Chapter 9

9

ALEX

" A lex! Alex! Have you seen my car keys?" My mom's voice drifts up the stairs.

I stop wrapping one end of my tie around the other. "On the table, Mom!"

As I examine my reflection in the mirror, a flush of humiliation creeps up my cheeks. Des's deep sigh when I called him. The "Look, Alex …" I got from him. I practically had to beg him to see me. And that apartment? If anything, he feels more out of reach now. I didn't tell him that I still live at home: How much more embarrassing would that have been? And how am I still here? Saving for my own place seemed sensible two years ago, but now it's like a straitjacket.

"What time are you back this evening?"

"Not sure!"

"Well, don't be late for dinner! Aunt Caroline is coming over with your cousins."

My mom's sister and her whole family. I groan, alongside a no doubt busy day at work, I've got relations to deal with tonight with all the inevitable questions.

"No problem, Mom!"

Grimacing in the mirror, I drop my chin on my chest. Come on, Alex, all you need is some easy platitudes about work. Ducking and diving, right?

My unbuttoned fly catches my eye, and I pull out my phone and take a picture. It's always when I'm getting dressed, my clothes in disarray in the mirror or when I'm looking down. I take a few more photos of my open pants, my shirt with one side tucked in, my hand on the band of my boxers, the undone laces on my shoes, my collar hanging off my shoulder. What would Des look like half undressed? Despite his initial grumpy response to my call, I had a great time last night. I want to take pictures of Des staring down at his own body like he's the voyeur. A shiver runs down my spine like someone ran a finger down it.

My eyes widen when I see the time on my phone. Shit! I tuck my shirt in and race down the stairs, and just as my mother's voice reaches me from the kitchen, I slam out of the front door, taking off at a trot. It was late when I got back last night, and I can't bear more of the where were you last night and who did you see questions. My parents' worry is like a bruise that spreads across their skin and mine.

As I jog to the train station, I'm cataloguing all the work I did yesterday. My job as a research analyst is to formulate views on companies for more senior analysts, and yesterday I started looking at Des's company and then dove farther into the security space. There are opportunities for investment in the tech field, but it's not something I know much about, and I've seen enough analysts miscalculate to understand how badly you can burn your fingers in my job. But if I could wrap my head around how the technology works and what's on the horizon, there could be something interesting there. I make a mental note to read some journals and industry papers. I'm sure I could pick Des's brains.

As I approach the station, the familiar hoot echoes down the line and I break into a run, making it onto the platform, heart pounding, as the train pulls in. Goddammit . I don't need to be late now along with everything else. My heart's not really in the job I do, and I think my supervisor has worked that out, but my dad wanted me to work in finance and so here I am, doing the identical goddamn role he started in. Somehow in our house, my dad's agenda always prevails. He's a successful finance guy, and on the committee at our local synagogue. He thinks it's my job to uphold the family name.

The train sways as I walk to my usual car, number five. The same people sit here every day, and the usual good-morning smiles I get from everyone who glances up makes me warm inside. The good-looking man in seat thirty-six gives me a nod like he always does. I had a crush on him for the longest time until one day I got on the train and a woman was sitting next to him who was clearly his girlfriend or his wife. The very next day I signed up to Grindr. I fantasized about this guy for a year, and it turned out he was straight. It made me realize I needed a better way of secretly finding people and exploring. Suddenly the memory of the exploring I did last summer and what happened when my parents found out burns brightly behind my eyelids.

As I slip into the blue plastic seat, my phone buzzes in my pocket, so I pull it out, stomach fluttering when I see a text is waiting for me:

You can't hide forever.

And I gape at it. Oh fuck. What the hell is he doing, messaging me now like I conjured him? Even after all this time. Scrolling back up, I study the message he sent me a month ago:

Do you even care what happened to me?

Like he thinks I don't know? Ugh . My phone buzzes again as another text appears:

You arrogant little shit.

Just don't respond. But my fingers are flying across the screen before I can stop myself.

GO AWAY!

I type in shouty caps, then,

Why are you STILL messaging me with this bullshit?

Dots appear and disappear.

Still hiding in the closet and lying to people, Alex?

Asshole. I'm not responding to any more of his crap.

The houses and bushes whip past outside the window, an announcement echoing over the PA system. Concentrate. You've got no ideas for work today and they'll roast you. I flip the texting app closed and start looking at the company announcements and making notes about the implications that I can alert my supervisor to.

Sunlight is filtering over the half-filled rows of white desks that spread out right across the large open-plan space when I sink into my seat in the office. A Slack message from my supervisor, Marie, is already blinking at me asking for a news update, so I tidy up the rough draft I made on the train and send it off to her. There are no fires to put out this morning as far as I can tell.

But before I can take a breath, Marie asks me what I'm working on and for a list of interesting companies by 11 a.m. So I drop her a line saying I was thinking of looking at tech businesses today, making a map of the market and the main players and she sends me a starry-eyed emoji. Phew. I pick up my phone and turn it over in my hand. Would Des mind if I asked? Stress was rolling off him in waves last night. Be bold, Alex!

Hey Des, thanks for last night! I've a favor to ask. Can you give me the names of twenty businesses in the tech space that are interesting right now and why?

The typing icon starts immediately on my screen.

Hello my gorgeous Alex. What's this for?

Gorgeous? I press my hand to my chest. Perhaps I redeemed myself by making dinner.

I'm supposed to be researching growing companies and developments in the space. Threats, technology, that kind of thing.

A one-word response appears:

Lunch?

My heart clenches. He wants to meet me? Running my finger inside my shirt collar, I stare out over the now-full desks, every person here doing the same job as me. God, I would love to get out of this place at lunchtime. Usually, I shovel a store-bought sandwich down my throat while I type. I send him three heart-eyed emojis back, and within moments he shoots back with a winky emoji:

I can talk you through a number of areas and developments.

I type back:

You're a lifesaver.

Dots start and stop again, then:

Hmmm. Would this be an oral resuscitation or something else?

God, he is filthy . How do I respond to that ? And how much of my flailing would he ultimately withstand? I text him a few laughing faces and turn my phone over on my desk blowing out a long breath. He is going to kill me.

Getting up out of my chair, I head to the office kitchen and make myself a coffee that I didn't have time to buy on the way in. When I settle back in my seat, I flip through my photographs from this morning. One of them, a tight close-up with my thumb in my boxers and just the beginning of the shape of something farther down, is cool. I load it up into the app on my phone and start messing around with it, making it black and white and doing some cropping. Then I upload it into Grindr and send it to Des.

I drop another Slack message to my supervisor saying that, after a bit of preliminary research, I'm going to need more time to draw some first thoughts together—will it be okay if I write up an initial run-through of ideas by the end of the day? She gives me a thumbs-up in return. This job is actually so easy in some ways: I'm a small cog in a very big wheel.

After a bit of a trawl, I pull down several documents about developments in the tech industry and a map of the market. Two annual reports from companies that are making headlines pop up in my search results and I open them up and begin reading. After about an hour of wading through loads of financial bullshit, one thing is obvious: The numbers are appalling. This is why tech is an investment nightmare: It's impossible to tell whether they've got anything real or who's going to win in a space.

Some of the data from venture capital firms looks interesting, though, and I'm deep into number crunching when Mei, our Chinese analyst, appears at my desk and plonks her ass down next to my screen.

"Whatcha working on?"

A guy walks past my desk at the end of the row and leers at her. "Liking the pants today, Mei," he says, making a cupping motion with his hands before turning around to walk backward and shooting at her with two fingers.

Her eyebrows rise up into her hairline, and I shake my head. Jesus, these assholes. Mei is the only person I trust in this pit of vipers. I don't know how I've moved from the jocks at college to the jocks in an investment bank, but all the guys here all talk in loud, overconfident voices while fiddling with the cuffs of their striped shirts. They'd steal any ideas sooner than turn round to impress people higher up the line. I lean forward.

"Tech," I say quietly.

Her eyes widen. "A bit of a dangerous strategy, no?"

She's right. Mei came here from China when she was twenty, and her accent is thick, but she does all our research on Chinese companies. I'm in awe of the detail she puts into her reports. She receives lots of internal kudos for it, which in this battery farm of analysts is the whole name of the game.

"Yeah, I guess. Certainly seems complicated. How about you?"

Her face sours. "I'm trying to pull together data on Chinese mining interests, but it's so opaque. Everything is hidden behind tiers of companies all over the world, which are no doubt connected to the Communist Party, government institutions … etcetera, etcetera." She straightens her brown wool sweater and pulls a bit of fluff from her pants.

I don't envy her being a market specialist, but maybe it's just an excuse to get the business to fund her travel back home when she can't find the information she needs and has to "go and talk to some people."

"You've got contacts, though, yeah?"

She nods. "What are you doing for lunch?"

"Meeting a friend."

She waggles her eyebrows at me. "A romantic friend?"

"Nah, someone I know from college."

The lie trips easily off my tongue. Although I trust Mei, I don't share my sexual orientation with anyone. Except Des. Wow, yes … Something about Des makes me want to spill all these secrets and thoughts about who I am. His confidence in himself and his own sexuality, in comparison to my lack of confidence, the mask I wear. I've never been on the scene, and Des is so deeply entrenched in it. What is his history? What is the whole scene ? And that picture of the naked guy going into his bathroom.

When I head out of the office at lunchtime, the sky is a brilliant blue above the constant yelling, loud chatting on headsets, and car horns. The subway rumbles away underneath my feet. When I'm down four or five blocks, I spot Des standing outside Sweetgreen on the other side of the street and I draw in a sharp breath. He's wearing tight black jeans and a fitted white shirt, with sunglasses hooked in his neckline and his blond hair a casual tumble of curls. He's staring at something in the other direction. I snap a couple of pictures of him with my phone as I approach. Something to pore over later, to remind me of this day, this lunch. I press my hand to my chest.

"Des!"

He turns, his face breaking into a broad grin. Then he scans down my ankle-length suit pants to my polished shoes and back up to my shirt, and his smile widens.

"I have to say this …" He gestures up and down, pursing his lips as he leans in. "… is very sexy." His body is so close I can feel its heat seep into me.

How does he always have that way of making my whole body tighten like this? He's going to be so much better at playing this waiting game than me. What was I thinking? I scan over the blond curls and my palm itches, so I gesture down his torso.

"This is very … "

"Gay?" he says.

"Gorgeous," I blurt out, my face reddening, but his lips curl up even more.

He leans in and kisses my cheek, and the scent of something warm and spicy assaults me. I picked it up the first night I met him. In the open collar of his crisp white shirt, his chest is a smooth golden V, the thump of his pulse visible in his neck. My tongue peeks out to wet my lips as he pulls back, and he doesn't miss it, eyes crinkling as they meet mine.

"What was that photograph you sent me this morning?"

I smile, and he widens his eyes. Then he steps into my body, and the shape of him presses into my hip as he puts his mouth against my ear.

"Stop sending me sexy pictures at work," he whispers. "I obsess over them and can't concentrate." Then he nips my lobe.

We're in the street! My heart hammers like a drill and my hand shoots up involuntarily to his body: I have no idea what I'm going to do with it, but it lands on his ribs and all I can do is tense at the feeling of muscles bunching under my palm. Holy shit.

Laughing blue eyes meet mine when he steps back, and all that sharp tension gives way to a hollow ache. I want the warmth of his body back, pressing into mine.

He winks and turns, gesturing at Sweetgreen behind us.

"This is an awesome place by the way—salads, soups … you name it. Healthy."

The air swims in the bright sunshine, and I blink up at the sign and the people flowing in and out of the doors. He tilts his head toward the shop, so I follow him into the cool interior trying desperately not to ogle his ass in his jeans. When he swings around to explain the menu to me, I'm busted . My face goes hot.

He tips forward, smiling. "Let me tell you how this works."

After we've ordered and collected our food, we slide into two chairs at a wooden table overlooking Wall Street and he rolls his shoulders.

"I love it when we get into spring," he sighs.

"Me, too. I walk to the station most days. It's miserable in the winter."

"Where do you live?"

"Long Island. Great Neck."

He unwraps his cutlery, skewers a bit of salmon, pops it in his mouth, and chews.

"About an hour on the train, right?"

I nod at this.

He taps the table with his fork. "Explain. What is it with the pictures? Not that I'm complaining, mind you."

Laughter grabs my throat. "I'm not sure, to be honest. I like taking photographs. I've got lots of them. Chronicling my life that way makes sense to me."

And it's true. I'm always framing New York through a lens.

"More of you having sex with some guy?" He raises a pale eyebrow at me.

Oh God. I sent him that picture to prove something to him, to myself maybe. My face flushes with heat. I wanted to show him that I'm not some shy guy who can't do this, though, in reality, that's who I am. A part of me wanted to say that I have done this before, that I understand how to play the game. But it wasn't sex, far from it. What an idiot.

"I was trying to respond in kind."

"But you told me you wanted slow? And you have to admit that photo didn't exactly scream slow."

"Yeah, it's someone I was in a relationship with a while ago." I stutter over the word relationship , but what else would I call it?

"Okay. I was just surprised after our first conversation that you had something like that."

"You sent me a picture of a naked guy going into your bathroom!"

Des grins at this. "Yeah, you've got me there."

Heat burns through me. I'm envious, I can't deny it. A woman with her earbuds in sings loudly to a song as she walks up the street. Des taps my hand.

"It was a hookup," he says.

My gut churns. That picture felt like a rebuke. I've never had a one-night stand; it's laughably far away from the kind of life I lead. And I've certainly never hooked up with a guy . What do I say here? A "I get you" is probably the appropriate response, but I don't get him and I feel like a fool, an immature fool. My gaze drops as I stir my coffee.

"Are you not okay with that?"

I lift my head to find Des's eyes on me, and it's warm and friendly and something seeps into my bloodstream, something like calm and sunshine. He's so nonjudgmental. Hiding is unnecessary when I'm with him; he encourages me to lay it all on the table.

"I feel like an idiot," I say.

Des laughs.

"I'm envious, to be honest," I add.

"But you wanted to take it slow, Alex." He reaches out and squeezes my hand then lets go. Leave it there.

I can't tell him that I said that thing about taking it slow because I'm overwhelmed, because the thought of having sex with a guy like Des who's obviously been with so many guys terrifies me. What he might expect me to know how to do, what he knows how to do. Sweat trickles down my spine, and I run my hand around the collar of my shirt.

"Can I say that I love how honest you are," he says, pursing his lips and looking off to the side as shock rolls through me. "I'm guessing from what you're saying that you haven't done much exploring. There's a lot of posturing and bullshit out there on the scene. It's refreshing to meet someone who …" he trails off.

I stare at him. The very idea that I could offer him something he can't find elsewhere warms me to the tips of my toes.

His eyes flick up to mine, a perfect shot of azure. A gold ring surrounds his iris, deep mottling around the outside. Dark lines radiate outward through the gold and the clear blue, reflecting his pale lashes. What would he look like in mascara?

"What are you thinking?"

Oh and now … Fuck. My face gets hot. I study my salad and chase a bit of lettuce with my fork.

"Alex?"

"I was wondering what your eyelashes would look like all dark." Ugh. Where is my filter? I sound like a high schooler.

His gaze roams over my hair and my face and his lips curl up.

"I look amazing in makeup. You would, too."

"You wear it?" My body goes wired. Sweet Jesus. How would he look? Incredible, no doubt. His hookups have probably seen him like that a hundred times. The electric feeling of delight turns into a hollow ache.

"For going out sometimes, yeah. Not often for the office. You know." He winks at me.

That you know says it all. The unwritten code. Don't be too obvious, don't make the straight people uncomfortable, don't be too unconventional. Don't have fun, don't shout I'm gay too loudly or even at all. Don't be loud and proud. Suddenly, I want to burn it all up, rip up that paper. Who says we can't? I drum my fingers on the table, take a bite of my salad, chew, and swallow.

"I wouldn't have thought you'd have that problem."

He laughs. "It's always a problem. For some reason, I'm always an issue." His eyes roam my hair again. "I'd love to dress you up."

Why do I think he's moving off the "I'm always an issue" statement?

"Like your own personal Ken doll?"

Batting his eyelashes, he says, "How did you know that I played with dolls when I was a kid?"

"What did you mean by ‘I'm always an issue'?"

He gestures down his body. "I'm just too out for a lot of people. In every job I've had, it's become a struggle eventually. Someone makes a comment, somebody is uncomfortable. Someone has a conversation with me. Tone it down, less drama." He screws up his face.

"New York appears like the most accepting place to me, though."

"Along with San Fran, I think it is, but that still doesn't guarantee that things get accepted."

My parents and my sisters pop into my head. God. Yeah, he's spot on. At the table next to us, a lady in a sharp suit with the bright yellow Tory Burch bag is thumbing through Interiors Today . Farther over, two women are holding hands. Every day I come into the city and it's like stepping into a foreign land.

What am I doing here? What am I doing talking to a man like Des? My whole family would be horrified. A memory blooms of soft lips on mine, my fingers woven through another male hand, then his face, contorted with pain, hands buried in his hair. If I share that relationship with Des, I'll have to tell him what happened after. My stomach turns over. Des moves some tomato and avocado around in his bowl before popping a forkful of chickpeas in his mouth. "Tell me about this thing at work."

I'm so distracted, I'd forgotten what this lunch was about.

"Yeah. What I do for the company is write summaries on potential investments, chiefly financial analysis but market stuff, too. There's a large team of people who do what I do, and part of the job is to come up with suggestions. Sometimes we're told what to do, but there are brownie points for coming up with decent ideas of your own."

Des claps his hands. "And you want my recommendations?"

I grin at him. He's ridiculously cute.

"Well, we don't often delve into tech because the risk is high and it's difficult to assess the technology, you know? Unless you've got a lot of technical knowledge, can you really say whether the tech is groundbreaking or not? In the investment field, everyone tends to stay away from it because of the pitfalls: the analysts I mean. I got on a bit of a wild hair today and told my supervisor I had some ideas. She seemed delighted." I groan and put my head in my hands. "What an idiot. I know nothing about this space."

He drags my hands away from my face and tips his head down trying to meet my eyes. "But I do Alex, so you've come to the right place. Plus, I've got access to lots of people who understand tech. Janus Phillips, for example."

" Who?"

"Don't you read the gossip columns? He is the hottest man in New York." Leaning forward, he whispers, "And he's married to my boss, Jo."

He pulls his phone out and starts tapping.

"Here."

When he turns it around, there's a picture of a gorgeous guy. He does appear vaguely familiar.

I shake my head. "Sorry, I'm not very good at who's who."

"Don't worry. Spend some time with me and you'll be totally up to speed on what's happening in this city. I waste way too much of my time on gossip sites, but I can find out anything." He puts more chickpeas into his mouth. "My boss, Jo, is a genius at security, and Janus has a friend who's a hacker." Narrowing his eyes, he hums. "I bet he could track down all sorts of interesting information for you."

I swallow down my own mouthful of food. "Anything illegal would be out of the question, I think."

"Yeah, I can see that."

A crease appears between his eyebrows. "But coming back to the specifics of companies, obviously we come across a lot of businesses working in this space and I'm amazed at the things that are funded. I mean the tech is often so sketchy."

"God, it would be amazing to pick your brains on all this stuff. I could learn so much."

"What are you interested in? You want solid, established companies, startups, or early-stage technology?"

I take another bite of my salad. "Perhaps we could talk through it now, focus it down, and I could show you where I've got to. Maybe what we really need is a series of lunches to get a grip on the detail?" I peer at him from under my lashes.

He squints at me, a broad smile stretching his perfect pink lips. "Sounds good to me."