Chapter Four

An hour later, Sam slipped out of his office and took the long way around to the lunchroom—the route that wouldn’t take him anywhere near Michael’s cube. Sam didn’t want to chance a run-in with Michael, but sulking in his office hadn’t improved his dry throat or pounding head. With any luck, there were still a few free cans of soda—or “pop” as Michael called it—in the fridge.

God, Michael. What the hell was he going to do about that?

He still wanted Michael—his companionship, his touch, his smile—all that simmered between them, but neither of them needed the stress of the shattered friendship that lay beneath them. If they were to make it through this release, this—situation—needed to end, one way or another.

If it meant firing Michael? Sam pressed a hand against the refrigerator when his heart tried to gouge its way out of his chest. He would do it. If he had to, he would do it.

He yanked open the door. Inside, Sam found two cans of diet cola and one lone can of ginger ale. He took the latter, grabbed a packet of something called “headache pills” from the generic first aid box on the wall, opened both, then washed the pills down with the “pop.”

If only the rest of his life were that easy to solve. He rubbed his forehead and waited for the medicine to kick in.

At least it was damn quiet in the office—that helped his head, though not his anxiety. If Sam hadn’t seen the clock, he’d have guessed it was well after five, not a few minutes before three. Not a single soul talking in the hallways—usually three o’clock meant chatter around the coffeepot. Instead, everyone had their heads buried in work at their desks.

This release was getting to them all. The whole place felt constricted, nervous, like a dark sky before a thunderstorm. The rest of the company might have no clue they were being courted by Sundra, but that tension, the worry, the anticipation, hung in the air anyway. Completely understandable, given their CEO kept late hours and the board had an on-site meeting. All that added up, and no one at Four Rivers was stupid.

The rumor mill must be grinding like wild.

Another fire Sam needed to put out: all the incorrect conclusions that were undoubtedly flying around, like the office closing or mass layoffs. Those falsehoods killed productivity.

He really didn’t have time for this shit with Michael. They should be a team. Partners.

Partners.

Sam shivered. That word rolled in his brain for far too long.

Wouldn’t happen. Not with Michael, not with anyone else, not while he pursued this career—and he’d come too far to just give up now. He was happy enough.

Yeah, and if he kept telling himself that, maybe he’d believe it. No partner, no lover, no Michael. Perfectly happy.

Sam curled his hands to fists.

He’d caused many companies to move on to better things—seen their employees well compensated with better and more challenging work. His presence had changed the environment at several places—better policies for domestic partners, better anti-discrimination rules in hiring.

You’re no saint. Too many companies had folded on his watch. People out of jobs. Men and women he’d had fired—because it was just business, after all.

At the heart of it all, Sam was a closeted gay man in a career where sharks and snakes preyed. And he was one of them, no matter what he told himself. A suit. What if he came out? What then? Or stopped running long enough to let himself care about Michael? Except he already cared. There was a laundry list of “what-ifs” that scrolled through his brain whenever he thought of Michael.

Coming out meant switching careers, to one that didn’t involve venture capitalists, boards of directors, and CEOs. He would be quite fucked by all of them the moment they knew. He’d seen it happen. Been there.

Sam let out a breath. His head hurt more than ever, and he hoped it was the last surge before the meds took the edge off. His whole body shook.

The picked-over remains of the board’s catered meal lay spread out over several tables. Nothing left, really. A leaf of lettuce here, some crumbs there. A tub of cocktail sauce. Sam gathered and pitched the empty plates into the trash, savoring the satisfying thump they made. They were the only objects he could throw with any force without breaking something important.

And tossing around chairs and tables wouldn’t help anything.

Instead, Sam wiped down the tables and set about straightening them up.

William had been right, in a way. Michael had overreacted, which was unusual. How much of that was job stress and how much was the remains of their friendship? Sam didn’t know.

On one of the tables by the wall, several photo albums of Four Rivers’ early years had been rifled through and knocked out of their usual neat stacks. Sam straightened the pile, then on a whim took the first one and opened it.

And there Michael was—a younger version beaming back with a grin that tightened Sam’s heart.

It was the same smile Sam had seen in Curaçao, one that spoke of excitement and thrill.

Michael stood with a woman and a man holding up a homemade Four Rivers Networks sign. If Sam had to guess, the two other people were Susan and Rasheed, the founders of Four Rivers.

The title under the photo said, “The Three Musketeers.”

Sam flipped through the book. Photos of the first office—a tiny converted house up north of the city. Rasheed on a skateboard in the driveway. Susan holding a line card in what looked like someone’s garage. A group of ten engineers in front of a hardware bench. That photo read, “First packet passed!”

The younger Michael nearly always wore that smile, the one Sam never saw at the office.

What happened to you?

Sam flipped to a newspaper clipping about the company with the headline FOUR RIVERS MAKES WAVES. There again was the photo from the front of the album, only this caption read “Four Rivers’ Founders: Susan Patterson, Rasheed Esfahani, Michael Sebastian.”

The silence of the lunchroom pressed in on Sam’s skull until he could barely breathe. He read the caption a second time and stared at the photo, lingering over Michael’s bright smile.

Michael Sebastian. Founder.

Sam read the article. And there it was again, the combination of Michael’s name and that word.

Holy shit.

Sam turned back to the beginning of the album and glanced at the photos. Flipped past the article and studied the pictures there, as well. Michael and Rasheed. Susan and Michael. The three of them together. Shots of a holiday party, the three clinking champagne flutes. Michael resplendent in a tux, his arm over Rasheed’s shoulder.

Sam closed the album, his face as warm as a voyeur’s.

Michael had been a founder. Only he wasn’t now, so something had gone horribly wrong. The incorporation of the company hadn’t listed Michael, just Rasheed and Susan. Yes, Michael held a decent amount of private shares, but nowhere near the amount a founder should. It was as if his role in forming the company had been completely erased except for a few dozen photos in an album and a faded newspaper article.

If it were true . . .

Shit. No wonder the man was bitter.

Every snapshot in the album said that Susan and Rasheed had been Michael’s friends. Sam’s nerves prickled with a combination of excitement and dread. He was still mad as hell at Michael, but there was a puzzle here to be solved, and Sam needed to know now rather than on the cusp of acquisition—they were too close to the end for this to blow up in his face. Sam tucked the album under his arm and picked up the can of ginger ale. He had some web searching to do.

He liked Four Rivers and the people here. What he’d said to Michael had been true; he’d protect the employees. Even if it meant firing Michael.

And if it means unmasking yourself, your past?

He had no answer to that.

***

At six in the evening, the air-conditioning shut off. Michael winced as the thumping of the warming vents sounded throughout the office. He should have been used to it by now—this was hardly the first time he’d stayed at work this late, but it always sounded like the ceiling was about to fall down.

Today, he almost hoped it would. Put him out of his misery.

He’d lost three hours after finding Sam in the server room. Oh sure, he sat at his desk. Stared at the screen. Plunked on the keyboard. Got no work done. He should have gone home, but it would have looked strange given all that needed to be finished, and he wasn’t entirely sure he was functioning well enough to drive, anyway.

Sam was willing to fire him. Toss him out of Four Rivers. Out of Sam’s life.

Michael took a deep breath, one of several hundred he’d taken since he’d sat down at his cube, and exhaled. On his screen, the core dump from the zone router sat in a terminal window, but the lines blurred and shook and made no sense and his fucking heart wouldn’t stop racing.

Michael couldn’t decide whether he was more angry at Sam or himself. Sam shouldn’t be in his life; he should have never bought Sam that drink. Four Rivers was Michael’s life, not Sam’s, and Sam—

Sam looked exquisite in the throes of an orgasm. Shivered under Michael’s touch. His skin marked so beautifully when hit by Michael’s hand or belt. Sam’s smile was incomparable and his laugh was something Michael doubted he’d hear again. That was the worst. He could handle not touching Sam in the future, but somehow, they’d gone from lovers to friends to enemies.

Life wasn’t supposed to work like that. On the other hand, they were back to employee and CEO—what they should have been from the beginning.

They’d ended up at this point because Michael had broken his own rule and gotten involved with a coworker. A fucking closeted coworker. Who liked to be whipped. Craved it. Begged for it. Something Rasheed never needed or wanted.

Sam had threatened to fire him. Something Rasheed would never have done.

“Shit.” Michael took off his glasses and rubbed his temples.

E-mail dinged. Michael squinted at the window. A meeting request. From Sam. Michael gripped the edge of his desk as the world spun. No amount of cardio had ever prepared him for the pulse rate he was running now. He steeled himself, put his glasses back on, and read the invite.

Sam had sent it to test and development. Thank God. So he wasn’t being fired.

Not yet. Sam’s voice echoed in Michael’s head.

He pushed that memory aside and focused on the message that accompanied the invite.

I want to meet and discuss the release direction that was decided upon at the BoD meeting. The summary is that we must have the release completed by Routing Forum. I know this is a quicker time frame than originally planned. We’ll be releasing a few features as beta to give test as much time as possible, but it’s still a short window. Here’s the proposed timeline. Bring your questions and solutions to the table. Let’s make this work. -Sam

Michael studied the milestone dates. Routing Forum was in six weeks, give or take. Three more weeks for dev and three weeks for test. Big event, too. Sponsored by—

Holy shit.

Sundra Networks sponsored Routing Forum. A Fortune 500 company and one that always made the “best to work for” lists. Clarity slammed back into Michael as if he’d put on a pair of mental glasses as well. He glanced around his cube because he had to do something. Sundra was wooing them. That had to be it.

Why hadn’t Sam told him that they had to have the release by Forum?

Because you didn’t give him a chance, you fuckhead. And you’ve been running from him since—

Since the shower. Since he’d seen that look on Sam’s face, the one behind every mask, and heard the words Sam spoke—and those he hadn’t voiced as well. Sam needed him, wanted him, wasn’t out. Michael had no idea what to do about that, didn’t want to deal with the twist in his heart. The breakup with Rasheed and the aftermath had nearly killed him.

But this? He could fix this.

Michael brought up his instant messenger. The dot by Sam’s name was green. Before he thought too long about it, Michael typed a question.

Are you still here?

One click and the IM was sent.

A moment later, the window flashed.

Yes.

Michael pushed himself out of his chair and headed for Sam’s office. Movement, that was good. His heart still tried to punch a hole in his rib cage.

Sam must have heard Michael coming, because he swung his chair toward the door as Michael approached. Cold expression, arms crossed. Michael expected that, but seeing Sam closed off only served to increase the tightness in his lungs. He spoke anyway.

“You should have—”

Sam leaned back in his chair. “I should have what?” Each word was clipped.

Michael placed his hand on the doorframe to steady himself against the anger laced in Sam’s words. I’m fucking this up. “Let me try that again,” he said. “I should have listened to you rather than running off at the mouth.”

Some of Sam’s cold mask melted. “Yes. That might have been better.”

“May I?” Michael pointed at one of the chairs in front of Sam’s desk.

A nod, nothing more. Sam’s arms remained firmly crossed. A spark of irritation rose in Michael, but he swallowed it and sat. He deserved some of this cold shoulder. “If they need the release by Forum, then your plan makes a lot of sense.”

“Imagine that.” Bitter humor there.

The spark threatened to burst into anger. “I’m trying to apologize here.”

Sam’s mask cracked. It wasn’t ice beneath, but heat. “Well, you’re doing a shit-poor job at it.” Sam’s skin colored, and it was only then Michael noticed how strained every one of Sam’s muscles was.

I’m really fucking this up.

Sam must have read some of that in Michael, because his expression shifted to one of exhaustion. “I thought you trusted me, that you saw me as more than just a suit come to make money off your backs.”

He opened his mouth to say that he did trust Sam, that he knew he wasn’t just here to make money—then snapped his jaw shut. Because it wasn’t true. He looked at his hands to avoid Sam’s gaze. “You’re still a CEO.”

“Yes, I am. Your CEO, in fact.” There was a long pause before Sam spoke again. “Michael, whose office was this?”

The question threw him completely. “You mean before you? Taylor’s.”

Sam’s voice deepened. “And whose before that?”

Every nerve in Michael’s body buzzed. He didn’t want to think about the time before Taylor because it included too much Rasheed. Too much joy and hope and most of his shattered dreams, both personal and for the business that wasn’t his anymore.

Sam had threatened to fire him.

“Mine. It was my office.” He spoke the words barely above a whisper because to took so much effort to get them out.

“And Taylor took it from you, along with your title and your position.”

Like lemon juice squeezed into a wound. It still hurt way the hell too much. He nodded, unable to speak. It was then he noticed the photo album sitting next to Sam’s keyboard. Heat flared in his chest, unlocking his voice. “What the hell are you doing with that?” He lashed the words out.

Sam must have known exactly what Michael meant. He didn’t shift, didn’t turn to see what Michael stared at. “Research.”

Of Michael and of his past, because that’s all that could be found in those photos. Glimpses of secrets. Hints of the truth. “You could have asked me, you know.”

The noise Sam made was somewhere between a croak and a snort. Dismissive, yes, but full of pain as well. “Really? Today’s been the first day you’ve said more than three words to me since—” He paused. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“Three years ago, or that afternoon in the gym?”

Sam tented his hands, elbows on the desk, his fingertips brushing his lips, and said nothing.

The one was the root of the other, in many ways, and Sam wanted both, it seemed. Michael leaned back and pushed Sam’s door closed. He was pretty sure they were alone in the office, but sound carried in odd ways. And if he had his way—which he usually did—he wouldn’t be the only one answering questions. “Okay. Let’s have this out.”

Sam didn’t move, just keep looking at him over his fingers. For a moment, Michael wished it were his hands close to Sam’s lips. He’d force a digit into that hot mouth and Sam would suck because Sam loved to surrender, loved all the things that Rasheed hadn’t.

“You’ve read the article, I take it.”

“Yes.” Sam spoke against his fingers. “You were one of the founders.”

“In name. In practice. But not legally.”

“How the hell does that happen?” Fire in Sam’s words. Anger. Sam flattened his hands on the desk.

Michael’s stomach lurched—Sam’s ire wasn’t directed at him, but at the unfairness of what had happened. Which was worse, because the last thing he wanted from Sam was pity.

He wasn’t the one hiding in the damn closet.

“It happened because we were all idealistic, hopeful, stupid, and screwed up.” Michael took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes before putting them back on. “I met Susan first, when we were both undergrads. We hit it off as friends and lab partners. After our second cup of coffee to discuss our lab project, I told her I was gay because I saw that look.”

Sam nodded. He shifted and leaned back. “I know what look you mean.”

Hope mixed with apprehension. Sam had worn it well in Curaçao. “She took it well, and with that off the table, we became best friends. We both stayed at Carnegie Mellon for grad school.”

“And you met Rasheed there.”

God, Rasheed. That beautiful, fucked-up, intelligent man. “I actually met him before the semester started, in a bar. He was cruising the gay scene, fresh in from Dearborn and away from his family for the first time. All silk and leather and nerves.”

That unsettled Sam. A flush crept up his neck and he shifted in his chair. “Did you pick him up that night?”

Michael’s turn to nod. Dark hair, neatly trimmed beard, and a wiry build. Rasheed had been just squirmy enough to be irresistible to the younger and less wary version of Michael. Popped Rasheed’s cherry, too, but he wasn’t about to tell Sam that. Not now. “Two days later, I walked into a lecture hall and there was Rasheed. He turned so white, I thought he might faint.”

Sam let out a breath. “I take it he was in the closet?”

“He might as well have been in Narnia. He was so scared that I’d out him. That being in the same room with me would cause a big fat gay label to fall from the sky and hover over his head. That somehow, by standing next to me in Pittsburgh, his folks two hundred fifty miles away would find out he liked men.” Michael paused and watched Sam carefully. “You know how that goes.”

Sam twisted in his seat again, the flush returning. Served him right. “Yes. I do know.”

Those words were an acknowledgement. Well, good.

“So you dated?” Sam’s voice was tight.

“I dated him. He fugitively saw me from time to time to fuck. He told his folks he was dating a woman from school.”

For a moment, Sam looked dumbstruck. “And you put up with that?”

Michael flinched. He really should have dumped Rasheed then. Mistake one. “I couldn’t keep away from him and he couldn’t stay away from me.”

“Who did he tell his parents—shit. Susan?” Sam looked horrified.

Michael would have laughed if the outcome hadn’t been so painful in the end. “Yeah. He said he was dating Susan. It made some twisted kind of sense. We were all close friends and Susan knew we were a couple. Played the part of the girlfriend on the phone because she cared about us both and was willing to keep his secret. After graduation, we all rented a town house together. Got the idea for Four Rivers in the kitchen. Founded the company a couple months later.”

“Did they—was he bi?”

“No, while we dated, he didn’t have sex with anyone else. And I’m pretty sure he wasn’t bi. Early on, he talked about how he wished he could be attracted to women, because it would have been easier, given his family’s expectations.”

“Kids.” Sam’s voice was soft.

“Of course. He was the only son and a second generation Persian. His parents were liberal in many ways, but still very conservative in others. They expected Rasheed to marry. Pass on the family name.”

“I’ve met both men and women like that,” Sam said. “They can’t deny who they’re attracted to, but it pulls them apart from all the expectations their families had—all that had been heaped onto them from a young age.”

Michael folded his hands into his lap. “Your family like that?”

Sam shook his head. “My parents are kind of a cross between hippies and Quakers, so a strong sense of being whatever you are runs in the family. They didn’t blink when I told them. Plus I have a brother and a sister and they both have kids.”

“So it’s just corporate culture that keeps you from being gay?”

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it into a thin line. When the words came, they were sharp and full of edges. “I am gay. I just don’t go out of my way to announce it.”

“No.” Michael matched his tone. “You go out of your way to keep from showing it.”

Several emotions played across Sam’s face. Anger, fear, lust—and shame. “I thought this conversation was about you?”

Michael huffed a laugh. “Is it?”

Sam took a deep breath and settled into his seat. Irritation laced his voice. “So after grad school, you were dating a closeted guy, living with him and the woman he said he was dating, and you all were founding a company?”

Put that way, it sounded more than a little crazy. It also put the conversation back into Michael’s court—so like the businessman Sam was. Well, Michael would get his answers from Sam later. “Yes, exactly.”

Sam seemed to chew on the idea for a bit, then asked, “How did you end up founding a company and not being a founder?”

Because he’d been too damn trusting. “Since Rasheed and I were a couple, all three of us agreed that splitting the company three ways would be unfair—it left Susan holding only a third and the two of us with the majority.”

“That makes a certain amount of sense from her point of view, though . . .”

“Not from mine?” Michael leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. “This is where I admit, despite all the warning signs the relationship was doomed, I was stupid in love.” He choked on the last word, hot anger following hard on the sharp stab that never—quite—went away when he thought about those years. “So we split it in half. Susan became CEO and took half. The other was in Rasheed’s name, as Chief Technology Officer, with the understanding that if we ever sold the company, I’d get half of Rasheed’s share. Susan and Rasheed signed all the paperwork. I didn’t put my name on any of it.”

This time, when Sam parted his lips, it was in shock. Understanding paled his face. “You—never signed? Anything? Even an agreement with Rasheed?”

An old, familiar ache settled in Michael’s chest. “I told you we were stupid and screwed up. I’ve lived with the consequences of simply trusting someone every day since the board took over.” Michael unclenched his hands. “I should have thought of the repercussions of pressing Rasheed.”

Sam leaned forward again. “You wanted him to come out.” Wariness there, but also a glimmer of something that might have been longing.

Perhaps Sam wasn’t so wed to the closet. Maybe he needed a push and then they could—what? Sam was still the boss. Michael swallowed the bile in his throat. “After five years, I figured it was time. We’d been sharing the same bed for ages. I wanted all that went with that—holding hands in public, not having to worry that anyone seeing us out to dinner would get the ‘wrong idea,’ the constant lies to his family—Susan knew them better than I did. So I threw down an ultimatum.”

Sam’s tented fingers were back at his lips. “He said no.”

“Of course he said no. He loved the sex—but not me. I was a good fuck, but couldn’t give him what he wanted. And he wasn’t ever coming out, because good sons didn’t do that to their parents.” Once, remembering Rasheed’s words would have torn Michael up inside, but there was nothing left to shred, just the hollowness of knowing that he’d blinded himself with hope.

He’d paid—and Four Rivers had paid—for that mistake. “I made plans to move out and told both Susan and Rasheed I wanted my third of the company.”

Sam had a distant look for a moment. “I’m guessing this all went down right before they sold their shares to the board.”

“Bingo,” Michael said. “Susan was amenable, as was Rasheed, since it meant a bigger cut for him. Four Rivers was large enough that we needed more venture capital, so it was a good time to switch all of that around. Or so they said. The process was supposed to take a couple of months.”

Sam shook his head. Probably because he knew enough to guess what had happened next.

“I believed in both of them—in their integrity and honesty. But in the end William and the board owned the majority of the shares and Susan and Rasheed were on their way to California. I was supposed to get a nice big cut of Four Rivers, but they hadn’t made that contingent when they sold their portions.”

“William and the board screwed you over.”

A searing burn tore through Michael and he dug his nails into his palms. Four Rivers had been his dream. “Yup.”

Sam was silent for a moment. “Susan and Rasheed went to California together, didn’t they? As a couple.”

The anger loosened. “More than anything, Rasheed wanted a normal life—to him that meant a heterosexual life. And Susan loved him in her own way and understood who he was. I suppose she could live with that.”

Again Sam fell into silence and Michael let it stretch and fill the room. Finally, Sam stirred. “You stayed. At Four Rivers. After all that, why didn’t you walk away?”

Michael found himself swallowing through a very tight throat. “It was all I had left of him. Of them. Of those years of friendship.” He took another breath. “I couldn’t just leave the people I’d hired to fend for themselves against a board full of vipers and their new hand-picked executives.”

“So that’s why you hate the board—the suits.” Sam leaned back in his chair. “And why you don’t trust me.”

Sam cut right to the bone. Again. “I thought this was a conversation about me?”

Sam’s chuckle was dark and delicious. “Is it?”

He deserved that. “This is why I don’t trust the board. You aren’t the same.”

“Bullshit. I’m a suit.” Sam twisted the word into something ugly. “Your boss.”

His beautiful, masochistic, type-A, closeted boss. Michael shivered, despite himself. He wanted Sam. More now than ever—but Sam was correct. Michael didn’t trust him.

“Of all the people in this company,” Sam said, “you know me far better than anyone else. Have I ever given you a reason not to believe that I mean what I say?”

Michael raised his gaze. Sam still watched him, but now the lines of hurt etched his face. “No, you haven’t.” If anything, Sam had given him every reason to believe. Been more open with him than anyone had ever been, including Rasheed.

“I understand where you’re coming from now, but please consider where I sit. You have no idea what it’s like to balance the wants of that board of vipers—as you call them—with what is right for the company and its employees. I want to see you all rewarded for the years of work you’ve put in and the shit you’ve taken. They want to get as much money as they can.”

“I know.”

“No you don’t. Fuck, Michael, if you did, this would have been a very different day.”

Those words were like a two-by-four to the shoulder blades. He flinched under the impact.

“I am a suit,” Sam said. “You’re right about that. I’d like to think that I’m altruistic, but that’s not entirely true. I do like helping people—it’s a great feeling—but I love the rush of success, the high when everything works out, especially if I’ve had to cajole the board. The money’s nice, but I give a lot of that away. What the hell am I going to spend it on anyway?”

Sam as an adrenaline junky made sense. The running. The desire to be thrashed. “I don’t know. Most higher-ups I know seem to like cars.”

“I haven’t owned a car in years. I move around too much.”

A different shock hit Michael. “How do you get to work?” Pittsburgh wasn’t an easy town to live in without a car. Sure, there were buses, but they kept cutting the routes. Besides, Sam on PAT Transit?

“I walk. I’m renting a furnished apartment downtown.”

“But—how do you get groceries?” There wasn’t a store for miles.

Sam laughed and the sound danced through Michael—painful and sweet. “The Strip District? The Public Market? It’s not like I can’t walk a couple dozen blocks.” His grin widened as if he could read Michael’s thoughts. “Sometimes I even put on jeans and a T-shirt and take the bus to Squirrel Hill.”

Michael attempted to envision Sam in jeans and failed. Tight jeans, maybe? Something that hugged Sam’s legs? Even then, it was hard to dispel that body wrapped in a well-tailored suit. Or naked. The desire that had never faded pulled tight around Michael’s core. “I’d have to see it to believe it.”

Sam chuckled, then his humor faded. “Are you willing to work with me on this release? It’ll be much easier if I have you on board.”

The coil loosened. “Would you really fire me?”

Sam lowered his shoulders. “If it was the best thing for the company, yes. I have to balance my own desires with what’s best for everyone here.”

His desires. Michael suppressed a tremor. Fuck it all. A relationship—or any more sex—with Sam was out of the question, but the man knew business. “I’ll do whatever you need me to do to make sure we succeed.” If Sundra bought them, they’d all be set for a while. Acquisition and merger, the ultimate goal. Even when they’d founded Four Rivers, that had been one of the stars they’d reached for.

Sam’s answering smile felt like a caress and had the same effect. Michael’s spine tingled and he shifted in the chair. Sam might be his boss, might be hiding in the closet, but that smile still lit the room—and Michael.

“Let’s get to work then,” Sam said. “Have you had dinner yet?”

“No.”

“Good. We’ll grab a burger and a beer and figure out how to do this.” Sam pushed himself out of his chair.

They didn’t talk much on the trip down the elevator, nor on the short walk over to The Sharp Edge, but everything suddenly felt right in Michael’s world again, except the knot of fear that pulled tighter with each step they made together.

He could deny it all he wanted, but this road felt too damn familiar.

And he hadn’t gotten the answers he’d wanted from Sam.

***

More than anything, Sam wanted to reach across the two-seater bistro table and kiss Michael. Hard. Repeatedly. Until the distance between them melted away. Instead, Sam picked up his bowl-shaped glass of Belgian white ale and drank.

He’d not lied about putting the needs of the company ahead of his desires. No more trysts. But it was hard, damn hard, to keep away from Michael. There were so many things right about the man. If only Michael could stop having such dipshit moments.

If only he could stop wanting Michael so damn much.

“So,” Michael said, studying the paper napkin he’d been writing on, “if we switch over the zones to hubs, we can use those routers for automated testing. Run more scripts concurrently.”

“Eliminate bottlenecks to save time. Good thinking.” Sam took another sip of beer. With Michael engaged again, there wasn’t much doubt they’d meet the deadline. Sundra would sign. Then what? Sam already had a number of inquiries from other companies. He only needed to pick the next place, the next challenge. His throat tightened. The time he most hated was approaching—leaving everyone behind. It would be worse, too, because he could imagine alternatives, if only he had the balls to let go of his career.

Hearing about Michael’s past hadn’t helped. That had twisted Sam’s heart and not only out of sympathy—it also illuminated the dark corners of Sam’s own choices. He didn’t want to dwell on those, or the reasons behind them. Keep moving forward.

Michael put down the pen. “I don’t know why I was so worried. We might even be able to get the draft protocols tested completely.” He reached for his own beer.

“I won’t tell the board you said that. If we manage, it’ll only be icing on the cake. If not, no loss.” Icing. Now that would be interesting to lick off of Michael. That thought left a hollow in Sam’s chest, even as a low burn simmered at the base of his spine and his cock twitched. Michael would probably make him kneel. Maybe tie his hands. Sam tapped a finger against his glass. Oh, stop that.

The server came and removed the detritus from their dinner of burgers and pommes frites. The napkin, Michael folded and tucked into his back pocket. Lucky little thing.

No use mooning over what you can’t have. Even if Michael had promised to do whatever Sam needed him to do. The places that could take Sam, were he a little less ethical.

Less ethical? You’re the one who got him to strap you in the shower. And look at what had happened after that.

“I’m glad we worked things out,” Michael said.

“Me too.” Their job interaction and the plan for the release, they’d fixed those. The other—the desire that stretched between them and threatened to strangle the friendship they had eked out—that was far from mended. Didn’t matter, though. He’d be gone in three months, at the longest. He didn’t buy cars anymore, and he didn’t get into relationships. The beer turned bitter in his stomach and the tightness returned to his chest. Coward. But he’d seen what this level of business did to the careers of gay men. To the lives of gay men.

He’d miss Michael horribly. Already had, every day since the gym.

“You’re very quiet.” Michael wrapped his hands around his lager glass full of the four-buck Mystery Beer—something light and summery, but good. Michael had let him taste.

“I’m just pondering the imponderable,” Sam said. “It’s been a long day. Meeting with the board always takes it out of me.”

“I made it much longer.”

True. What he now knew about Michael’s past—Rasheed and Susan, the way the board had screwed Michael—that tumbled around in his brain faster than the alcohol in his blood. The headache was gone, though. The anger, as well. “Since it brought us here, to this moment, it was worth it.”

Michael stroked the condensation on the wall of the glass. “I’m sorry.”

He spoke so quietly, Sam nearly lost the words under the music and the chatter in the bistro. The room swam, but not due to his consumption of beer. Giddiness and apprehension collided, leaving Sam breathless. “For what?”

“For the server room. For being pigheaded.” Michael paused and dropped his voice even further. “And for leaving the locker room like I did.”

Sam leaned forward so he could hear Michael over the noise. A few more inches and their foreheads might have touched. “I didn’t know what to make of you running like that.”

“You’re my boss. In Curaçao, it was one thing, but here . . .”

Sam ran his finger around the top of his glass. “Here it’s more than a little improper.” If they’d been different people, a romp in the shower wouldn’t have meant anything . . . but they were who they were. “Had I known about”—he waved, not wanting to say Rasheed’s name aloud—“your past, I wouldn’t have pushed.”

“I know.” Michael paused and a tiny grin lifted the corner of his mouth. “It was the hottest thing I’ve ever done.”

The deep notes in Michael’s voice sent sparks down Sam’s spine. He tried to hide his own smile. Probably failed. That afternoon would top his favorite memory list, for sure. “Ditto.” He sat back to give them both more space. If he hadn’t moved away, he’d close the distance and start their problems all over again.

Michael sat back as well. “They don’t know. Your colleagues.”

That sucked the heat out of the room. “That I’m gay?”

Michael nodded and picked up his beer.

He owed Michael this much, certainly. “No. They think I’m a prude.” Because men at his level weren’t gay. Or rather, gay men didn’t make it to this level. It was bullshit, but that was that. He’d chosen to play the game to get what he wanted—make the tech world a bit better for the people in the trenches, make a pile of cash, and thumb his nose at the establishment. The bitter taste in his throat returned. Except he was the establishment now. “They used to send women up to my room. I’d send them straight back down. Never occurred to them that there might be a reason other than morals.”

Michael choked on his beer. “They sent you call girls?”

“Sure. At industry events. They also invited me out to strip joints. It’s a thing.” The first time a woman had shown up at his door, he’d waffled between wanting to quit and wanting to beat the living shit out of the guy who’d made the call. He had tipped the woman well and sent her on her way.

He would never resort to violence. Ever.

Maybe he should have quit back then. Made different choices. Michael sat an arm’s reach away. So close. Too far.

“That’s a shitty thing,” Michael said.

“I don’t disagree with you on that.” Sam drank the last of his beer. Venture capitalists—the ones like William—had more money than soul. After two more attempts to entice Sam, the women had stopped appearing at his door. “They sent me a guy once, as a joke. I sent him back like the others.”

An odd look passed over Michael’s face, curiosity twined with trepidation. It was an expression Sam had seen on many people, though never during a conversation like this. “What?” He let his irritation seep into his voice.

Michael’s face reddened and he finished his beer, placing it decisively on the table. “Was he hot?”

Sam clamped down on the laughter that threatened to pour out. That would only draw attention to them, and he liked this place. A block from his apartment, it was somewhere he could fade into the background. People-watch. Dream. He took a deep breath. “Utterly. You know the statue of David? He looked like that, I swear to God.”

“You could tell that from under his clothes?”

“He wasn’t wearing anything under his coat.”

Michael’s mouth worked, but no sound came out for a long moment. Then a deep exhale. “And you sent him away.”

“With five Benjamins.”

Michael’s eyes were wide, his mouth open. The dumbfounded look.

Sam chuckled. How he loved doing that to Michael.

If he stayed, he could keep doing that to Michael.

Their waiter came with the bill and he grabbed the black folder before Michael could. Wasn’t hard. “Working dinner.”

“I won’t argue with that.”

Sam pulled out his wallet, put the corporate card in the folder, and handed it back to the waiter. His cheeks hurt from grinning. Lighter heart, full stomach, and Michael was no longer mad at him nor running out the door to get away. There was only one way the night could be better—but he wasn’t asking. No sex. No play. Even if the heat in his core kept creeping up his spine every time the skin at the corner of Michael’s eyes crinkled just so.

Too many ghosts between them. Rasheed. The closet Sam had stuffed himself into after that one night in grad school.

Sam’s stomach dropped. He wasn’t going to think about that. Not here, not now. Not the bruises on that student’s face or . . .

“Why’d you let him go?” Michael’s voice pulled Sam back into the present conversation.

“Hmm?”

“The David-for-hire.”

“I prefer choosing, not having someone chosen for me.” He’d nearly asked the Adonis to stay. “Besides, my colleagues would have hung that over my head—not only sleeping with a prostitute, but a male one. It’s—” Sam paused, then sighed. “It’s not good to be out in this profession.”

The check came back. Sam added the tip and signed. He’d not hesitate to send that perfect chest back today. He’d much rather have a tall, dark-haired man who had the balls to order him to his knees. Even if he did regularly wear shirts with palm trees and parrots.

When the waiter left, Michael spoke. “Is everything business to you?”

“No.” He held eye contact with Michael. “It probably should be. But no.”

Michael didn’t move.

The heat Sam had felt under his skin flared to life. He could take Michael home. He knew what words to say, how to get under Michael’s defenses, which buttons to push. The desire was there—he saw it in the tick of Michael’s pulse point at his neck, the way he swallowed, the sweet look of indecision that flitted across his face.

Sam could chase those ghosts away. Have Michael one more time.

No. Rasheed. The job. The student kneeling in tears in the alley—God, tonight of all nights, why did he have to think about that?

Michael was only an itch. He’d jack off later, alone. “It’s late. We should call it a night.” He pushed himself away from the table and rose.

Michael stood, but more slowly, his breathing shallow. “Do you ever make mistakes?”

Fuck. “Yes, of course I do.” All the damn time. Every day he denied who he was. That day he hadn’t reported what had happened. Sam waited a moment, but Michael said nothing more, so he headed for the door. Michael followed.

Once outside into the cooler night air, Sam spoke again. “Accepting a drink from you was not one of them.”

Even in the dimmer light, Michael’s relief was evident. The relaxing of his shoulders, and unclenching of his hands.

“I’ve had businesses fail. Sometimes the miracle doesn’t happen.”

“You can just leave when that happens.”

The sour taste of bile rose in Sam’s throat. Someday, Michael would learn to think before he spoke edged words. “I could, yes. I never have. I stay until the end and try to get as many people jobs elsewhere as I can. I figure it’s the least I can do.”

Michael seemed to chew on those words. “Sometimes it’s hard to believe someone like you exists as a CEO.”

Man, what Taylor must have done to Michael and Four Rivers when he took over. “We’re human. Some are good, some are bad, like in everything else.” Some remained silent for all the wrong reasons. Sam stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I’m down a block and across the street.”

Michael looked toward their office tower, even though it was obscured by many other buildings. “Short commute.”

“It is exceedingly convenient.” They walked the block and crossed the street. And lonely. No community. It would take a handful of words to convince Michael to come up. Goosebumps rose on Sam’s arms, hidden by his shirt and jacket. Would Michael use his hand or his belt? Or find something in the apartment? The man had a creative streak.

“Do you ever worry that someone will out you?”

There was that cold trickle again. Haunted eyes staring back at him. “Yes.” He paused and considered. “I’d like to think that my track record is more important than who I prefer to bang, but I’ve seen guys like me come out. No one calls them anymore. No company needs their help. The well dries up. It’s . . . I haven’t given away all my money. Just in case.” Sam looked up at the white brick building that was his home at the moment.

“You hate it,” Michael murmured, a little too close to Sam’s ear.

Sam exhaled. “We all have something we dislike about our jobs.” He didn’t give Michael time to respond. “What about you? People at work know you’re gay now?” If they were going to have this conversation in the middle of the street, he wasn’t the only one who was going to be grilled.

“There’s a rainbow flag in my cube and I’ve mentioned going to Pride, so yes, they all know. I haven’t dated anyone since Rasheed—and no one knew about that—so there’s been no boyfriend at the holiday party or anything like that.”

“Do you want to date someone?” The question slipped out before he could pull it back. Damn the beer and late hour. The memories. Sam faced Michael, because you didn’t turn away after asking that.

“Well, I’d like to try. But circumstances . . .” He shrugged. “Plus, he’s in the closet.”

Yeah, he was. Firmly, too. Sam closed the distance between them and pulled Michael into a kiss. Folly. Pure folly. But damn, those lips, that heartbroken expression. He broke away and stepped back. “The circumstances are shit. The closet is shit.”

Michael stared at him, face ruddy, lips wet. “What do you—” He swallowed and then straightened.

The sudden craving in Michael’s expression spiked desire straight to the bottom of Sam’s spine. Every nerve tingled and his cock filled.

“Do you want me to come up?” Michael spoke low, his voice like silk over skin.

“Desperately.” That, too, slipped out without thought. But Sam followed it with more words. “But you’re not going to.”

Michael froze again and in the dim cast of twilight and streetlights, confusion replaced desire.

“We can’t fuck this up. The job. Four Rivers. We nearly did.” Because it wasn’t just sex—it had never been just sex for Sam. Yes, he wanted more. Dates. Ice cream in the park. Long walks. Stupid stuff. Things you didn’t ever do with your employee.

Things you did with a boyfriend. A partner. And he couldn’t be that for Michael. Not when he moved so often. Not when he hid his sexuality. Not after what Rasheed had put Michael through—because Sam would put him through the same damn thing.

Michael’s stance changed, shifted. “You’re right, of course.”

The longing to kiss him again was overwhelming. Instead, he forced his lips into something he hoped resembled a smile. “Good night, Michael.”

Michael’s expression didn’t change. “See you tomorrow.”

They turned almost at the same time, away from each other. Sam pulled open the door to the lobby of the building and entered. He didn’t look back. He could never look back. Not in this career.

***

Sam tossed the pen at his closed—and locked—office door. It clattered against the wood, then dropped silently onto the office carpet. Documents covered his desk—financials, the incorporation papers, board minutes, the little folder that contained Taylor’s dirty deeds—every piece of information he’d been able to find that might contain some hint of William’s motivations. Because you didn’t try to kill then sell a company for negative return on investment. That was insane—the very last resort. Actively working against your best hope for creating a company of value, ripe for acquisition? Sam shook his head.

He’d spent a good part of Sunday combing though the pages in front of him—and there the clues were. Tiny little hints that meant nothing to someone not horribly suspicious. A note about William’s presence at some key dealings. The fact that he’d been instrumental in hiring Taylor—and had overridden several internal checks and balances in the hiring process to make sure they “got the best person.” During the churn-up after Susan and Rasheed had left, William had set himself up as the continuity guy—though Michael would have been the obvious choice.

William had never been that hands-on before.

Then there were William’s little bonuses, the ones that seemed to be based on sales—but the timing and the amounts didn’t add up—at least not to Sam.

He ran a hand through his hair. A forensic accountant would probably have a field day with the papers strewn on top of his desk. Especially the inexplicable fluctuation in the petty cash account. Sometimes it had perhaps one hundred dollars, other times, nearly three thousand. But no one paid much attention to petty cash. Pennies, when some of the equipment in the labs cost as much as a luxury car. Or more. Problem was, in the end, none of it was concrete proof of anything other than bad bookkeeping.

William wasn’t on any other boards at the moment and had no record of any current dealings with any other companies. Just Four Rivers.

That only fueled Sam’s suspicions. He’d never know William not to be sleazing up at least three companies at once.

What a way to spend a weekend. Sam rubbed his forehead. He should have been sleeping in. Reading. Being bent over a table by Michael and fucked senseless.

Sam let out a breath through clenched teeth. That last thought came complete with the memory of being filled by Michael’s cock, the sharp pain of leather against his back. The dark scent of Michael and leather, the tang of Michael’s semen on his tongue.

He adjusted his hardening dick, then pulled another pen from the holder on his desk and lobbed it at the door. A third followed, for good measure.

Damn good thing Michael wasn’t in the office today—most of the company had been here yesterday, working on the release, but today it had been just him and a handful of folks—and everyone else had left after lunch.

Fuck. He should write some of this down, but the last thing he needed was to be sued if those notes wound up in William’s hands. Which could happen, given how much access William had to the office. Sam tapped a finger against his lips. Now that was something else he should look into—badge records. The system recorded whenever anyone carded themselves into the office.

Sam stood. Server room, then.

He kicked the fallen pens out of the way and unlocked his door. Relocked it, too—paranoia wasn’t healthy, but the records in there? Some of them he’d pulled from the CFO’s office—not exactly innocent paperwork. Better under lock and key, especially if William was making unexpected visits. Though, for all he knew, the man had access to the master key for all the offices.

He didn’t really want to think about that.

Sam used his card to unlock the server room and pushed the door open. Being back here only reminded him of Michael—the length of that body, the way those lips turned either to a smile or a frown, the intensity of Michael’s commands. Sam swallowed the thoughts and headed to the right, slid the keyboard for the security system out, and typed in his user ID and password.

Denied.

Sam stared at the screen. Now that was damn odd. He should have had the same access as the IT manager. He’d asked for that when he’d joined—made it contingent, in fact, on his hiring. Too many old IT habits. He liked unfettered access. He’d also cajoled IT into giving him the root passwords they weren’t supposed to give to anyone—it paid to speak the language of the tribe.

Sam took out his phone, looked up what he needed, and logged in.

Yes, William had been visiting the office. Quite a bit on weekends. A chill ran down Sam’s spine. Like you’re doing right now. Granted, ostensibly he was here because of the release.

Sam looked over his own records—and hovered over the entries for today. One to enter the office, the other to enter the server room. Oh the temptation, to delete that one line, to cover up his tracks, except that would make him as bad as William. Having root access to the system he could explain—but altering the records? No. He switched back to William’s page, printed off a copy, and logged out.

List in hand, Sam slipped back to his office and studied the pile of records on his desk. Time to get to work correlating some of this with when William had been physically present at Four Rivers.

An hour later, a fourth pen joined the other three on the floor.

Some intriguing patterns had emerged—William tended to be in on weekends when the petty cash count swung wildly. Some of the dates also corresponded to known times Taylor had moved money around—but it still wasn’t enough because there was no proof that Taylor had been in the office at the same time. Only William. Sam already had Taylor’s list of visits in the dirty deeds folder.

Security camera footage might have proved they visited together, but those records were stored off-site in a secure facility built into an old limestone mine. Not like he could waltz in and ask for them. The language of the tribe wouldn’t take him that far.

Besides, none of the cash they’d found Taylor with had ended up in William’s hands. Sure, William’s response to the Taylor crisis had seemed a bit over the top, especially since they’d been thick as thieves at one point. But that wasn’t motive.

There wasn’t any motive for William screwing around with Four Rivers.

A sudden longing for Michael nearly overwhelmed Sam—he could help sift through this mess. He’d been at Four Rivers the entire time—knew what wasn’t written down.

And he wanted Michael again. Inside his mouth, inside his body, in his mind, making him fly. Every day. Desire so strong it hurt his heart, stole his breath, and pained his soul. This unquenchable need had to end, and soon, before it broke them both—and everything else—to pieces.

He’d run out of pens to throw, which left only one option. Call in a favor.

Sam picked up his cell phone, flipped through his contacts, found the name he wanted—Fabian Miles—and tapped to connect.

Fabian answered after three rings, his dusty voice barking out his name.

“Hey, it’s Randell Anderson. Sorry for calling on a Sunday. I hope I haven’t interrupted anything.”

“Randy? No, no. I was just”—something thumped on the other end—“cleaning the garage. Wife’s been after me for weeks. How are you doing?”

They shot the shit for a few minutes—Fabian recounting the health of his family, his companies—“You’re not looking for a new position, are you?”

Sam’s spine tingled. “Not at the moment.”

“Shame. I’m on the board of a start-up that could really use someone like you. Boston area. Large data storage devices—better tech for the cloud and all that. Good stuff, but their management—” Sam could picture the older, silver-haired man shaking his head. “Crying shame. Sure I couldn’t tease you away?”

Sam looked at the calendar on his wall. If the release went off as planned, he might very well be out of Four Rivers soon. His heart hollowed. A new job would solve this issue with Michael, give them both the distance they needed. Sam’s lungs tightened, but he spoke anyway. “I may be freeing up in a couple of weeks.”

“I’ll send you the info.”

“Thanks.”

Another bang, then a scrape from Fabian’s end. “I’m sure me snapping you up to fix a mess and make me money isn’t the reason you called.”

Sam had to laugh, even though his heart hurt like hell. Leave Michael? But yes. Yes, that would fix many things, including Fabian’s company. “I’m trying to dig up some information on William Vandershoot.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re working with that asshole again.” A pause. “You’re the guy they got for Four Rivers? After the Taylor thing?”

“That would be me, yes. William wasn’t pleased.”

“No, I bet he wasn’t.”

Now that was an interesting comment. Sam considered his next question. “Fabian, are there things I should know?”

A grunt. “Maybe. What do you want to know about William?”

Everything wasn’t a good reply. “What’s he got his fingers into? Where else is he working? Officially—”

“Randy, you’ve been around the block enough times to know William doesn’t do everything officially.”

“That’s why I’m asking. If he’s got something else going on, I sure as shit don’t know. Not like he’s going to tell me.”

Fabian coughed a laugh. “Oh yes. You, who show him up. The younger, better-looking, more successful man. And you’re ethical.”

Sam winced. Ethical. Except for the part where he was bending over and begging his employee to fuck him hard up the ass. If Fabian knew, this phone call wouldn’t be happening. Church-going, devout, and kind Fabian had twisted his face into knots the one time they’d both been at a tech conference in Chicago during the same weekend as Pride.

But Randell Anderson wasn’t gay. Just ethical. Sam chewed on his own hypocrisy. “I figured if anyone knew, you would.”

A chuckle from the other side. “Because I like keeping my enemies closer?”

His turn to laugh. “Pretty much.”

And then Fabian told him. Within a minute Sam sprang up to retrieve one of his pens from the floor and started taking notes. He’d filled a page with writing by the time Fabian finished.

“That enough?”

Holy hell was it ever. “Yup. That’s great. I owe you one.”

“Come to Boston and I’ll owe you twenty.”

Boston. How apropos. The place where he’d climbed into the closet all those years ago. Bile burnt his throat and he coughed. “I’ll look over the information. Get back to you.”

“Great.” More clattering, then the laughter of children. “Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll forward you the job details tonight.”

“Thanks, Fabian.”

“It’s nothing. Talk to you soon.”

Fabian hung up.

Sam set the phone down on a file of financial records, then dropped his head to his hands. Between William and the thought of returning to Boston, the sick, sharp taste of bile threatened to overwhelm Sam.

Apparently William had quite a bit going on off the books. Fingers in dealings with several other companies—including some of the same ones Taylor had been officially a part of when their money had gone missing.

Then there was the investment scheme William had on the side.

There’d been rumors about one with Taylor, but no hard evidence. Sam closed his eyes. What William had his hand in sounded close to a Ponzi scheme. People plunking money in and getting great returns. Unheard-of returns for this point in the market.

If that were the case, then Four Rivers would have been in deep shit if Sam hadn’t been brought on board. Every last employee—including Michael—would have been out of a job by now. Sell the assets, make a bit of money, shove it out as interest and lure more people in.

Did someone else on the board know what the hell was going on? Or had they just been sick enough of William’s mishandling of Taylor to hire Sam and screw it all up by accident?

Shit. This was over his head. He should do a bit more digging to verify what Fabian had told him—but if any of this were true, he needed to hand it over to Sundra’s legal folks. He ripped the sheet off the notepad and folded it into a tight rectangle. Research, he could do from his apartment.

Sam sat back, then stared at his cell phone.

That left Boston and the ache in his chest where his heart should have been.

When Four Rivers was safe—when Michael was safe—he needed to leave. Keep moving. Unless the Boston gig was a complete waste of time—and if Fabian wanted him to come, then it wasn’t—he’d say yes and return to being Randell Anderson.

Michael—well, the man deserved someone not mired in the muck and stench of business.

Sam grabbed the financial records he’d borrowed. Those files needed to be returned and the rest of the papers needed to be cleaned up; then he could start thinking about exit strategies.

He glanced at the calendar. A week left until Forum. Another city—another hotel. One last time for Sam to be himself—if Michael agreed to go.

Sam exhaled. Getting Michael to attend Forum? Easy. Sundra wanted to meet him—the man who’d been there from the beginning. Michael would jump at the chance. Enticing Michael into one last fling? Sam shivered. Easy as well. All those buttons to push.

It was the code that needed to work, or they were all finished.