3. Christian

3

CHRISTIAN

I don’t know why I’m surprised Gibson answers his own door. It feels odd and wrong to walk past him while he holds it open for me. He texted me at noon, asking if I’d come up after my shift. It’s Monday evening, and as of now, I have no plans. I hope there wasn’t a complaint about me, but I can’t imagine what it would be.

In general, I try to keep an appropriate distance from Gibson. He reminds me of my father—not because he’s anything like him, but by association, and I don’t want to be his full-time charity case. It’s a delicate balance, though, because I do want to keep the apartment. At least for now. The money I’ve saved in the last year will make it possible soon enough to put a downpayment on a place of my own. I like the idea of owning property in the city. Finding a little place to write my poetry and grow old in.

It wouldn’t be anything like this, though.

I’ve been in Gibson’s penthouse twice, and it’s the nicest place I can imagine. With a wrapped terrace on every side, it’s all light and sky. There’s a ton of art—sculptures, original oil paintings, pottery. All the plants look expertly tended. White walls and bookshelves offer a backdrop for modern furniture in shades of white, decorated with throws and pillows in other neutrals—grays, tans, and the occasional pop of pale pink. Dark wood floors ground the space. I can’t say it has a lived-in look, it’s too pristine for that, but it’s pleasing to the eye.

“Come into my office. I have something I want to talk to you about, and I promise it’s not a new kitchen.”

I feel my awkward smile trying to make an appearance. Maybe I’ve been a little too adamant.

He’s dressed in a crisp, white button-down finished with platinum cufflinks and tucked into black wool slacks. His legs are long and thick. I’m six-two, but I’d guess Gibson is three inches taller. He’s a tree. A thick tree. If I didn’t know who he was, and I found myself walking behind him, my bisexuality might start acting up.

“Drink?” he asks.

“Water would be great,” I say.

We stop by the enormous, spotless, white kitchen, which also has a view. He fills two glasses from the refrigerator, hands me one, and we’re walking again. I try not to gape at all the opulence, but it’s a lot—chandeliers in hallways, elaborate floral arrangements, actual Persian rugs. His office is half the size of my apartment and as bright as the rest of the penthouse.

“Have a seat.”

I take the chair facing his classic wood desk. He goes around to sit behind it while I look around at the bookcases and orchids.

“I don’t want to waste your time,” he says. “I have a problem, and I’m hoping you’ll hear me out.”

I nod. “Yeah. Sure.”

“I’ll spare you the details, but I’m having a little trouble keeping executive assistants. I’ve been assured it’s nothing to do with what it’s like to work for me or any of the job duties, but I’ve hit a rough patch.”

I bring my attention back to him and the curiously troubled look on his handsome face. It goes without saying that it’d be hard to get a wife as hot as Marianne without either wealth or looks. Gibson has both. I nod to show I’m listening. “Okay.”

“I was wondering if you’d be interested in a job like that.”

I’m immediately uncomfortable. Is this another favor? Another handout I haven’t earned? Because what could he possibly see in my day to day work that would qualify me for a job working for one of the most powerful real estate magnates in the city? I’m scowling, but he doesn’t push for a response, which gives me more time to think—more thoughts to crowd the way.

Do I want to be a doorman forever while I work toward publication? Will my meandering thoughts ever find anyone’s eyes but mine? Do they even deserve to see the light of day? I’m a poet, sure, but I have no way of knowing if I’m a good poet. I’ve never shared my work with anyone. “Full time?”

“Not necessarily. It could?—”

“Good—I don’t know if it’s something I’d like or could do. And I’m comfortable where I’m at, you know?”

“Sure. What if it was twenty-four hours a week to start? Three shifts with me, two at the door.”

“I was thinking more like sixteen-three.”

“This pays better,” he tells me, sweetening the pot.

Not that I’m greedy, but if I want to live in one of the nicer neighborhoods, I will need more money than I have now. But then he says the thing that taps into my bigger dreams.

“It would involve some travel. Overseas.”

“I thought all your business was local.”

“Not at all. I have business in Europe, Mexico, Canada, Australia. All over the U.S., too.”

Jesus, how rich is he?

“That’s a lot.”

He chuckles. “I have a large company with good employees who run it well. What I don’t have is someone to help me with the day to day. ”

“What are we talking about? Dry cleaning? Coffee runs? Answering the phone?”

He picks up a pen and taps it on the desk, narrowing his gaze. “No coffee runs or dry cleaning. It’s more about scheduling. Making calls. I won’t have you fielding calls until you’re up to speed on the business. You’ll take notes at meetings, be a second set of eyes, and you’d have to listen to me. There’s a lot of listening involved.”

I’m not sure I understand. “Can you say more about that?”

“I tour a lot of properties, and I like having someone with me I can trust to bounce ideas off of.”

“I know nothing about real estate.”

He waves this off like it’s unimportant. “It’s not really about what you know. It’s about—vibes.”

I huff a laugh. “What makes you think I’d be any good at this?”

He stares at me a moment, assessing. “I trust you,” he eventually says.

I study him, too. I gather he intimidates a lot of people with his size, his power, his wealth—his dark gaze that seems to take in everything all at once and yet gives nothing away. I’ve gotten a few glimpses at a different side of him, though, through the years. The one behind closed doors who’s loyal and protective of his home, his friends, his privacy. Even his employees.

“Can I ask more about this rough patch you mentioned?”

“You can, but I’m not sure I want to answer,” he says. “It veers a little personal, but nothing inappropriate on my part.”

If he’s trying to make me less interested in the reason he’s unable to keep an assistant, he’s failing.

He seems to sense this. “Listen, if you take the job, I’ll tell you.”

“I need to think about it.”

“What questions do you have? Talk it through with me.”

“Besides what I’ve asked already, and you haven’t really answered?”

He grins. “Besides those, yes. ”

“No questions. I just need to think about it.”

“Understood. If anything comes up, you’ll let me know?”

“Sure.”

“But you will consider it?” he asks.

“Can I ask a blunt question?”

“Of course.”

“This isn’t you throwing me another bone, is it? Because if it’s about that—or anything to do with the fact that you knew my father—I wouldn’t be comfortable. And don’t just say no—think about it. Please,” I add because that felt like word vomit.

He leans back in his chair. “Your relationship with your father was complicated, I assume.”

“Isn’t everyone’s?” I quip and immediately want to staple my mouth shut.

“Probably,” he says.

“Tolstoy said every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

“Yes, he did. And every happy family is alike.”

“If there is such a thing,” I say, because I have yet to meet one.

“Christian, I admit, I do favor you, and it does have to do with knowing your father the way I knew him. But if you’re worried I think of myself as some stand-in for him, don’t. I’ve never really wanted children, and I certainly don’t want an adult version of one. But you’ve worked for me awhile now, and I do trust you. I don’t have a clue about your aspirations, or if real estate is something that appeals to you at all?—”

“It isn’t.”

“Fair.”

“But I am interested in traveling,” I say.

“Ah. Well. Let’s start there, then. I’m going to Rome next week. If you’d like a taste of the job and travel, we could consider it a trial.”

He has my complete attention. I even find myself leaning in. “Rome? ”

He nods, and I get the sense he’s trying to keep a straight face because I’m practically salivating. “Do you have a passport?”

I nod. “I’ve been to Canada recently.”

“Perfect. I’m assuming it’s a yes.”

“I need to find someone to cover my shifts?—”

“I can take care of that.”

“I’ll take care of it,” I say firmly.

He lifts both hands in surrender. “We’ll leave Wednesday. Return Sunday.”

“Okay.” I nod. “Yeah. Or wait—will you need me around twenty-four-seven?”

He smirks and gives his head a slight shake. “You’ll have time on your own. Give me five or six hours a day. Afternoon and evening. Take the mornings for yourself.”

“Okay.” This is incredible.

He stands, reaching out his hand for me to shake. I rise and meet him in the middle. “I’ll have some paperwork for you to sign,” he says. “An NDA and a contract?—”

“I thought this was a trial.”

“I do paperwork for trials, too.”

“Okay.” I let his hand go, impressed by the size and power of it. “Sounds good.”

“Oh, wonderful ! I see you took my advice.”

I turn to see Marianne sweep into the office, looking sleek in what looks like a black catsuit that leaves only her arms and head revealed. I cock my head quizzically. This was her idea? Why?

“Christian’s agreed to a trial run,” Gibson tells her. “Nothing more.”

She walks over to me and runs a proprietary hand down my arm. “Perfect.” Then she looks at her husband. “May I borrow you a moment? I have something I’d like to discuss with you.”

“I was just heading out,” I say, not that anyone asked.

“I’ll email you,” Gibson says.

“Thanks.” To Marianne, I say, “Nice to see you. ”

“You, too, darling. Have a lovely evening.”

“I’ll see myself out,” I tell them as I’m leaving the office and winding my way back through the penthouse. It’s hard to reconcile the people who live in a place this light and bright with the dark debauchery that goes on a floor above, or Marianne’s daily guest lists.

It’s none of my business.

I take the elevator down to the basement, ready to explore an idea inspired by the idea of seeing another country—ready to dwell once more on Trinity.

My mother has gone to great lengths to teach me that the person you love in high school is rarely the person you’re meant to be with. Now that she’s married to my stepfather, she walks the walk. She and my dad were never married. They had me when they were seventeen. My father then promptly abandoned my mother for the Marines. He promised he’d return and marry her, but when he came back, he was married to a woman I don’t even remember because it didn’t last more than a year.

I was very much my mother’s son, which made it hard for me to have a relationship with my dad, but I fell in love in high school, too, much to her dismay. I fell in love with Trinity Meyers. In all the ways that count, I’m still in love with her, even though she’s been gone more than a decade.

I lost her to God first, and then to an accidental overdose. My poetry is my unending letter of atonement.

She died because of me.

Well—me and God, but railing against a being I barely believe in only puts more rage and frustration in my heart. It’s easier to blame myself.

My search for God’s love is ongoing. The opportunity to confront Him in Rome, should I find something that brings me closer to understanding Him and the hold He had on Trinity is too tempting to pass up.

All I know is Trinity was fine when I met her. Happy. A volleyball player and a friend to so many. At the end, I was the only one she spoke to, and every word was laden with misery and guilt I had no chance of absolving. Trying to understand what happened to her takes up more of my time than I’d ever admit.

I stay up late into the night writing. When I finally lie down to sleep, I’m wound up—alone and deep in my thoughts.

My dick is soft, but I touch it anyway after tossing and turning for several minutes. It almost always takes more than my hand to get me hard, though, my hand which has betrayed me—hurt someone—damaged her beyond repair.

My fleshlight is more efficient. It’s on the bedside table next to the lube. In an effort to get hard enough to use it, I pull up a saved video on my phone of a bearded man deep-throating a cock. Both dudes make the filthiest sounds imaginable. The clip is only about a minute and a half long, and there’s no cum shot, per se, but there’s definitely cum. After three views, my dick finally stirs to life, and I slide the fleshlight on, adjusting the suction, and turning to my side. I let it do its thing for a few minutes before I’m groaning and moving with it.

Flashing through my mind are images of my most recent hookups. A highlight reel. My cock sliding through Betty’s big, fake tits as she pressed them together and held her tongue out to lick the tip. The anonymous hook-up I had at a club a few weeks back where a woman covered in piercings and tattoos let me bend her over a toilet in a bathroom stall and fuck her from behind. Her crotchless fishnets had me pounding her mercilessly while she made no effort to hide exactly how much she liked it by shouting yesses and harder and give me more of that dick.

The bartender at last week’s trivia night who blew me in the storage room when he was on his fifteen minute break. I’d turned him down before, afraid my lack of experience with men would have me blowing in two seconds, but I finally gave in to my curiosity.

It’s the memory of my balls popping out of his plush mouth that gets me over the finish line and has me pulsing a huge load into the tight toy.

I fall asleep at last, looking forward to the next trivia night.