Chapter 62
SILAS
Isleep on the train and for a few more hours after I drag my very well-fucked ass back to my apartment. At six, I get up when my alarm goes off, take a shower, and check my phone to make sure the plans for dinner didn’t change while I was sleeping.
There are three messages from Graham’s second phone.
Did you make it back okay?
What time do you think you’ll be done with dinner?
Did you block me again? I can still see your dot. I know you’re home.
Someone’s needy…
Me
I was sleeping. Someone kept me up all night.
Graham2
Weird. Me too. Can I still call you later?
Me
I’ll call you when I leave.
Graham2
If you leave and don’t call me, can I call you?
Stalker.
If someone asked me to explain what I love about Graham, or why I’m still in love with him after everything, I don’t know what the fuck I would tell them. The fact that we worked for as long as we did makes no sense.
Me
Down, boy.
Graham2
Enjoy your evening, Silas.
I grin in spite of myself and put down the phone to finish getting ready.
Now. What to wear to your billionaire boss’s penthouse for dinner with your estranged best friend?
It’s vaguely tempting to wear my Eastmoor uniform—it’s technically a suit.
I’ve sold most of my nicer suits and both tuxedos, so it’s going to have to be business casual.
If they’re both in shorts and t-shirts, I’ll be annoyed.
I settle on a long-sleeved white button-down, loose-fitting khakis, and brown leather loafers with no socks. Just as I’m about to try and decide how I want to get uptown, subway or Lyft, Chris texts me that he’s sending a car.
I roll my eyes and wonder what Drew would think about that.
I guess I need to make the rounds with him before I leave the state for good, too.
And yes, I’m still planning to leave. Whatever Graham and I are after last night—exes with benefits?
—there’s no future there. I’d never ask him to change his life for me.
Change that big for a maybe only leads to resentment.
It might be harder to leave while I’m on good terms with him, but I’m telling myself it’s better to start a new life having ended the old one on a high note.
We’ll see how that works out.
The “car” is a limousine, and it looks wildly out of place on my street. I recognize the chauffeur as one of the doormen who used to work at the Eastmoor back when Drew did. “Killian, right?”
The shorter, muscular man smiles and shakes my hand. “How are you?”
“Good.” I point at the limo. “So, is this job better, or…?”
He laughs. “Depends on the day and the traffic, but between you and me, working for the boss in a personal capacity pays much better.”
“Can I sit up front with you?” I ask.
“Sure.” He opens the passenger door for me, and we head uptown.
By the time we reach Gramercy, I’ve learned a lot about living in Florida because it’s where Killian is from. I’m most interested in hurricane prep, so that takes up the majority of the ride. I feel much more knowledgeable as we’re getting out of the car, and I wave goodbye.
Though I’ve never seen the man before, the doorman on duty, like we all do, knows exactly who I am and exactly where I’m going.
I don’t know how this guy does it, but I always stalk any guests my residents are expecting on social media.
It really freaks out-of-towners out, and it’s one of the few simple pleasures of a relatively boring job.
He walks me to the special elevator himself. There’s another elevator next to it that leads to the other “penthouse:” Gibson’s elite sex club. Actually, I don’t know which is which, and this one better only be taking me to a normal apartment.
As it speeds upward, I run a hand through my hair and check my phone again.
With no new messages, I open my photo app and look at the pictures of me and Graham from Philly.
We both look sex drunk, exhausted, and rosy-cheeked.
His warm, sweet smile stands in contrast to my placid expression.
I might call it serene, but all I remember feeling in the moment was heartsick.
I captured him well, though. His innocence and his raw sexiness.
The sunshine to my grump. My sweet, naughty puppy.
The elevator stops, the doors slide open, and I sigh. The only way out of this night is through it.
Christian answers the door, and I’m happy to see he’s wearing jeans and a black polo. I pat his pec. “Looking good.”
He flexes for me and laughs, backing away like he’s ticklish.
He’s an absolutely different person than the guy I lived with years ago.
There’s a lightness to him now, and it makes me realize just how miserable he must have been back then.
His blonde hair is already falling out of whatever style he tried to put it in, and the other thing I notice is the leather band around his neck with what I’m guessing is a diamond at the hollow of his throat.
I almost ask if it’s meant to be a collar, but it’s none of my damn business, and I don’t want to know. “I made margaritas,” he says. “They’re awesome.”
“How many have you had?” I ask.
“Two. On accident. You’ll see. Do you follow the Gay Tejano on Instagram?”
“No.”
“He’s this queer dude from Brownsville, Texas. He’s hilarious but he mostly cooks and throws huge parties. This is his recipe. It’s got beer in it, and it’s magical.”
I’m following him through the huge penthouse as he talks, scanning for Gibson so he doesn’t catch me by surprise.
He might be my boss and the man responsible for ruining my life, but we’ve never actually met.
He hired me on Chris’s recommendation alone—well, that and his own guilt.
The whole process was done via email with one of his assistants.
I saw him at the wedding I went to with Lilah earlier this summer, and a handful of times over the years on the street, but we’ve never looked each other in the eye and shaken hands. I’m not nervous about it, but I’ll feel less awkward after a beer margarita.
Christian looks me over as I take a long drink from the frosted glass he gives me. The alcohol goes down all too easy, and I already know what he means by two on accident.
“I was surprised to hear from you,” he says as I swallow.
“Yeah. I have some news I wanted to give you in person. Nothing bad or anything, but…” I trail off because Gibson Hayes has entered the room.
I figure he’s Jason Momoa sized. Maybe an inch or two shorter, but otherwise—he’s a wall of a man, and judging by the way his clothes fit him, all muscle.
He’s in his forties—according to Chris, but I wouldn’t know otherwise.
He’s got no gray anywhere, a full head of thick, dark hair, and one of the more handsome faces on earth.
“Hello,” he says carefully, like he didn’t mean to interrupt.
Chris reaches back and urges him forward with a hand on his arm. Gibson slides his hand casually behind Christian to rest on the countertop, not touching his husband, but looming possessively, nonetheless. It’s too smooth by half.
I decide to be the asshole and hold out my hand. “Silas Manning.”
He flinches, jaw tensing before he gives me a handshake. “It’s good to see you,” he says.
I don’t like this. I need him to be less Superman, more Lex Luthor.
“I would have introduced you at the wedding, but you were pretending you didn’t know me,” Christian says.
“I was working that night.” I’m ready to tell all. Might as well. Keep the margaritas coming.
“Working?”
“As an escort. It was my side-hustle until a few weeks ago. The woman I worked for closed up shop in advance of some new laws. It paid well enough to be able to help out my aunt and mom as much as I could while I could, you know?”
Christian stares at me, baffled. “You know damn well I had no idea about that.”
“Well, it’s one of those plausible deniability things, I guess.” I don’t even know what I’m saying. My eyes keep darting to Gibson who has a thoughtful look on his face.
“How long were you doing it?”
“Years. I did it for years.”
“With women?”
“No, no… that was a special circumstance. I can’t discuss it. Confidentiality. Anyway, I’m moving to Florida in a few weeks.”
“Wait—what?”
“Yeah, like I said—I lost that job, and even full-time at The Eastmoor I can’t afford it here, so yeah. My aunt lives in a retirement community down there, and I’d like to be closer to her.”
“I feel like I missed a lot,” Chris says. “Let’s sit. Somewhere.”
“Terrace?” Gibson suggests.
Chris looks confused. “Yeah.” He picks up the margarita pitcher and his glass.
“Should I leave you to it?” his husband asks.
“It’s fine,” I tell him. “I’ve got no secrets from you, do I?” There. I managed to get in one good solid dig. Now, hopefully, I’ll stop.
Gibson draws in a deep breath and takes the pitcher from Christian, pouring himself a full glass. “Terrace is just through here.”
Chris pinches the back of my arm, and I glare at him. “Ouch.”
“Don’t be a dick,” he says once his husband is out of the room.
“I’m done. Promise.”
“He’s not like how you think he is.”
“What’s he like?”
“If you’re lucky and stop acting like a brat, maybe he’ll show you.”
“You understand where I’m coming from, right?” I ask sincerely. Because if he doesn’t, then my news is delivered, and I can skip dinner.
“Of course. Yes. Look, he’s very nervous, but he wanted to do this. He doesn’t expect you to forgive him, but he’s planning to apologize. You don’t have to accept it.”
“And if I don’t want to talk about it?”
“Silas…come on. Everybody deserves a second chance.”
I stare at him, his clear blue eyes pleading.
When I don’t say anything for a minute, he adds, “Okay, maybe not everybody, but he does. He’s the best person I’ve ever met.”
“I get it. You love the guy. I loved a guy once, too.”
“Is there anything I can do?” he asks, sounding mildly desperate.
“No,” I tell him. “Let’s go drink. I’ll play nice.”
“Go ahead without me,” he says. “I’m gonna bring out some food.”
“Nice trick, friend.”