Chapter 12 #2
Connor had spent weeks after Devore’s ousting trying to bite back his own paranoia that everyone in Alarie knew the role he played in his removal. After all, no doubt a man like Curtis Devore would have employed multiple means of insurance to ensure that if he went down, then so would Connor.
Mutually assured destruction.
It was a favored strategy of Devore’s, his way of clawing power from those foolish enough to misstep in his presence–or Connor’s.
A little bit of documentation here, a sworn statement there, a duplicated report to seal the deal, that was how Devore made his career.
It was what he’d taught to Connor, perhaps his own way of levying an unspoken threat.
Do what I say, and you’ll never have to face this.
Was Devore a monster? Connor wondered that sometimes, particularly near the end. Then he’d decided, no. No, Devore was not a monster, no more than any other director in Alarie leadership. He was exactly what he needed to be in order to make it as far as he had.
As were the others. Thornton. Simmons. Ronaldo. Wehr.
Even Berkshire.
And if Nate had even a whiff of impropriety on him, then they’d eat him alive.
So this had to stop. For his own good. For Nate’s, too. Connor was all but certain of that by the time he returned to their shared office suite. But before he could even speak, Nate caught his eye and pulled him onto a virtual conference call.
“Hold on, I’d like to introduce my right hand man in Investor Relations, Connor Hayes. Connor, we’re discussing some of our quarterly projections based on some rumblings we’ve been hearing out of sales regarding some ed-tech clients. Anything you want to add to that?”
That was something Nate had been doing more and more since the conference in San Diego. “Get the C-suite used to seeing you,” he’d explained. It was a hard thing to say no to.
Even harder when Nate’s hand was at the small of his back, unseen by anyone on the other end of the screen. Everything he said came straight from memos he’d prepared, analyses he’d authored, reports he’d written that he’d intended Nate to present.
Not him.
But there Nate was, passing ownership of Connor’s work right back into his hands–and how was he supposed to refuse that?
Even in this call with the Barnum team. Kathy McGull watched the two of them with eyes like a hawk as Connor walked her team through the logistics of a contract Alarie was currently courting.
“As Mr. Santos mentioned, we’re looking forward to expanding our reach into the educational technology sector as we discuss this potential contract with New York Learning,” Connor explained, falling into an easy cadence as he spoke.
This was a contract he could confidently speak on, if only because he knew the client was looking to expand their client-base.
That meant training, systems management, and headhunting.
Key decisions that would need to be made to ensure the success of this campus–key decisions Alarie consultants were all too prepared to assist.
“And the lifespan of this contract?” Kathy asked Connor directly.
“Twenty-four months with potential for an additional twelve month extension.”
“That sounds promising.”
“Yes, we’re really seeing great things happening over in our client services department,” Nate added, smiling at Connor.
And that was a dangerous smile, because it was just for him. Not the kind of polite smile you’d reserve for your assistant–this was intimate.
He’d doubled down on his decision by the end of the day. This had to end. He needed to tell Nate once and for all that whatever happened between them–whatever might have existed between them–was done. Dead. Finished.
Connor broached the question around 4 that afternoon, about an hour before he typically left.
“You want to come over?” He asked a little too casually for how he felt.
“Come over?” Nate repeated, wide-eyed. “Like–what, to your house?”
“This is Irvine. Don’t expect a house,” Connor muttered out of the corner of his mouth before adding, “It’s an apartment. Not quite a high-rise. We don’t have many of those around here. But it’s nice, I guess.”
“Oh.” Nate looked like he didn’t know what to say to that, his dark eyes flickering to his own work bag.
Connor sighed.
“You don’t have to. Maybe you have plans already, but…” He shrugged a shoulder, letting his voice trail off. “We could talk. We need to talk. You know, not here.”
And that seemed to be what Nate needed to start following along.
“I mean–I don’t have any plans, but… are you sure?” Nate asked slowly, like he wasn’t totally following. Or more like he wasn’t believing it.
“Yeah. I’ll make dinner,” Connor replied. As if that would sweeten the offering, add a pleasant pastiche for when he tells Nate to leave him alone.
“What are you making?” Nate asked. Too familiar, too close. And too happy, like a dog who didn’t know it was about to be put down after that delicious steak dinner.
“Not sure yet,” Connor said, trying to sound disaffected. He failed, catching himself mirroring Nate’s smile instead as he considered what he might have on hand. What he could make for two, when he hadn't cooked for two in a long time. “Alfredo. Fettucine Alfredo, maybe. Do you like pasta?”
“I love it,” Nate answered quickly before dropping his gaze, a pink tint to his cheeks. Was that about him, or his cooking? Connor couldn’t be sure. But he bridged the gap, just as he always did.
“Okay. I’ll make pasta then,” he said, offering Nate a small smile. “Say, 6? I’d like a chance to clean up.”
“I can’t imagine your place being messy,” Nate replied, grinning. “You’re too organized. Yeah, I'll be there at 6.”
Connor decided not to contradict him.