Chapter 13 Kit
KIT
The week that followed Damian’s bi-awakening has flown by in hurried bursts of lectures, last-minute rehearsals, and game nights.
I could almost convince myself that nothing fundamental has changed in our relationship, if it weren’t for our constant descent into frantic frotting whenever we’re alone.
There’s still a twinge of doubt that twists in my gut whenever I think of how easily orgasms have slotted into our status quo.
Shouldn’t our relationship feel different from before?
Jane says not to worry, and that it’s because the two of us have always lived like a co-dependent married couple.
Well, she didn’t say those exact words… Clingy was the term she’d used.
And I can see her point. But I’ve dreamed of this since the day I first met my stepbrother.
I’ve wanted this for so long that I’ve found myself waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Shouldn’t Damian be in some kind of shock that not only is he dating a man for the first time, but that the man in question is someone he’s lived with since puberty?
Shouldn’t that warrant even a brief moment of hesitation?
And what does it mean that he isn’t having second thoughts?
Is it because what we’ve been doing at night isn’t the same groundbreaking, life-affirming thing for him that it is for me?
But then, I remember how Damian lit up at the tailors when I picked out a bottle green pocket square to match his new tie, and I can’t help but hope that whatever is happening between us means everything to him too.
Luckily, said pocket square goes perfectly with the pale grey suit and black silk shirt I’m wearing to the gala tonight. I’ve even borrowed mum’s eyeliner, a move that led to Damian pinning me against the wall when he came to tell me the car was out front ten minutes ago.
Damian’s wearing an all-black number this evening, his new tie the only pop of colour in his outfit.
He’s swooped his hair back off his striking face, though one rogue, inky strand still remains curled across his forehead in protest, and my fingers itch to reach across the taxi and brush it behind his ear.
He looks the very definition of tall, dark, and handsome, his devilish exterior at odds with the sunshine he holds within, but equally as tempting.
Lucien only hires eight-seaters to take us to events like this, learning from our first outing as a family when Damian unknowingly sat on Mum’s dress in the back of a taxi.
I don’t even remember what the party was for, probably something to do with Hansel Accounting and Financial Management, but I’ll never forget the tantrum Mum threw when she realised the entire left side of her skirt resembled an empty crisp packet.
Still, I can’t complain about her theatrics when it means that Damian and I are now sitting behind our parents in the car, which also means that I can bask in Damian-in-a-suit porn as much as I want without giving the game away.
And based on the barely restrained look my stepbrother is giving me, it’s a game he’s playing too.
Our destination, the Lancaster Hotel, is peak old-fashioned opulence.
Its facade is almost gothic, with intricate, charcoal stonework, standing proud in the towering glass jungle of West London.
The place is fancy enough that a concierge in a top hat rushes to open our doors before the taxi has even stopped, and we’re each nursing a glass of champagne within seconds of entering the grand lobby, utterly clueless as to how they got there.
The ballroom we’re directed to is just as decadent as promised by the rest of the building, with rich burgundy drapes surrounding floor-to-ceiling windows, and a domed ceiling supported by marble columns that chill the air around them.
A string quartet plays in the corner of the room, the sound amplified around the vast space and disturbed only by the drone of a hundred conversations happening between anyone who’s anyone in London.
Politicians, entrepreneurs, journalists, socialites, climbers, clinger-ons, and just plain old arm candy alike, all of them clambering to be heard over the other egos in attendance.
I even spot the surgeon who performed Mum’s super-secret nose job propping up the bar.
Mum studiously looks in the other direction.
“Want to take a walk around?” Damian asks, passing his empty flute to a waiter who appears out of thin air the moment he drains the last drop.
“What are we looking for tonight?” I reply, handing over my own glass. “Spot the escort?”
“No, we played that last time. How about we try to match up the people having affairs and pretending not to know each other in front of their spouses?”
“Oh, that’s a good one. But no pointing at people this time. You’re going to get us caught one of these days.”
“But how else am I supposed to show you who I’m talking about?”
I roll my eyes, trying to keep the smile off my face. “Use your words, Damian.”
“Easier said than done when every fucker in here is wearing the same black tux,” he grouses.
“Whatever mischief you’re planning tonight, boys, put it on hold,” Lucien interrupts, waving at someone across the room. “There are a few acquaintances here I want you to meet. This gala is all about networking after all.”
“And London West Hospice,” Damian dutifully reminds him.
“Yes, yes, and the charity. Let’s do some good and make a few friends while we’re at it, right?” My stomach sinks at the thought.
I know Lucien means well, wanting to expose me to London’s richest and most influential players, but the people he introduces me to always make me feel… uncomfortable.
“So, who are we trying to impress?” Damian asks, snatching two new flutes from a passing server since our bar plans have been scuppered.
“Ah, and here’s the main man now,” Lucien says loudly, simultaneously answering his son’s question and catching the attention of a tall, intimidating man who’s probably never managed to cross a room uninterrupted in his life. “Everett Stalk, it’s good to see you.”
The guy reeks of wealth and power, his perfectly tailored suit putting even mine to shame.
The elegant cut is curated to showcase a broad silhouette that only comes from excessive dedication to a gym routine.
His brown hair is as rich as he must be to so effortlessly command a room when he barely looks a day over thirty, and his eyes are the most sombre shade of grey I’ve ever seen.
Even with the air of boredom emanating from the young businessman, I’d consider Stalk to be one of the better men I’ve been introduced to at one of these things.
They’re normally much older and much more pompous.
At least the conversation should be short with Stalk before he makes his excuses and hurries on to the next desperate status seeker vying for his attention.
“Good to see you…” The stern man trails off, begging my stepfather to remind him with whom he’ll be wasting the next five minutes.
“Lucien Hansel, Hansel Accounting and Financial Management. Your father’s been one of our most treasured clients for years.”
“Lucky you,” Stalk drawls.
Unperturbed by the less-than-enthusiastic reception, Lucien battles on, and I make sure I’ve got my game face on. If this man is important to Lucien, he should be important to me, too.
“This is my wife, Leah, my stepson, Kit, and this strapping young man is my son, Damian.” Lucien slaps Damian on the back to really hammer the point home. “He’s reading business at Spires, second year. I’m sure he’d love to pick your brains about this place.”
Ah, so I’m not the prized pony on show today. Well, that makes a nice change. With a sigh of relief, I settle in next to Mum and watch as Damian tries to drag our reluctant guest into something resembling a two-way conversation.
“It’s great to meet you, Mr Stalk. Are you one of the owners of this hotel?” Barf. It’s so weird when Damian pretends to be all calm and polite.
“My grandparents built this hotel from the ground up, though I’ve ventured in a different direction. Security is my main line of work now.”
I can see that. No one of sound mind is getting on the wrong side of this guy. He probably has seven different people in his phone who could make you disappear without breaking a sweat.
As Damian talks business, I take the time to get the upper hand in our evening’s game. It takes a while, but my persistence pays off when I spot a red-faced woman looking everywhere but at the man her husband’s trying to schmooze. Definitely a potential candidate worth monitoring.
“Kit,” Lucien calls, putting an end to my people watching. “Come over here and meet my old friend Lionel.”
The sticky-looking gentleman next to my father laughs raucously. “Less of the old, Lucien, please.”
A shudder shakes down my spine, but I plaster a smile back on my face nonetheless.
This is all part and parcel of these events for Lucien.
Business never sleeps, or so he says, and while I can’t talk about the stock market like Damian can, Lucien takes as much pleasure in telling his colleagues about my ambitions as a choreographer as he does his own son’s accomplishments.
I remind myself how good I have it. So many students in my class battle daily with unsupportive parents pushing them towards a ‘proper job.’ Giving Lucien an evening of my time when he’s been so understanding is the least I can do.
So, I roll back my shoulders and hold out my hand to my stepfather’s sweaty associate.
And if the up-and-down of his eyes happens to border on lecherous, well, it’s nothing I can’t handle.