Phoenix

After James leaves, I close my eyes and fidget wildly with the cube I grabbed off the desk. When I was a child, I broke several toys this way. I'd lose myself in my head, the repetitive motion of my fingers freeing me from worrying about my body. I got good at that from a young age, disappearing into the depths of my own mind, building landscapes and palaces, castles, and many years later after intense study, machines. Sometimes gears form in my head if I don't pay attention to what I'm thinking, or I'll stop to visually disassemble a clock on the wall.

I wish I could dismiss Agatha that easily.

She looms large in my mind—I'm taller than she is now, but it will never feel that way. She appeared in my life, in our lives, when I was seven, three years before my mother passed away. Then, she was only my father's administrative assistant and occasional babysitter. In another life, I'd cherish her; she was the only person who fed me macaroni and cheese until I was old enough to decide what to eat on my own, while my parents were at some gala or on a tropical vacation.

We were actually close after that, after Mom...after. She was a constant presence in my life and she was the only person who didn't seem annoyed with me—either with the long dull silences as I retreated into my imagination or random, awkward questions. My father had less time for me than she did.

It wasn't until later, after he too was gone and she'd been promoted from his assistant to CFO, that I realized why she was around so much. She was young, not even thirty when he promoted her, and accompanied him on many business trips and vacations, attending conferences and golf tournaments.

If it wasn't obvious then, it was crystal clear after his death: He awarded her one third of what would have been my share of the company stock, breaking our family controlling interest. Since I was thirteen and in no position to actually use my votes, Agatha swiftly built a coalition of major stakeholders and effectively took over the company.

While I was going to school, she made...changes. There was a falling out.

As I begin to calm, my mind drifts back to this morning. To James.

Specifically, to his abs. He meant to show me his scar, but his body looks like it's carved of marble, and I can't banish the image from my sight. He's there whenever I close my eyes. Worse, when he used that voice of his to shut up Agatha...

Well, to put it bluntly, there's a reason I didn't stand up to see her off. It would be, ah, obvious what happened. I should have worn looser pants.

Damn my hands, I can't do this here. I yank my fingers away from my crotch, where I was running them along the outline of my shaft. A shiver runs down my spine as I think about it. I wonder what James would do if...

How do I know he's even interested? Why would he be? I'm being absurd.

We're both men. It doesn't work that way, does it?

Attraction is not something I've ever really understood. I've always felt like a stranger in a strange land, surrounded by people who are too young or too old for me, who look at me like some kind of curiosity, more interested in studying me than knowing me. To feel like this is irrational, and distracting.

Maybe I need to find a replacement, someone who won't invade my mind when I'm trying to think, but the thought hurts. A cold certainty creeps up my back like a snake. Something important is happening.

I should dismiss it as a childish fairytale fantasy, but I can't. Nor can I stop myself imagining what that muscular stomach must feel like, how his skin would feel under my palms, my fingers, even my tongue. The thought of him touching me back makes me so hard it hurts, and I have to close my legs to relieve some of the tension from the tightness of my pants.

This is a problem.

Making sure no one is looking, I adjust myself.

That's putting it politely. I reposition my penis so it doesn't hurt when I stand up. Self-consciously, afraid it looks like I'm walking around with a cucumber in my pants, I descend the staircase. Some walking will take my mind off things, get the blood flowing to my other extremities.

It'll give me some time alone with him, too.

Amanda is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, standing primly, heels together, eyes on mine.

"Are you ready?"

"Clear my schedule for the rest of the day," I say. "I need air."

"But—"

"I said clear it," I say, more sharply than I meant to. "I saw what's coming up. It's nothing I can't get to later, or put Julie on it. She can handle some investors for me."

"Yes, sir," she says, giving me a short nod before she stalks off to do as ordered.

"Going out?" James asks.

"Anywhere but here," I say. "I need to cool off."

Tugging on my sweatshirt, I head outside, giving the guard at the front desk a curt nod. James hovers behind me, a hulking shadow. I can feel his presence like a gravitational pull, drawing me towards him. This might have been a bad idea. Being around him just makes it worse.

So does stopping to cross the street. For no real reason, I head towards midtown. The office is in Flatiron, and sometimes I like to spend a few hours walking up to Central Park and back, when I'm wrangling a complex problem. Normally, I'd just put my hood up and blend in.

Now I'm under guard.

There are pieces in my head—gears, part of a machine whose shape I can't fully see. Something is happening here.

James stands next to me at the crosswalk. The chaos of the city around us blends together into a dull roar like blood rushing in my ears. Maybe it is blood rushing in my ears. The urge to look at him is irresistible, but when I do, something like a hot-cold shock hits me and I turn the other way. When he notices and spares me a glance, it only gets worse.

"Things are pretty tense between you and that woman," he says. "Who is she?"

"She raised me, sort of. Babysat me when I was young, and she was my father's assistant. Later on, she got a promotion."

"At the office, or?"

"Both," I say bitterly. "I suppose my father couldn't deal with being alone. Or maybe the aloneness didn't bother him so much that he didn't already have a replacement lined up."

"Replacement?" he says, then a moment later. "Oh. Oh, I see. How old were you?"

"Ten," I say, surprised at how even I sound. "Pancreatic cancer. She went from healthy to gone in six months."

"Must be frustrating to think about," he says. "With what your company does."

"You mean my father's company, right?"

"Yeah."

Among its many product lines and divisions, one of Breslin's subsidiaries is involved in pharmaceuticals and medical equipment. Not that my father knew anything about that, but it's obvious what he means: She could have had any treatment. Of course, she did, but none of it works.

"Feels like I've struck a nerve. Sorry."

"No," I say quickly. "It's alright. It's just unusual."

"Unusual?"

I stop and look at him. "I never talk about these things, and no one ever really asks."

He nods. "I know how that feels."

"You do?"

He regards me intently for a moment, and his gaze pushes past the outer layer of my skin, lighting a fire in my belly that brings a dull throb of a rising erection to my crotch again.

What would it be like, I wonder, to kiss him? To feel those lips against mine, to mingle his breath with my own, to be so deep in someone else's presence without anything between us.

The spell shatters when he looks past my shoulder. He's always scanning our surroundings, as if he expects an attack.

As we pass the hulking mass of the Empire State Building, having walked quietly for a time, I shrug my shoulders.

"There's bad blood between us. There's never been an argument. I've never confronted her or anything like that. It's just a tension. Something heavy."

"Yeah?"

"It doesn't help that my father split my inheritance with her. God, I must sound petty. It's not about the money. I have plenty of that, more than I could ever spend, and it just piled and piled upon itself while I was in school anyway. It's about the control of the company. She took over while I was too young to do anything about it."

"I guess you don't like the direction she went, then."

"It isn't what I would have done with it," I say sharply. "I want to do something meaningful. My father..." I start, then stop. "Another time, maybe. I'm getting too emotional."

James stops at a crosswalk and slips his fingers in his pocket. Every time I look at him my mind's eye peels back layers of clothing and I try to picture what lies underneath. I've seen some of it, not nearly enough, and I'm hungry for more. Hungry is the best word.

A few blocks further and he says, as we near the park, "You can't just sit on things. They build and build until the pressure gets to you. Either your shell gets so hard nothing will ever break it, or you just burst."

"Speaking from experience again?"

"From observation. I've seen both."

"What about you?" I ask, glancing at him. "Are you hard?"

He stops and stares at me.

I stare back.

Oh, Phoenix.

Abruptly I turn and keep walking, picking up the pace as I veer into the park. Suddenly we're surrounded by people—mostly tourists enjoying the park on a weekday. There's no part of Manhattan that is ever really not busy with someone doing something.

James gets a lot of stares. A lot. Most of them from women.

Something absurd happens. Every time he does, a hot flare flashes in my chest and rises into my throat and I stare at the starers. Go gawk at someone else.

"You used to live near here, you said?"

I nod. "Yes, the old house is a block over. We're converting it to a museum."

"Yeah."

"I can show you another time. There's a lot of interior work still going on. I'm looking forward to when we can open it."

"We?"

"My second passion. The Breslin Foundation."

He stops and looks off at one of the buildings. An itch forms between my shoulder blades.

"What's that for?" he says. "Running this gallery you're putting together?"

"Well that and some other programs. Education, some disease prevention work. Charity."

He nods, then looks at me.

"Funny you don't brag about it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Other wealthy people I've met, you can't shut them up. You might be the first person I've had to ask about their charitable efforts. I like that."

A dull heat rises up my cheeks and I swear it lifts me up physically, until I'm rising on my tiptoes. I don't even realize I'm grinning like an idiot until he lowers his voice.

"Hamming it up a little, aren't you?"

"Huh?"

"The way you're looking at me, someone really would think you're smitten. So where's the cameras?"

"Cameras?"

"The pretend...the boyfriend thing," he whispers. "Aren't you setting that up? Having us photographed?"

"No. I just assumed after people see us together, they'd, you know. Assume. We're going to be getting some press anyway pretty soon. I'm going to be on one of the biggest talk shows in the country tomorrow morning."

He smiles. "Well, that'll be different."

"Yeah," I say. "In all honesty, I'm, well, I'm nervous."

"Nervous," he says.

"Yes. I'm not really a people person. I have a difficult time. It takes...effort. I have to focus my mind."

"Psych yourself up. No one is at ease on national television, Phoenix. Even if it is taped. Try not to think about it."

"Right. We should get back soon, I have a few things to wrap up before we catch our flight."

"So, are we flying on Delta, or?"

I snort. "I chartered a jet."

"I'm surprised you didn't come back and say you own one."

I shake my head. "Thought about it, but that's just a little too much. I don't bother owning vehicles I can't operate myself. It feels wasteful."

After a brisk walk, I am feeling better, and my, ah, problem has taken care of itself. At least, it's subsided from a perpetual hard-on to a dull buzz in the back of my head, like a sore muscle that lives only in my mind.

I really need to find something for him to do while I'm working. A few times, I glance down from my office and spot him leaning against a wall. He must be bored out of his mind, but he never complains, or even bothers with a cup of coffee. One of the interns approaches him with a ping pong paddle, but his stare turns her around as surely as a hand on her shoulder.

Finally, it's time to go. He catches up as I briskly walk past.

"Amanda will have all the bags and such sorted."

"Good," he says. "Wait, mine too?"

"Yes."

He grunts.

"Something wrong?"

"It's a little weird to let someone pack my bag. It's kind of an Army thing. I'll want to go through it."

"Suit yourself," I say.

Back at the house, I grab a bite from one of Luis's prepared meals and head upstairs. As soon as I'm alone, and especially once I've stripped down and the air is on my skin, I feel that throb and my cock rises hard to attention.

Walking around with it bobbing as I try to dismiss it, I can't stop imagining James in the room with me, watching me, his eyes following my movements. I've never imagined such a thing before. Sure, I've pictured other people naked—I'm not a robot—but fantasizing about being watched is something new.

As I slip into the shower, I take matters into my own hands. At first, I keep my eyes open, make it almost mechanical, but they drift closed and I start picturing him, imagining it's his hand wrapping around my shaft as I stroke. With the water flowing down my skin, I brush my ass with my hand, imagining it's his palm I feel, his fingers tickling the back of my thigh, then the inside. I pretend it's him caressing a light stroke along my balls and between my legs and pressing against my hole.

My eyes open halfway and I close them again.

I may be awkward but I'm no prude. I discovered a long time ago that I like certain kinds of...stimulation. Sometimes I enjoy that more than stimulating my cock itself. With a little grunt I press my finger inside myself. His dick would be much thicker and probably harder, and hot, too. I slip in a second finger and spread, wondering if that sensation, balanced on a blade-thin edge between pleasure and pain, is anything like it would feel when he enters me.

When he enters me. Suddenly I'm standing in the shower with my dick in one hand while I finger myself and now it's when, as if it's a foregone conclusion. I wonder if he'd bend me over or lay me on my back and lift up my hips so I could look him in the eye while he takes me. Would that pain in his eyes fade when he loses himself in the thrusts?

Damn, I didn't mean to come so fast. It hits me so hard I almost fall, a wave of pleasure that rockets up from almost nothing to crush and shock between my legs before spreading through the rest of my body as my fist grows slick and hot. Panting against the tile wall, I stroke until there's nothing left and pant for a while. It's wasteful to stay under the hot water so long, but I need time before I can stand and properly clean myself.

After drying, I dress hurriedly. I feel different now. Not physically, something else. My skin feels foreign. There's a burning pressure and a hot emptiness inside me at the same time.

What if I don't want him to just pretend in public?

The thought throbs, pulses along with veins in my temples. What would he say if I touched him, if I...crossed boundaries? If I came to him on my knees and felt that hot hard shaft between my lips. What would he do if he knew I'm a virgin? What would he do to me? His hands might be rough on my body, his cock too big and too hard and too fast.

Strangely, it's the thought that he might be too much for me that excites me most, and then I'm hard again.

I hide it beneath a hoodie that's a size too big and too long and resolve that I am not going to touch myself again. The more I think about it, the more obsessed I'll become. My imagination is relentless. Once I imagine something I have to make it, or do it, and now the thought of sex with James is firmly planted in my head.

He introduced himself as my lawyer. Why didn't I come up with that?

James is waiting in the foyer with a roller bag, staring up at my tyrannosaur. The bag is worn and battered, covered in gouges and scratches from hard use and the half-torn remnants of old baggage check stickers.

"This thing isn't real, is it?"

Standing behind him I say, "It's a replica, as are the deinonychus skeletons. The real fossils are in the display cabinets, behind it. I don't have many. I don't want to keep anything here that belongs in a museum."

"My little sister would have loved this."

He tenses, as if he let something slip. The sudden tightening of his body makes me draw up in reflex, an invisible fist forming in the bottom of my throat. Then, it strikes me.

Would have. Would have loved this.

My mouth opens, closes, and no words escape. A nearly irresistible urge to touch him has my hand a hair's breadth from his shoulder before I pull back. I can feel him before I feel him, like an electrical charge about to break into a shock.

I clear my throat.

"The car should be out front."

On the street, a hired car waits with its hazard lights blinking. The fair weather from this morning has blown out, replaced by overcast skies and a light drizzle. James lifts my bag into the back of the car without being asked and opens the door for me.

Once we're inside, I turn to him.

"You don't need to act like a servant."

This close, his presence fills the car. It's overwhelming. He shifts uncomfortably, tensing as he tries to avoid making contact. It's not easy. It's a big car, but he's a big man. I swear, his upper arms are bigger around than my head.

I shift in my seat and lean to one side and he relaxes, but still sits awkwardly with his hands in his lap. He keeps looking at me, and it makes my heart jump. When I turn my head and his gaze is on me, it's like physically bumping into each other. We both turn away like embarrassed children who touched hands while raiding the candy dish.

He shows no sign of discomfort or unfamiliarity with the process of boarding the chartered jet, only a constant vigilance that must be tiring. It certainly makes me weary. I half expect him to crawl under the plane.

Once we're aboard, he settles into the plush leather seat across from mine. I could have sat on the other side of the aisle, I realize, but I chose to face him instead.

"Long flight?" he asks.

"Charter. It's about six hours."

He nods and rests his chin on his fingers, staring out the window. I follow his gaze, trying to see what he's looking at. He waves off an offer of a drink from the attendant and continues brooding.

"Is something bothering you?" I ask.

He looks at me and rubs his fingers against his thumb, as if trying to compress something.

"It bothers me."

"What does?"

"Your situation."

I sink back into my seat and stare at him. "Why?"

"You get a weird threat in your office, and then this woman turns up, what, a week later?"

"Not even that long." I shake my head. "Agatha is just worried about her stocks, James."

"Jim."

"Right."

"Is she?" he says, distantly. "It smells. You don't sound like best friends, either."

I shake my head. "You know, it doesn't matter that I wouldn't put it past her. She just wouldn't see the point. She knows me, she knows I won't stop what I'm doing because of a lame threat. She's worried about competition, J...Jim. Once I go public, well, I know what she thinks I'm planning."

"What's that?"

"Turn the tables and acquire my own company back."

"Is that what you're planning?"

I grin. "Yes."

"You know," he says, scratching at his chin. "I still don't know what you actually do."

"I'm designing an automated sequencing system for designer proteins."

"Designer...proteins? Is that like designer jeans?"

"Jeans, yes, very clever," I smirk. "Something like that."

"I'm a simple man, Phoenix. That sounds a little beyond me."

The plane begins to move as the pilot taxis to takeoff. James is unruffled, but it startles me, and I can't hide it. There's another reason I don't own a plane—I dislike flying.

The flight attendant goes around the small cabin and pulls down all the window shades. James reaches over and closes the ones nearest us before she gets the chance, and she murmurs thanks before stepping out to buckle herself to a seat.

"You have a problem with flying," he says.

"Planes are most unstable during takeoff, and all landings are technically controlled crashes."

"That's like saying it's a controlled engine failure every time you park your car."

"When you park your car, it doesn't plummet out of the sky from thirty thousand feet up." I clear my throat. "What is your background, exactly? Your curriculum vitae looked impressive, but I admit, it was a lot of abbreviations."

"Curriculum vitae," he snorts, amused. "I started out a boot like every other boot and tested into Military Police. After I reupped, I was tapped to join Criminal Investigation Command. Think of it as an FBI for the Army. I went from breaking up bar fights to investigating more serious crimes."

"Military police must be where you learned to use your voice like that."

"You have to when you're surrounded by eighteen-year-olds that just left the farm or the gas station for the first time. Young, dumb, and full of cu...err, hormones. Boot camp is all about tearing you down and rebuilding you for military life. Some guys take to it a little too much. It turns them into hammers in a world of nails."

"I see," I say, gripping my seat as the sound of the engines spooling up rushes through the cabin. My voice raises slightly, and I assure myself it's so that I will be heard, not because my nerves are getting to me. "What made you quit?"

"Investigating more serious crimes," he says darkly. "I put in some time and I had enough. Once I knew I could get by, I rotated back to the states and didn't reup. I made some connects while I was at Investigation Command. Got me into the private contracting world."

"That's how you ended up getting stabbed by an anorexic woman."

"Bulimic, actually."

"Forgive me," I say wryly as the plane tilts back into takeoff.

I close my eyes and ride it out, relaxing just a touch after the landing gear leave the earth. Once the pilot has corrected the little wobbles that come from flying close to the ground and the smoother ascent begins, I relax.

It's not flying that bothers me, it's the ground.

"You okay?" he says.

"Fine," I say. "I wish I had your calm."

"No," he says, so softly I'm not sure if he even means to, "you don't."

"We'll be in Los Angeles in six hours," I say, smoothing past it.