Chapter 9 Andre
NINE
Andre
By nine a.m., I have to go into my office bathroom and electroshock my balls until my dick softens enough to go in the cock cage. Usually, I just deal with my arousal, dissociate from it, but I can’t today.
I feel sick enough from the shock that I end up kneeling in front of the toilet in my Tom Ford suit, but the nausea passes. I get up. I straighten my vest and watch chain. I wash my shaky hands. I comb my hair without looking at myself.
But then I do have to look. I need to know that I’m in character.
I can see the flaws. The throb of my pulse above my starched collar. The slight pinching around my mouth. The hollowed-out look in my eyes that everyone seems to feel so fucking comfortable telling me are “just gorgeous.” But no one else will notice these small details. People are easy to fool.
I snag my black suit jacket from the hook and put it on. As I button it, my hands begin to steady.
I start to see what others will see: the wealthy owner of one of the finest hotels in the city. I see privilege and power.
That’s the thing about images: they are persuasive. Sometimes, I can almost fool myself.
I step out into the vast, luxuriously modern space of my office.
The windows frame a prime view of Lower Manhattan.
I’m one floor below my penthouse and 23 above the pavement.
The building houses my guest rooms, restaurants, event spaces, and all the other amenities expected of a luxury hotel.
Lots of money in, lots of money out. It requires intensive administration, and most of that is done by my manager, Gina—who’s sitting on my fucking couch.
Thumbs tapping away on her phone, she makes no sign of hearing my approach, which is unlikely given the clap of my shoes across the hardwood floor.
It’s not hard to guess that she heard … something from the bathroom and is pretending that she didn’t.
Or maybe she’s just working. She’s always working.
Gina is worth her weight in gold, which is about what I pay her. I scouted her from a lesser hotel years ago. I’ve only owned The Axis for two years, but I spent many years before that putting things in place. I certainly couldn’t retain the former owner’s management.
Gina doesn’t look up until I take a seat at my desk.
Then she sets her phone on the arm of the black leather couch.
At 31, she’s only a year older than I am, young for her position.
Shit runs better that way. Younger people work harder and are more flexible.
And older people … I don’t really like being around them.
Gina has a vaguely 1940s style with her structured clothes and upswept black hair. It gives her the gravitas for her role and distracts people from her age. Everyone, really, is in costume, especially at a place like The Axis.
I remind her, “You have my door code for when I’m gone, not for when I’m here.”
“You’ve been out of contact for three days, Andre.”
I keep my face stony, but I wince inwardly. I’ve never lost myself in a role like that. I’ve never struggled so much to come back from one.
That is what it was. A role. And yet, there’s a scream in the back of my mind, a restless clawing at the edges of the box where I’ve shut away the part of myself that played that role.
There’s my dick too, doing everything it can to swell inside the cage even while I’m forbidding myself to call up images of … him.
I point out, “It’s your job to handle shit when I’m gone.”
Gina snorts. “It’s my job to handle shit all the time.”
“So why are in you here harassing me then? Don’t you have shit to handle?”
“I take it you haven’t caught up with all your messages.”
“I’m almost done and it’s only 9:14. What’s your fucking point?” Sometimes, my background slips into my speech. I lose the polish and start to sound like … someone who doesn’t belong on the 24th floor.
“My point is that you need a PA to weed through shit and pick out the highlights, like I’ve told you a hundred times. It’s more efficient. I couldn’t possibly prioritize without Stephanie.”
“And I’ve told you a hundred times, Gina, that I don’t want someone in my fucking business. Hell, I don’t want you in my fucking office, so if you can’t get to the goddamn point—”
“Rebecca Grange came in yesterday. She made a scene in the lobby.”
My temper abruptly twists in on itself, turning my stomach. “Fuck.”
“Jeremy worked his magic and got her into Gold Leaf. The staff served her brunch, and after three mimosas, she left. But she wanted to talk to you.”
I can picture it all. Rebecca Grange, widow of the hotel’s former owner, sweeping in wearing her “daytime pearls” and kitten heels—yes, I know these phrases now—trying to command the staff like she’s still the queen of The Axis.
I can see Jeremy, my front desk manager, giving her his polished smile and whisking her away to the tea room.
I don’t directly control the staffing of the restaurants, so most of those are leftovers from the Grange administration. They probably knew just what to make for her. Maybe they even enjoyed it.
Fuck them all.
No, goddamn it. I don’t mean that. Gold Leaf is well run. It’s fine. Besides, if I really wanted to clean everything out, I’d have to tear down the whole fucking building.
“What did she say?” I ask, needing to know even if I don’t want to.
“That she still had rights, that she had commissioned the fountain in the lobby, and that the gold accents around the doorframes were her idea.”
“Jesus.”
“She was mostly upset that the painting of the island had been removed.”
I close my eyes as a wave of anger rolls through me.
“She’ll be back,” Gina predicts. “You could just give her the painting.”
“That’s impossible.”
Gina’s red lipstick, a striking contrast to her rich brown skin, shows me clearly how her mouth pinches. She’s frustrated with me. She thinks this is a problem that can be solved, but it’s not.
“Look, Andre, I know things got tense as the deal closed, which, yes, that happens. But she’s an old lady—”
“She’s fucking complicit.”
“Complicit? What does that—”
“Never mind,” I snap, hating that I’m losing control of this conversation—and of my mouth. I’m usually more disciplined.
“Look,” I say. “Thank you for telling me, but I don’t want to discuss this any further. As for the gold accents around the doorframes, I want them removed.”
“We haven’t budgeted for that this quarter.”
“Figure it the hell out.”
Gina points out, “She’ll probably just have a bigger meltdown next time.”
“Good. Maybe she’ll have a fucking heart attack.”
Gina doesn’t wince or look horrified, but she does snag her phone from the arm of the couch and get up. “I just thought you should know.”
I close my eyes and take a breath. I lie, “I didn’t mean that.”
Gina hovers for a moment. Then she asks, “Are you … okay?”
It shuts me down like nothing else has managed to do. I don’t respond. I never, ever respond to that.
Gina sighs. “Don’t forget that Vera Jessup, the planner for the Churchill-Henderson wedding, will be here at eleven to preview options ahead of our meeting with the families. We’re starting in Gold Leaf to look at the portfolio.”
I nod.
“I also need your approval on the … never mind. We’ll talk about the rest when you catch up.”
I nod again.
When Gina is gone, I finish reading through texts and emails. I play Beethoven through the sound system to quiet my background thoughts, but it doesn’t help. The music annoys me, so I turn it off.
At 10:50, I take my private elevator down.
When the doors open, I’m confused. Instead of the warm light of the tenth floor and the soft music floating out from the tea room, I face the silence and cold barrenness of my private level of the parking garage.
My keys are in my pocket, but I don’t remember putting them there.
The doors start to close. I should let them. I should hit the button for the tenth floor and pretend this didn’t happen. But I slap my hand on the door to stop it from closing.
* * *
Elias emerges from his building right on schedule. I’m not sure what I expected, some deviation maybe, after I fucked him into unconsciousness last night.
He pauses at the top of the steps, looking for something. Looking, I realize, for me.
I’m here, baby.
I’m parked on a side street, watching him through binoculars. It’s frustrating to be so far away after being inside him last night. My dick tries to swell inside the cage. I hate it, but I was right to put it on. If I were hard right now, I wouldn’t be able to keep my distance.
Even this is a mistake. I’m sliding back into my role.
But how could I possibly have missed this moment?
Elias gives up and descends the steps. He’s moving slow. I’m sure he’s sore. I like that. I like that he can feel where I was inside him, how hard and deep I fucked him. But I don’t like how his shoulders are hunched.
I’m about to start my car so I can drive a few blocks ahead when Elias stops abruptly.
I watch through the binoculars as his head comes up and a smile plays across his striking face.
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out his phone.
At first, I’m annoyed, because who the fuck is texting him?
Then I realize, as his smile fades, that he thought—hoped—it would be me.
Oh, baby.
I’m here. I haven’t left you.
How could he think that I would, when he’s the one who made me like this?
But that’s not true. Elias didn’t make me like this. He simply made a space for this part of me. He invited me in, and like a fucking vampire, here I am.
Elias sighs. He types out a reply, stows his phone, and walks on.
Avoiding the street he’s walking, I drive a few blocks ahead to my next observation spot and wait. Elias comes back into view three minutes behind his usual pace. He’s hurting.
My dick tries to swell again. I can hear my own harsh breathing.
If Elias were with me right now, I wouldn’t fuck him, not while he’s sore, but I would torture him. I’d tie him up, blindfold him. I’d make him cry, I’d make him come.
I’d make him feel so much better.
* * *
I can’t make myself return to The Axis. I go instead to my converted warehouse apartment.
I prefer it to the penthouse. Parts of it have been made beautiful and comfortable, but it’s got a gritty old soul.
It’s brick walls and old pipes. If you open a window, it’s noisy and sometimes stinks.
The penthouse balcony is too high above the streets for that. This place feels more real.
I bypass the renovated space of the kitchen and the living area with its open sleeping loft above. I go down to the basement cell where I kept Peter Grange for six days before I set him free to kill himself.
I take off my suit, draping each piece neatly over the chair where he spent those six days. It’s clean. I’ve scrubbed it.
Once I’ve stripped completely, I gaze down at my cock in the cage. I hate it, but I’m afraid to take it off. I know what’s going to happen. I know what I’ll have to do.
Hands trembling, I unbuckle the straps. I unlatch the cage and pull it off. My dick swells so abruptly, so fully that I cry out. I hit my knees on the sealed concrete.
I wrap my hand around my stiff, aching length. I shudder.
I don’t usually jerk off because it’s too hard to control what I think about and what I feel, but right now the only thing in my mind is Elias.
I see him at the bodega, flushed and drugged looking from the plug inside him.
I see him running in terror along a dark path.
I hear him scream, feel him fight. I feel his body take me, respond. I hear him moan and cry. I feel him clench on me as he orgasms.
So why don’t I come? Why the fuck don’t I come?
I’m down on my knees and one elbow, jerking my dick, making awful sounds. I should be able to orgasm.
I let my hand go still on my dick. I rest my forehead on the ground.
I’m too strung out to control my thoughts. They go where they want. They go, thank god, to Elias, but they go inside him, to the way he broke for me. I feel his submission. I feel it as my own—and that’s when I come.
It feels fucking awful. I can’t stop it though as my balls draw up tight. My hand clenches on my dick as it pumps and spurts. If nothing else, at least I can scream here, so I let myself.
After, as I lay shivering in my mess, I know I have to fix this. I have to get back in control. But the kind of control I attempted this morning, cutting myself off from Elias, didn’t work, and it’s not going to. I can’t put this part of myself away with the game unfinished.
Which means there’s no choice but to keep playing.