “Give or take.”
I hum. “And the men you’ve been with…they haven’t spoiled you?”
Mal scoffs. “No,” he says plainly. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. No one’s treated me badly. Well, Dixon might argue against that one guy who left a few bruises, but it was fine .”
My body tenses, and Mal cuts off suddenly, like he realizes he said too much.
“Bruises?” I ask, my voice coming out at a low register.
“It was nothing. I shouldn’t have even said anything,” he says, his fork scraping against his plate.
I shouldn’t care, not really. I barely know Mal. But I can’t let it go as easily as he wants me to. “Are we talking a few fingerprints on your hip or a busted cheek?” I ask slowly.
“Neither?”
“Mal,” I say sternly.
He sets his fork down. “Just some marks around my neck,” he answers quietly.
His neck ?
“The fuck?” I bark.
“It was fine ,” he says again. “I don’t know why everyone keeps making such a big deal out of it. The guy asked, I agreed, he paid me for it, easy as that.”
“Why would you let him—” I cut myself off, realizing my fingers are clutched tightly around my silverware and I’m leaning forward like I’m about to jump across the table. Fuck, I need to cool it.
“I needed the cash,” he practically whispers, deflating my sails.
The idea of Mal needing money badly enough to let some guy strangle him, probably during sex, has me seeing red. Consensual breath-play is one thing, but choking someone so hard they’re left with bruises? Fuck . No wonder this Dixon, whoever he is, had a problem with it.
I set down my silverware, skirting my hand across the table until I encounter Mal’s arm. I squeeze it lightly. “I would never, ever hurt you in that way. And I would never expect you to let me.”
He swallows loudly.
“Okay?” I press.
“Yeah, okay,” he replies softly.
I nod before removing my hand and flexing out the tension under the table.
I’m undeniably keyed up, but I keep my mouth shut for the rest of dinner and through clean-up, trying not to let my frustrations bleed out.
Mal doesn’t need me biting off his head when it’s the asshole who hurt him that I want to dismember.
It was for money; that’s what Mal said. It’s the reason he’s here with me now. Because of the hefty payment. Even though it’s asinine, for once, I’d almost wished Benjamin was right. Almost.
But that’s not why I hire these boys. Men. Whatever.
Shit , now I sound like the one trying to act younger than my years.
I wouldn’t be able to trust it, anyhow. That someone I pay to be here could possibly see me as more. People will go to ridiculous lengths for money, as evidenced by what Mal told me himself.
I’ll never have more than this, and that’s something I accepted long ago. I know how the world views me. First and foremost, they see someone disabled. Weak. Add to that the fact that I’m well-off, and the only people knocking down my door are those who wish to take advantage of me.
I’m not about to give them the chance.
Furthermore, as if that’s not enough, I’m not an easy person to like. Or love. I’m admittedly prickly, I’m particular, and I have no inclination to change. Why would I bother? This lifestyle suits me just fine.
I may not have chosen the Retinitis Pigmentosa that slowly stole my vision. I couldn’t do anything to change my fate. But I chose not to let it define me back then. And I can choose how to live my life now.
I don’t need someone to take care of me.
Apart from Benji, that is—I don’t want to give him up.
But he doesn’t wipe my ass or shave my face or hold my hand to cross the street.
I’m fully capable of living on my own. I don’t need a partner.
I don’t need my parents breathing down my back like I’m still a scared nineteen-year-old learning about his genetic disorder for the first time.
I don’t need some great love to feel like I’m a complete human being.
All I need is a little company. Someone I can enjoy. Someone who reminds me that life is still flourishing around me. Someone to give my space shape and dimension. That’s all. That’s it.
And Mal? At least for now, he’s just the person for the job.
Even if he does inspire some rather strong feelings I’d rather not examine too closely.
“Henrik?” Mal asks tentatively, making me realize I’d been standing in the kitchen doing nothing for the past minute or so after we finished cleaning up.
“Hm?”
“I’m going to go take a shower. Do you, uh, need anything?”
“No.” I shake my head. I need some time alone to cool down. “I’ll be in my study.”
I walk away before Mal can reply, positive I’m making the right choice—the smart choice—but the soft “Okay” that follows me has me second-guessing my decision to distance myself.
Is that disappointment I hear or am I only imagining it?
Shaking my head, I shut the door tight, determined to regain control of my emotions.