CHAPTER TWO

VIC WAS HARDLY AWARE HE’D been ignoring the flashing red light, warning him of his secretary’s incoming call, until the door to his office opened and Ash Harrington came sailing in, tossing reassurances over his shoulder as if that would quiet the wrath of blue-washed, stern, and very proper Mrs. Gail Ackerbee.

Mrs. Ackerbee was an old-school secretary of the iron battleaxe type, who walked with her chest thrust forward like a buttress—and if there was one thing she had no patience for, it was the antics of the young man who now and then came swanning into Victor’s office unannounced, as if protocol didn’t matter one bit.

And even as Ash tried to close the door in her face, Mrs. Ackerbee inserted herself in the way, preventing it from shutting with her rather solid frame. With a sniff and a flatly disapproving look for Ash, she declared, “Mr. Harrington is here to see you, Mr. Newcomb.”

Vic offered a faint smile, pulling himself from the rather pensive rut he’d been stuck in all afternoon, staring uselessly at his desktop screen and getting nothing done. “Thank you, Mrs. Ackerbee.”

The woman only hmphed, her mouth twisting up, and yanked the door shut with a highly offended slam, leaving them alone in the close cloisters of Vic’s wood-paneled office.

“I think,” Ash said merrily, “one day that woman’s going to kill me.”

“Probably. I’ll bring lilies to your funeral. Lovely flowers, really.” Vic leaned his elbow on one arm of his executive chair and propped his temple against his knuckles. “What brings you into my lair?”

“Oh, the usual. Skipping work just to piss Brand off.” Ash dragged one of the accent chairs over, flipped it around, and dropped down to straddle it, folding his arms on the back and eyeing Vic across the broad, glossy plane of his massive walnut desk. “And wondering why you didn’t even bother going to the appointment.”

“I went!”

“But they just refunded my credit card.”

Vic winced. “I went. It just…didn’t go very well, and they kicked me out.”

Ash’s eyes widened. “…I’ve done everything short of earning a lawsuit in there. I’ve been drunk, I’ve thrown up on things, I’ve flirted with Amani, and they’ve never kicked me out. What did you do?”

“Nothing!” Vic groaned and thudded his head back against the high leather seat back. “Everything. I don’t know. I was an absolute wreck the moment I walked in there. It’s like the second I saw him, I turned all arses and elbows.”

Blinking, Ash peered at him. “…wait. Him? Amani? You got all flustered over Amani?”

“Not like that.”

At least…Vic didn’t think it was like that.

So why, when a beautiful young man—slender, delicate, yet with piercing amber eyes that seemed to know everything, bright against his tawny skin—had looked right through him as if he could see Vic’s every inadequacy…had he turned into such a complete and utter mess? Clumsy, fumbling, talking out his arse, springing a random one when Amani had barely touched him…

And the whole time Amani had watched him like a cat, just trying to decide when he’d open those full, soft, darkly lush lips and devour him with sharp and needling teeth.

There was no doubt Amani was striking; he’d worn a pale ivory caftan edged in gold embroidery and long, loose matching linen trousers, both just translucent enough to let a hint of dark skin shine through in subtle whispers that seemed to tease and flirt. When Amani had first emerged from the back room, Vic had caught a glimpse of long, glossy black hair tumbling straight down to his hips, before Amani had clipped it up in a twist, leaving several tendrils free to fall into those large, angled, long-lashed eyes and tease against the slim column of his throat. He was feminine without a doubt, but not female.

So why the hell was Vic still drifting back to the way Amani had smiled with such sly allure and cunning sweetness as he’d leaned in close and said It’s like batting a toy mouse between my paws…?

God damn it.

“Hello.” Ash snapped his fingers. “Earth to Victor. You want to come back down to this planet some time?”

“Huh?” Vic shook himself, frowning, then pressed his fingers against his eyelids. “Sorry. This has been bugging me all damned day.”

“So tell me what happened.”

“I’m not even sure.” Vic buried one hand into his hair, curling up a handful of the strands and making a mess just because he could. Sometimes it was his only solace—mussing his hair, letting his clothing be wrinkled, tossing out little bits of improper diction that would make his father, mother, and voice coach have an aneurysm if they heard him, but they were small little bits of defiance and they were his. Sighing, he continued, “I showed up, I was an awkward nit, Amani was nice, I got a bloody fucking erection before he’d barely even gotten started—shut it, Harrington.” He glowered at Ash, who was snickering behind his hand. “Bloody immature tit. He said it was natural. That it happens to everyone.”

“Apparently so,” Ash replied mildly. “Even straight men. So he kicked you out for getting hard?”

“That’s just it. He didn’t.” Vic sighed. “He kicked me out because he told me he used to play cello, and I offered to pay his university tuition if he’d give me lessons. Remember I used to play when I was a small thing?”

“I remember,” Ash said with fond exasperation. “I just don’t remember you being this oblivious.”

“I didn’t do anything!” He squinted one eye up. “Did I?”

“Vic…” Ash shook his head, blowing out sharply enough to make his wild, dark hair stir. “You can’t just throw money at strangers like it’ll fix all their problems.”

He frowned. “Isn’t that why I’m on the board of seventeen different charities? Because yes, money will fix many people’s problems?”

“It will,” Ash said gently. “But people have pride, too. You can help them and still respect their dignity, and what you did…” His lips compressed into a thoughtful line. “That…just…”

“Oh.”

Vic pressed his knuckles against his mouth, letting that sink in. So he’d offended Amani’s dignity, probably treating him like…ah, fuck. Fucking hell, he’d just tromped in and—no wonder Amani had called him self-centered. He’d been so me me me, let me fix this, do this for me, serve me and I’ll take care of your problems when Amani was already stuck in a customer service position and forced to be nice to him. He felt like he’d swallowed a damned lead weight, and it was sinking deeper and deeper until eventually it would drag him down. Muttering, he pressed his face into his palm and closed his eyes.

“I’m fucking trash.”

“No, you’re rich. Well, yes, you’re also trash,” Ash teased. “But we just…we have our problems, Vic. But our problems aren’t like other people’s problems, and other people’s problems aren’t like ours. If we really want to try to be decent people and not spoiled rich shits, we have to learn to look at other people’s problems how they see them, instead of how we see them.”

“I know. I do. And I can’t believe I was such a fuck to someone I’d just met.” Exhaling, Vic straightened and eyed Ash. “When did you get to know so much about this, eh?”

Ash shrugged, hunching in on himself a little with a tiny, sweet smile and glancing away, that familiar pink blush in his cheeks, highlighting pale golden freckles. Lovelorn fucking sod. “When I fell in love with my valet and had to remember I’m also his boss, and I can hurt him in a lot of ways.”

“Have you ever?”

“Sometimes,” Ash admitted softly.

“What did you do?”

Ash lifted his head, looking at him steadily. “Apologized.”

“Mngh.” Vic grimaced. “I think if I show my face at that parlor again, they’ll dump scalding oil on my head.”

“Are you willing to risk that for a stranger?”

“I’d like to make it right.” Vic hesitated. “Amani was…”

Intriguing. Compelling. Captivating. Strange. An enigma, this question without an answer and I…

…if I see him as someone real, not just his role, I need to treat him that way and make it right. Stranger or not.

“He was nice,” he finished, because fuck if he could articulate all of that to Ash in a way that would make sense; in a way that wouldn’t rouse questions that were more than he could deal with right now. “I’m sorry if I hurt him—but I don’t want to be pushy, either.”

“Tell you what.” Ash plucked his phone from the breast pocket of his suit. “I’ll text him your number and say you want to talk, to apologize, but the ball’s in his court. If he calls you, he calls you. If he doesn’t, walk away and give him his space.”

Vic quirked a brow. “That’s very ‘passing notes in the schoolyard.’ Next you’ll be sending him a little folding fortune flower with ‘Do you like Vic? Circle yes or no.’”

With a snort, Ash lowered his gaze to his phone, thumbs tapping away. “Do you want to know if he likes you?”

“No.”

“Liar. Amani’s gorgeous, isn’t he?”

“Well, yes, but I can acknowledge that objectively without it being about—oh, will you just fucking text him?” Vic grumbled, his ears heating. Fucking brat.

Ash finished what he was tapping with a flourish. “I just did. Let’s see if he calls you.”

They waited for several moments, time ticking past one second after the other; Ash pursed his lips, glancing sidelong, tapping his foot, while Vic picked his phone up off the desk. It wasn’t on mute; he just didn’t have any calls or texts. Of course he didn’t. It wasn’t like Amani would be sitting by his own phone, just waiting for something like this—and even if he’d noticed the text, who knew if he’d even respond after how rude Vic had been?

God, this really was like fucking high school.

He stared at his phone. Stared at Ash. Ash stared back, then shrugged, spreading his hands. “We could go to dinn—”

“Out,” Vic said firmly. “Unlike you, some of us have work to do.”

Ash laughed, pushing to his feet and leaning across the desk to thump Vic’s shoulder. “I work. And I should get back to it, or I’ll be in more trouble than I actually want. But it’ll be okay, Vic. You stuck your foot in your mouth. We all do it. Just apologize.”

“If he’ll let me.”

“There is that.” Whistling under his breath, walking with a little swagger like that could hide the persistent limp Ash always tried to conceal—like Vic hadn’t seen him walking like he’d been impaled since they were sixteen—Ash sauntered toward the door. “Later, you uptight asshole.”

“Later, you feckless little shit.”

Ash’s only answer was his laughter, as he let himself out of Vic’s office. Vic eyed his phone a moment longer, then forced himself to set it down and swivel his chair back to his computer screen, focusing on the quarterly reports from his executive team. He had work to do, and couldn’t afford to be even a minute behind.

Why was he so hung up on this, anyway?

l

AMANI WAITED AN ENTIRE WEEK before calling Victor Newcomb, and only because he had no choice.

When that text had first come through from Ash Harrington, Amani had almost deleted it. He didn’t want to talk to someone who thought he could just dump his charity on Amani that way, all just to make himself feel good—and even if Ash had said he was the one reaching out because he didn’t want to cross boundaries and give out Amani’s number, it had still felt like Victor Newcomb was just letting his friend do his dirty work for him.

Amani was not someone to be dumped off on someone else as an obligation.

And he sure as hell wasn’t some rich man’s feel-good pet project.

But when the letter from the NYU finance department came in the mail…he knew what it would say. He knew before even opening it that it would tell him he’d used up the extent of the financial aid available to him at his age, that his scholarship was out of money, that they were taking his mother’s income into account, that there wasn’t even a penny left and he had to pay this amount by that date when the numbers added up to four figures, nearly five, that he just didn’t have. He was already almost halfway through the fall semester, his grades coming back straight As all across the board—and if he had to drop now and start over once he had the money, it would be a waste of effort, of money, of time, of…of everything.

He sank down on the lushly upholstered couch in his family’s living room and leaned forward, pressing his brow to his knees, the paper caught between and cool against his face. He could pick up more hours at the parlor, but that wouldn’t do anything when they were paid by the client, not by hours clocked in, and Amani already had a full client load for what time he could spare around school and homework. He might be able to squeeze in a different part-time job, maybe some kind of register or reception work where he could do homework in between customers, but…

“Amani?” His mother leaned out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, then frowned, settling next to him and speaking in low Dariji. “What’s wrong?”

Forcing himself to sit up, he folded the pages quickly so she couldn’t see them, and smiled. “Nothing, Mama. I think I just need a nap. It’s been a long day with midterms coming up.”

“You work too much.” She drew him in close and kissed his forehead. “I’m proud of you. I’m proud to have such an ambitious, talented son. But you need to take care of yourself. Tell me if there’s anything you need. You will, won’t you?”

“Of course.” He hugged her tight, then stood and gently disentangled. “Right now, though, I just need rest. I’ll be down to help make dinner later.”

She only smiled at him fondly, while he turned away, trudging up the stairs and feeling like a complete and utter traitor. He’d just lied to his mother, but what else could he do?

There was nothing she could do to help him. She was stretching herself thin just to pay the bills, and he gave as much as he could from his pay but it just wasn’t enough. If he told her about his tuition…

She’d just work herself down to the bone trying to find the money for him, and he couldn’t let her do that.

Upstairs in his room, he sank down on the edge of his bed and stared at the cello case propped against the wall under the window. He hadn’t touched it in years, save for to meticulously clean it twice a week, polishing the finish and rosining the bow and tightening the adjustment screws. But if he took it out of its case and stroked its strings, he knew it would hum and whisper and sigh and throb for him the way it always had, this living thing murmuring to his touch and responding to him so perfectly, so beautifully.

If he played that cello for Victor Newcomb, if he tried to teach him how to find that resonant voice and make it sing with a life of its own…

That arrogant, presumptuous man would pay his tuition.

Amani only had to swallow his pride.

Swallow his pride, face the trembling scars of fear and pain and failure that made even touching that cello so terrible, so humiliating…and pretend he didn’t hate every moment of it.

He picked his phone up from the nightstand and scrolled through to the text from Ash. Victor Newcomb’s number stared at him, underlined in blue and that little call icon telling him how easy it would be. He wouldn’t even have to copy the number into the dialer; just tap right from the text and he could sell his soul to have what he wanted.

Is it really selling your soul, though?

Or is it just playing the game the way it has to be played to survive?

So he’d be taking this rich man’s money. In a year, two years, three, Newcomb would have forgotten his existence, and Amani would be close to graduating. He’d have his degree fully paid off, have a life ahead of him, a career that might not be glamorous, might not be what he used to think he’d do with himself, but it would still let him be connected to the music in that way he craved while being able to take care of himself. And once he could take care of himself…

He could take care of his mother, too, and she could finally retire to enjoy her old age after struggling so long to raise him on her own.

With a resigned sigh, he closed his eyes, steeled himself, and tapped the little link to initiate the call.

He listened to the ringtone for three short rings, before that calm, collected voice came coolly over the line, sounding nothing like the flustered man he’d met in the parlor. “Victor Newcomb.”

“Mr. Newcomb?” Amani tried to force his voice to some semblance of pleasantry, but what came out was that waxy Stepford customer service voice he used at work. “It’s Amani Idrissi.”

“O-oh. Amani? I…ah…”

There was the puppy. Was he like this with everyone, or did he just fall apart around Amani? Why? He pinched the bridge of his nose and just forged on, even if every word felt like defeat. “All right,” he said without preamble. The fewer words, the better. “I’ll teach you.”

That fumbling broke off in a long silence, before Newcomb said carefully, “But you don’t want to. The idea upsets you.”

“I still have bills to pay. So.”

“I’m sorry,” Newcomb said quickly. “I didn’t mean to treat you like a charity case. I don’t know why I didn’t think before speaking, I’m not normally that impulsive—”

“Stop. Please,” Amani said. “We don’t have to talk about it. Just…I have evening classes Tuesdays and Thursdays, morning classes otherwise. If you’re on a standard nine to five, I can meet with you Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. After five PM. We can start tomorrow.”

“Could we make it eight?” Newcomb asked tentatively. “I tend to burn the midnight oil, but I’ll check out as early as I can.”

“Fine. I’ll do my homework beforehand, then. The rate is a thousand per session, one hour each.”

He’d thought Newcomb would scoff at that number, retract his offer, hang up. Instead there was only another of those considering silences, before he asked softly, “Will that be enough?”

“After a few weeks of sessions, if we meet three times a week, I’ll be caught up on my tuition. The first session will let me make enough of a partial payment to stay enrolled.”

“I could pay you all of it in adva—”

“Stop,” Amani said firmly. “Stop right there. Don’t make this worse.”

A soft, ragged breath exhaled through the phone. “…Amani. You really don’t have to do this if it will disrupt your life, or upset you.”

“Yes, I do,” Amani said bitterly. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Eight PM. Text me where to meet.”

Then he hung up the phone before Newcomb could respond, and just stared at the blank screen, wondering what the hell he thought he was doing.

Especially when something about Victor Newcomb got under his skin. Something about the way he turned into a mess around Amani; the way he went from well-dressed corporate heir to an obedient little pup the second Amani gave him a command. Victor Newcomb wasn’t who he appeared on the surface, any more than Amani himself was.

But Amani didn’t want to delve into what hid beneath that hard-muscled exterior, when this was already closer to Newcomb than he ever wanted to be.