Chapter 3
THREE
GREGG
Sunday
Echelon One Tower, Aurum Hotel
Manhattan, New York
I push through the revolving door of the Echelon One Tower and out of the rain, and am greeted by high ceilings and a centerpiece chandelier.
Cascading in glass, bronze, and brass, the art déco style fixture reflects off the polished terrazzo floors.
Straight ahead, Moscato beige marble makes up a security desk and elevator lobby, and on the right, a quiet escalator stretches to the mezzanine.
I brush drops of cold rainwater from my shoulders as I turn left and stride between a collection of low brass and onyx tables with accompanying chairs, and an elegant woman greets me with a voice as smooth as velvet.
“Good evening, sir.” She stands behind the desk, and the soft glow of golden light reflects off the marble creating a warm halo around her.
Behind her, sleek brass geometric latticework frames an abstract mural in gold and navy.
New York City’s skyline at sunset is captured in dramatic and dynamic blends of warm and cool tones.
“Welcome to the Aurum Hotel. Checking in?”
I wheel my suitcase up to the polished desk, the thrum of the city barely audible outside, and rest a forearm across with quiet confidence. “Yes, thank you,” I reply as I produce my passport and slide it across the desk in a smooth, deliberate gesture. “It should be under Harwell.”
The agent’s fingers glide across the unseen keyboard with effortless precision.
She takes a moment to check, her eyes flick from my passport photo page to the screen before returning to my gaze.
“Yes, sir,” she says, handing back my passport.
“We have you staying with us for one night, with late check-out tomorrow.”
“Sounds right,” my voice is low and steady, but my attention has drifted toward the soft jazz that floats down from the mezzanine above.
A sultry saxophone just took the lead, its rich and honeyed tones weaving through the air like silk.
The piano’s delicate accompaniment adds depth and warmth, and the bass reverberates with a slow pulse that seems to sync with my own heartbeat.
“That would be Gatsby’s,” she notes, her voice cuts through the music as if she’d been reading my thoughts. “It’s a recent addition, opened just two weeks ago,” she adds as she places a room key into a cream-colored folder inlaid with gold foil.
“I was wondering,” my voice thoughtful as I turned back to face her, “I was here last month, and I definitely would’ve remembered.”
“Yes, it’s been very popular,” her voice sings with pride, as though the success of a new lounge was her personal achievement.
“If you’d like to enjoy a cocktail or the music, the lounge is open until eleven this evening.
And if you’d prefer, I can have your luggage delivered to your room while you unwind? ”
“That would be wonderful.” I sigh, the weight of my day settling onto my shoulders. I think the smoothness of my voice betrays a sense of relief. “Thank you. I think a scotch is just what I need right now.”
“Excellent.” She steps from behind the counter and exchanges the key folder for my suitcase.
“We have you in a midtown view Executive Suite.” Gesturing behind me to the elevator bank, she continues, “The first two elevators on the left will take you to the seventy-eighth floor, and the escalator across the lobby will take you to Gatsby’s. ”
“Thank you again.”
“My pleasure. Welcome back and enjoy your stay, Mr. Harwell.”
Inside the lounge, the music ebbs and flows around me, rising in subtle crescendos and fading into intimate whispers.
In the warm, dim light, I find myself wrapped in an ambiance of sophistication and ease.
After ordering from the bartender, I take a moment to take in the bar.
Gold inlay stretches the length, and walls of dark green subway tiles contrast smartly with the glowing glass shelves of spirits, all softly backlit through frosted glass.
A drink is produced neatly on a napkin in front of me, and I take a sip of single malt Scotch, catching the eye of a striking man a few stools away.
With an easygoing and confident air, he winks at me, and I smile back, nod, then step away from the bar, opting for a plush blue armchair in the corner.
I take another sip, savoring its smoky profile, and lean my head back.
“Long day?” Asks a cool, smooth voice.
“Mhm. Long flight from London, actually,” I say as I sit up, clearing my throat.
“One and the same, no?” he asks, a hint of amusement tucked into his words.
“I guess you could make that comparison.” I smile lightly, half-acknowledging the truth in the comment.
“May I?” the man asks, gesturing to the adjacent chair confidently.
I offer a welcoming gesture with my free hand, inviting the man to join me.
Another sip. Another smooth burn of the drink grounds me.
“I’m Elliot,” the man introduces himself, extending his hand with a disarming smile.
“Gregg,” I reply, taking his hand. His grip is casual, firm and relaxed. “What are you drinking?”
“Oh, erm…” Elliot studies his near-empty glass. “Manhattan. Because ya’ know… When in Rome.”
I chuckle. His accent is unmistakably New England. I can tell by the way he pronounces Manhattan. Man-HA-ttan.
“What about you?” Elliot asks, curiosity and, I think flirtation, shine in his eyes.
“Glenfiddich 18,” I answer, taking another measured sip. “Neat. Double.”
“You did have a long day,” Elliot muses.
“Would you like another round?” I ask. I feel my lips curl into a smile. “My treat.”
Elliot raises an eyebrow and teases a smile. “Sure, but we aren’t quite in sync,” he says, nodding to my still full glass.
I click my tongue with mock disapproval, pause, and toss the amber liquid back smoothly. “Sure we are.”
“Well, damn,” Elliot reaches his empty glass to mine and clinks them softly. “Cheers!”
One drink turned into two, and then three, and the conversation flowed effortlessly.
Elliot is refreshingly unpretentious, charming, and had me forgetting the pressure of my trip.
After the last call, seventy-eight floors above, in the privacy of my suite, there was no pretense.
Elliot places a hand on my chest and cradles the nape of my neck with the other.
I lean in, and my lips find his in a kiss that was both slow and urgent, deep and consuming.
Elliot turns away slowly and allows his body to brush against mine, his ass pressing firmly against me in an invitation that is clear and undeniable.
I don’t think I realize how much I needed this until now, a temporary escape from the weight I carry.
Finally, a relief from the anchor that drags me down constantly, and for a few hours, I get to let it all go, and get lost in the moment.
“That was fun.” I sigh, still catching my breath. My voice is low, almost reluctant, and I prop myself up on one arm. “You can stay the night if you like.” The invitation slips out before I could stop. “If that's not too presumptuous,” I try to recover.
“Sorry,” Elliot replies apologetically yet final, as he slides out from under me. “That’s not really my thing.”
My brow furrows against my will, and I know disappointment flashes across my flushed face. I try to hide it by asking, “You’re sure? I’m free till—”
“Can I use your bathroom real quick?” He cuts me off, his voice quick, shifting the mood before it could develop into something heavier.
“Erm, yeah. Sure,” I mutter, pushing myself up. I watch Elliot head toward the bathroom, the room between us cold.
The sound of running water fills the silence. “Sorry,” Elliot apologizes, his voice casually calling out. “That was definitely fun, but that’s all it was meant to be.”
“Right.” I reach over and pull a shirt over my head, the fabric pulling tight across my chest and shoulders, and I try to shrug off the rejection.
“Besides,” Elliot continues, his voice lighter as he emerges and casually slips into his trousers. “It's easier to keep these things simple. No strings.” He winks at me but it doesn’t quite reach. “Less complicated that way.”
I force a smile as Elliot pulls his shirt over his head and moves toward the door. He pauses, hand on the doorknob, and looks back over his shoulder with a playful grin. “You are fucking sexy though, dude.”
“Thanks, mate,” I reply flatly.
“Well, see ya’,” Elliot says over his shoulder as he walks through the door. “Thanks again.”
Alone in the dark, I find myself trying to name the feeling in my chest. I don’t think I’ve realized how much I have been searching for more.
Wanting more. Not just a distraction, but a connection.
I sigh as I fall back into the plush pillows, their softness doing little to ease my heart.
A connection I can’t have. All tonight had been, all it will ever be, is a temporary respite.
The weight of my world is still firmly in place and the anchor that's attached to me? It seems heavier.
The Manhattan skyline stretches out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the suite.
The early afternoon light casts glittering shadows across the sea of glass and steel.
I have chosen a tailored blue suit, white button down, and a loose tie.
I’m a man who’s perpetually on duty, and I press my phone to my ear while packing.
Three thousand miles away in London, I listen to my father’s clipped tone.
Harrison Harwell is nothing if not demanding, and this afternoon was no exception.
“Greggory, I do not think you’re grasping the significance of this deal,” his voice says through the static. “This is not just any development. The Wilmont Estate project could define Archeon Global’s future in ways we’ve never imagined.”