21. Chapter 21 #2
As we clear the crowd at the door, Henrik takes off his sunglasses—which he explained are more for the flashing lights than anything—and stows them inside his jacket.
I love that he’s not afraid to go head-to-head with people without the barrier.
That he’s unconcerned with what others may think of his eyes that wander a little differently around a room than most. He wouldn’t call it bravery; I know that.
But I still wonder if he realizes how strong he is.
“Come on,” Benji says, stepping up to my side, his voice cutting across the din of the room. “Let’s get drinks.”
I nod, and the three of us navigate toward the bar.
Henrik gets stopped multiple times on the way there, and he makes polite, quick conversation, introducing me each time as his “companion, Mal.” But Benji helps herd us forward, clearly a pro at polite, efficient goodbyes, and before too long, we reach the side of the ballroom where servers in black tie are pouring drinks.
“Red for you, I assume, Henrik. What’ll you have, Mal?” Benji asks, stepping up in line.
“Red is fine,” I say.
Benji nods and turns forward as Henrik leans in close, speaking quietly. “Are you sure drinking is a good idea?”
“It’s fine,” I say, refraining from adding a “dad” to the end of my sentence, knowing how that ended last time, less than an hour ago. “I know my limits.”
Henrik nods, and I appreciate that he doesn’t push it.
A minute later, Benji has our wine, and the three of us wade back into the throng of people.
Henrik is clearly popular, even though his demeanor is not the friendliest. Don’t get me wrong; he’s perfectly polite.
But he’s all business, very brusque and formal.
It reminds me of the night I met him, and it makes me realize how much has changed since then. How different Henrik is with me now.
I try not to let the thought warm me, but warm me it does, all the way to the tips of my toes.
I get a few inquisitive questions thrown my way— what do you do, how did you and Henrik meet —and I answer them vaguely each time.
Henrik never gave me explicit instructions on what to say, but I can easily assume he doesn’t want people knowing I’m his escort.
So I tell them I’m in between jobs at the moment and that we were introduced by a mutual acquaintance—both true—and that seems to be boring enough to dissuade further interrogation.
Benji comes and goes as we mingle, presumably handling some things behind the scenes.
When Henrik finishes his glass of wine, Benji brings him a second, but I refrain from drinking any more.
Servers bounce around the room periodically with hors d’oeuvres on their trays, and one—a tall, dark-haired man—eyes me for a prolonged moment as he passes by.
I can’t help but wonder if he recognizes me as Malibu.
A niggle of worry settles in my gut, but Henrik was firm that he didn’t care.
I admit I was surprised, considering how territorial he got that one time I came home from the club, but maybe he doesn’t care that people have seen me naked and engaged in all manners of activity, so long as he can claim me now.
I shouldn’t like that—the idea of him claiming me—but I do. I like the way he’s always touching me, whether affectionately or with dirtier intent, like when he rubs his cum into my skin. How, even now, standing here, his hand sits at the small of my back as if proclaiming this one is mine .
It might not be real, but right now, it’s real enough.
The server moves on, and I try my best to listen to the conversation Henrik is having about the advantages of mutual shares vs ETFs, but admittedly, I’m glad when a murmur goes around that dinner is about to be served.
Henrik says a polite goodbye, and Benji reappears like magic, leading us to our seats near center stage.
Fancy cream tablecloths cover the round table, atop which sits pristine place settings and crystal glasses.
A low flower arrangement sprawls in the middle, and in front of the chair Benji leads me to is a little place card that reads “Mal Jones.”
I almost bark an incredulous laugh, seeing my shortened stage name butted up against my real one, as if my two worlds are colliding, mashed together and printed in gleaming gold.
Once again, I feel like an imposter. Like I’m gliding along in a world I don’t belong to, and it’s only a matter of time until the people around me realize I’m a fraud.
But then Henrik takes a seat next to me, reaching over and placing his hand on my thigh like a tether, and I breathe out, relaxing.
Dinner is an elaborate affair, dish after dish of exquisitely prepared food. Henrik seems concerned when plates of Tuscan butter shrimp are set in front of us, and I’m shocked he remembered my dislike for shellfish, but I assure him it’s all right. There’s plenty else to eat.
After dessert is served—a chocolate mousse I would gladly give up a day’s pay for—a woman in an impeccable crimson gown appears on stage, approaching the microphone. A hush falls over the crowd.
“Welcome, everyone, to the twelfth annual Larsen Co. Meet and Greet. We’re so happy you could attend.
” There’s a smattering of applause, and the woman waits as the sound dies down, a genuine smile on her face.
“I’m Arshpreet Bakshi, Larsen Co.’s head of public relations.
It’s my pleasure to tell you about tonight’s event, as well as share a presentation about the promising young entrepreneurs we’ve gathered here today and what their bright minds have come up with.
We have a wonderful assortment of soon-to-be flourishing businesses that you, our esteemed guests, will have the opportunity to invest in.
Their success is your success, and I’m thrilled to present these exciting new ventures to you. ”
There’s another smattering of applause, and Arshpreet waits a beat before leaning into the microphone again.
“But first, I’d like to welcome up to the stage the man who’s made all this possible.
The man who’s responsible for bringing us together tonight, who’s invested billions into the entrepreneurial success of Las Vegas.
Please give a warm welcome to our host, Henrik Larsen. ”
Arshpreet steps back, clapping along with the rest of the room as Henrik leans close to me, his mouth right beside my ear as he speaks over the noise. “Is Benjamin beside you?”
I startle at the question. “Oh, no. He stepped away before dessert came out.”
Henrik nods, looking nonplussed. “Would you be so kind as to escort me to the stage?”
My heart gives a great, big, painful thump . “Me?”
Henrik nods again, standing up and holding out his palm.
Time seems to stall as I look at it, the clapping hands around me narrowing into a slow cacophony of noise.
Slap, slap, slap . Smiling faces look on as my blood races quickly—much too quickly—through my body, my heart aching with the force of it.
Yet I stand up, legs both stiff and wobbly, and take Henrik’s hand into my own, clammy one.
The noise of the crowd diminishes as my ears start to ring, as my pulse rises loudly inside my head, the whooshing of it overtaking everything else.
The short walk to the stage feels like a mile, step after step with Henrik beside me.
We ascend the stairs, Henrik’s arm laced through mine, my other hand on his forearm, squeezing in time with each step up.
The trip to the podium seems to last a lifetime, no sound reaching me apart from the snuff of my own breath, sawing raggedly in and out through my nose and my mind. I swear I can smell rotted wood.
Arshpreet steps aside, and Henrik takes her place, feeling along the podium as I pace back, wanting to run, wanting to flee , but unable to leave Henrik alone on stage. I brace my legs, willing my body to cooperate, to last for just a little while, as Henrik smiles and leans into the mic.
I don’t hear a word of what he says. For a minute, I focus on the faces around the room, the people smiling, nodding, flushed with drink and a merry time, until I can’t make them out anymore.
Until it’s all a blinky gray blur, my vision wobbling precariously as I struggle to get breath into my lungs. A couple more minutes. A couple more.
I focus on my breathing, on the in and out, counting, imagining my lungs inflating inside my ribcage.
I stare at the back of Henrik’s head. The dark brown hair, threaded through with the occasional silver, combed neatly atop his head.
I imagine I’m drowning, wishing the thought away as soon as it surfaces, but it’s too late.
I feel suspended in water, floating, floating away, even as my body protests, screaming its displeasure. Even as I beg to reach the surface.
Henrik’s hand bumps into mine, seemingly out of nowhere, and I latch onto it, leading us off the stage, praying it’s the right thing to do and that I’m not dragging him off in the middle of his speech.
My foot falters on the last stair, and Henrik is the one to help me regain my balance, lending his weight under my palm.
I intend to head back to the table, but my vision narrows on an open door off to the left, and I bank that way, past a couple tables, skirting the crowd, and Henrik keeps pace beside me.
I don’t stop moving until I’ve rounded the corner into the hall and then another into a deserted corridor. It’s there, in a recessed corner in front of a lit-up bronze statue, that I finally allow my legs to crumple.
For several long minutes, I can’t control the images that course through my mind.
My mother’s disapproving face, her frown severe.
The white van I was dragged into. The sight of the camp as we pulled off the road.
Summer Blessings . I can feel the hands of the men hauling me toward a cabin.
The rough wood of the floorboards in the musty, old church beneath my bare feet.
The chill of the water, enveloping me again and again, blocking out the light and pooling around my ears and nose.
I’m cold. So damn cold .
The voices surrounding me, the condemnation trying to wriggle inside my ears. Other boys, one after another, up on stage. Crying. Scared. Dripping wet. I know how they feel. I want it to stop. I want this to end. I want to go home .
I’m freezing, shivering, a bone-deep chill settling into my body and mind. But then warm, soft hands lift my face, and the gentle press of smooth lips linger over my closed eyelids. A soothing voice, a hand rubbing rhythmically over my back and then over my heart.
It feels like a lifeline, that touch, and I lean into it, chasing more.
A relieved exhale. “That’s it, that’s it.”
Henrik .
As soon as I recognize the source of the comfort through my fractured, muddled thoughts, breathing becomes easier.
I pour all my focus into it. Onto Henrik.
I focus on the feel of his hands and the cadence of his voice.
On the way his suit swooshes slightly as he shifts.
On the smell of autumn that hangs around his person, like crisp leaves and cranberries.
On his lips as they press repeatedly over the skin of my cheek. My ear. The corner of my lip.
“I’ve got you, Mal. I won’t let go.”
I’m here , I remember. It’s now.
Another kiss.
“The car is ready.” A different voice. Benji.
“Okay.” Henrik. “Give us another minute. He’s coming around.”
Gentle caresses, soft kisses against my hair.
“Mal.”
I nod, unable to speak. My chest is still tight. My heart pounding like a brittle, used drum.
“Can you stand?”
Another nod. I think so.
Henrik pulls me upright, and I slump against his frame. His palm soothes over my back, his lips at my temple.
“So tired of this,” I whisper, a croak. I turn my face against Henrik’s shoulder. “Hate it. Don’t want to be like this anymore, Hen.”
Henrik swallows roughly, his hands spasming against my back. “I know, Mal,” he says, voice ragged. “I hate it, too.” He inhales audibly, his hand drifting over my hair. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”
I’m too worn out, too depleted to point out it’s Henrik’s home, not mine. I simply nod, and with heavy limbs and an even heavier heart, I accept the hand he’s offering.