Phoenix

Tonight, we really have to sell it. James and I are attending a social engagement together, and there will be a lot of cameras there. They're mostly interested in the celebrity guests, but it's better to be seen. I begin to wonder if the Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times pay for paparazzi photos.

So far, there haven't been any inconvenient questions about why a big burly man follows me everywhere I go, but it hasn't been all that long, either.

That means we have to be dressed.

I, of course, own a tuxedo. James does not. The closest thing he has is that black CIA couture outfit he showed up in the first day, which is not formal evening wear for a man, so I promised to stay home while I sent him off for a same-day fitting and alterations. Down in my hobby cave, a light blinks to alert me when he's returned and I watch him through the camera system, emerging into the sitting area off the courtyard.

He carries the bag in one hand, grimacing.

"I've been fitted for my monkey suit."

"I'm sure you’ll look fine."

"This kind of clothing never really works for a guy of my build," he says. "It's better than off the shelf, though. I don't really need shoulder pads."

He flexes his big arms for emphasis, and my stomach flutters up into my chest.

We haven't done anything, or really talked. The subject always drifts off into something else.

It is, well, maddening. I've had a taste of honey and now I want more. My body is full of little quirks and urges I desperately want to explore. He stands there while I stare, taught black cotton stretched over his massive frame, looking at me as intently as I look at him.

Yet we do not talk about it.

After he's out of my sight, it feels like I just scratched a patch of skin that had already stopped itching, only to make it tingle again. Something has to be done about this. I keep cycling through a hundred different scenarios, things to say, ways to approach him and make this happen.

I can't settle on any of them.

In preparation for tonight, I've taken the day off, an unusual step for me. Things can run themselves for a while. Publicity and engaging in the community is important. I need to meet people and spread the word about my work, and this is how it’s done.

I grew up in places like this, going to events like this, and still it makes me nervous as hell.

"You look a little tense," James says, joining me in the kitchen as I stare at the refrigerator full of prepared lunches, paralyzed by choice.

"The only reason I don't tell Luis to just make me the same thing for lunch every day is that I don't want to insult him," I blurt out.

"Why's that?"

"I have a tendency to get lost in choices."

He pushes the refrigerator closed and walks to the pantry, where he retrieves a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter. He looks at it for a moment, frowning.

"Artisanal peanut butter?"

I shrug. "I don't do the shopping. I just live here."

He snorts, then goes rooting in the fridge. "Don't tell me you don't have any grape jelly."

"There should be some preserves," I say.

He pulls out the jar. "Strawberry. Strawberry and peanut butter. Heathenry. Where's the grape jelly?"

I shrug again.

After sloppily making and cutting two sandwiches, he hands me one on a plate and sits down.

"How do you eat things like this and stay so fit?" I ask.

"Good genetics," he shrugs. "I have been off my game a little. You said there's a weight room?"

"Upstairs," I say. "It's sort of in my room but not really. I have the whole third floor to myself."

"You have the whole house to yourself."

I huff, exasperated. "You know what I mean."

He smirks. "Fine, show me when we're done here."

Hurriedly, I devour my sandwich.

"Follow me."

Upstairs, I lead him to the wing opposite my actual bedroom, where my home gym is found. He frowns as he looks over the equipment, appraising. I do have free weights, but I mostly use machines and cardio equipment.

"Is this adequate?"

"Have you ever touched these?" he says, lifting one of the big plates that I have not, in fact, ever touched. The side is marked 45 and he lifts it as if it weighs nothing at all.

"Not really," I admit.

"Well, it'll work for me. Why don't you spot me?"

After setting a bar on the weight bench uprights, he begins loading plates, alternating sides for balance. I stare as he continues to load them until the center of the bar begins to bend, just a bit.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

He gives me a flat look.

"Just stand behind it and help me out if I fail a rep."

Nodding nervously, I take up position behind the bench, wondering what I'd do if that happened. I'm scared to even calculate the amount he's lifting, but it went well past my body weight after the third plate or so. Squaring himself up under it, he lifts it free with a grunt and a metallic clatter.

The bar rises and lowers, and I edge closer, watching his muscles bunch and flex. By the third rep, veins stand out on his arms and his chest has noticeably swelled. Red faced and sweating, he sets it back in the hooks after five and lets out a long, slow breath, then sits up.

Standing behind him, I can't tear my eyes from the broad V-shape of his back. Hunched forward, he seems impossibly huge, and fluttering tingles sink down my belly, tightening between my legs as I grow hard, my muscles twitching.

He throws himself back for another set. I swallow and step back. If he looks up and sees me bulging my pants, he doesn't show it. He grunts out the count. "One, two, three, four..."

He's a giant mass of power and contained energy, shaking with it. The way he quivers on the last rep excites me even more and I can barely breathe, my chest is so tight. He sits up again and swipes perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand and looks over his shoulder at me.

"One more."

Leaning back, he squares up under the bar, lifts it, and grunts out five more repetitions. By the last, he's shaking, and I instinctively grab the bar, adding a minuscule trickle of strength to the raw force he puts into it from below, straining it back into place with a loud clang. Then he lies there, not sitting up this time, panting hard, huge muscled chest heaving. The muscles quiver, and he closes his eyes, red faced.

Slowly, I walk around the front of the bench where he lies, eyes still closed, and throw my leg over, sitting in his lap. His eyes flick open and he stares at me as I run my hands over his body, my palms growing slick with sweat. Leaning down, I sniff him, then take in a deeper breath. He smells clean and salty.

Movement under by backside. He's getting hard. His cock soon grows so full and engorged it nearly lifts me out of his lap. I twist and shift until I'm sitting on it, his throbbing shaft pressed against mine. He says nothing. Slowly, experimentally, I begin moving my hips in circles, feeling his erection slip and slide against mine.

He doesn't ask what I'm doing or try to argue or stop me, but he puts his hands on my flanks, just above my hips, and pulls me a little closer. Falling forward, I lean on him, hands on his chest, his heart thudding under my palms.

Moving down my back, his hands slide into my pants, pulling them down slightly as he spreads his fingers to cup and then squeeze my cheeks, sending a shiver up my spine. It's like when he did it before—I start to feel a void form inside me, a gripping emptiness that wants something to fill it.

His finger glides between my ass cheeks, teasing. I tense with a gasp and he stops, only to circle the entrance again when I relax. His other hand glides up under my shirt and his fingers slide over my nipples, each little flick making me tense and buck in his lap.

"Do you always get hard when you work out?"

"I don't usually have someone sitting in my lap."

I grab his arm and slip my hand up under my shirt, grasping his, running my fingers over his knuckles. They're rough and calloused, almost sharp, as if he's been punching bricks. Mine are soft by contrast, smooth from lotion, though my fingers have rough pads at the tips from fine mechanical work. I push his hand up and I lean forward.

Instinct makes me guide his hand to my throat and press it there, giving a little squeeze as his finger presses inside me. My pulse thrums against his hand as I involuntarily clench, then force myself to relax as his finger pushes in, one knuckle at a time until it curls against something within and my whole body jerks in a spasm of pleasure. It's like he pushed a magic button and sent a pulse of pleasure from some deep root inside me to the tip of my cock, my balls pulling up tight in a single instant.

Closing my eyes, I press my neck into his hand and let the feeling of his strength wash over me as his finger works inside me. The teases are almost like coming over and over, pushing me closer and closer to the edge each time. I haven't felt this intense between my legs since the very first time I jerked off, an orgasm so explosive it made a mess on the wall and left me unable to walk for half an hour. James works my body, blending the pulses of pleasure into one long, torturous wave of need that refuses to subside, my body taking me along the sharp edge of something between pleasure and pain.

Then he works in another finger. I feel a shallow stretch at first, a strange pop as my body closes around it, and a wicked cold shiver ripples from my scalp to my toes as I feel him spread me, pushing his fingers apart, twisting them inside me, massaging that spot. My hand drifts toward my crotch.

"Don't touch," he says, giving my neck a slight squeeze.

I nod and put my hands on his sides. My penis is so hard it's arched, a slight tingle of wetness at the tip. It's agony but I don't want it to ever stop. It edges more towards pain than pleasure with every second, pressure building so far back in my body I can feel it coiled up in my stomach.

Then he does something just right and I explode, a hot rush from my cock like a stopper has been pulled out and all the energy is spilling out from between my legs, leaving a shuddering, frigid pleasure in its place, like a giant breath of cold air. It doesn't stop. He keeps probing and it keeps coming, until I go limp in his grip and fall on top of him.

God, I'm soaked. What did he do to me?

I slide off him and fall to the floor. Slowly, he stands up. Sweaty and pumped, muscles and veins bulging, he pulls his pants down and draws out his massive cock and hefty balls, takes my head in his hand, his shaft in the other, and pushes the head into my mouth, spreading my lips. Eyes lidded, I let out a dull sound and suck gently, the afterglow making me reverent. Before I sucked his dick, now I worship it.

I wrap my arms around his legs and hug to them, using only my mouth, guided by his hand, fingers twisted in my hair. The feeling of being used like this makes me glow, like a lantern lit in my lungs.

He shudders and lets out a loud groan and fills my mouth with heat. I look up at him as I take it in, my throat working, and pull him in deeper. He moans loudly as I struggle to take him all down, finally barking out, "Fuck!" before he yanks free, panting.

I sit back, lean on the bench, and swipe my arm across my lips, smirking.

I like this.

Slowly, fighting my trembling legs, I rise to my feet as James tucks himself back into his clothes.

"What you did with your fingers," I murmur, running my hands over his chest. "Would it feel like that if you..."

"If I what?" he says, smirking.

"If you, ah, with your..."

He leans down and brushes his lips over mine.

"I'll fuck you when you ask me to fuck you, Phoenix."

Before I can say anything else, he grabs my sides and kisses me hard, then stalks out of the room, leaving me standing there shaking until I can stumble into the shower.

We have somewhere to be tonight.

After I clean up, I sit on the bed for a while and think. It's just words, I can say them. I don't know why I don't, why I'm so excessively formal all the time. What am I trying to keep away from myself?

Sighing, I pace the room, then dress in some old ratty clothes and head straight down to the cave to tinker with a little project I was working on. Once inside, I let out a slow breath. I'm at home down here more than anywhere else. Even the house above feels like a place I'm staying in rather than somewhere I live. It just feels empty.

Or it did. Now it almost feels too full, the walls throbbing with urgency.

Then, there's the other thing. When I'm not thinking about James, I can't help but think about...

A teddy bear with a severed head. That is a pretty clear message. I drop what I'm doing, sit back, and rest my head in my hand. It couldn't be Kirsten, the girl from when I was in college. I moved on from that years ago, I haven't heard from her since, and she would have no way of knowing where I was when we were in California. I don't even know where she is. For all I know, she married a pharmacist and lives in Ohio, or moved to another country, or anything, really.

Someone is trying to get to me, and I have a growing conviction that it's to do with the business. Someone trying to scare me off, influence me. Make me stop my work.

That points where I don't want it to point. I'd rather not believe she'd do something like that, but can I truly rule it out? Not without being naive.

After a few hours of tinkering, it's time to dress. Just as I'm about to put on my jacket, there's a knock at my door.

James, in his tuxedo pants and white shirt, holding his bow tie.

"Do you know how to tie this thing?"

"You don't?" I snort.

"The last time I wore one was to the junior prom, and it was elastic."

"Fine, fine, come here."

I sit him down in front of my dresser and tie it for him, tugging it nearly into place before setting the points of his collar just so. He stands up and regards himself in the mirror.

"I look like I work in a casino."

"You look fine," I say, making no effort to hide that I'm staring at his ass. My tailor is magical.

"Come on, let's go."

He shrugs into his coat, adjusts his collar again, and heads down the stairs. I hang back and watch him, unconsciously licking my lips. He looks like a super-spy action hero. No matter what he thinks, it's a good look, and it suits him.

A moment later I join him and step outside. Tonight, there will be a limousine. It's just expected; we can't walk up to the red carpet after strolling up Fifth Avenue. Once we're inside, he can't seem to stop plucking nervously at his cuffs.

"Why are you doing that?"

"I'm uncomfortable in this outfit."

I eye him, resting my cheek against my hand. "Why's that?"

"Am I expected to talk to people?" he blurts.

"What?"

"If we're supposed to be in a relationship, we have to act like it. I can't lurk in the corner and watch for threats. I'd rather lurk in the corner and watch for threats. That's my job."

"Maybe you're off the clock tonight."

"I'm never off the clock, Phoenix."

I frown. "I suppose. Have you heard anything useful from the authorities back in California?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing. No prints, no trace evidence, nothing usable. Think of anything you can tell me that might point us in the right direction?"

"My suspicion is that this is all aimed at rattling me. It's not about me, it's about my work."

He nods but doesn't look convinced. "It's awfully personal to be a work thing."

"It's working so far. I hired a bodyguard."

He considers that briefly, then nods. "Fair enough. I'm at a dead end, Phoenix. We're stuck waiting until this person does something else. I don't like reacting. I want to act."

"I want this over with," I say, my voice sounding older than usual. Weary. "I'd like to go back to my normal life where I'm not jumping at shadows and flinching every time I open the door."

"You should be fine at home."

"Can't live life at home," I shrug.

He tenses. "We're here."

The car pulls to a stop and one of the attendants working the velvet rope opens the door and collects our invitations, one for myself and my plus one. He nods us through, and James follows me up the grand entryway stairs. I stop and look around, not demanding attention but not shunning it, either, as the cameras flash. The whole thing is orchestrated so the guests arrive singly or as couples or in clumps. A famous actress is on her way up ahead of us, stopping here and there to display the open back of her dress to the crowd, while a musician stands with his beau for photos.

"What are we doing at this thing?" James asks. "This looks like it's more of a Hollywood thing than a tech bro thing."

"I am not a tech bro," I snap, then sigh. "It's a family tradition. I give a great deal to the museum, and so I'm presented with an invite every year. No one in the family has missed these galas since they started."

With a nod, I lead him inside, now ignoring the flashes and the cameras. Someone calls my name and gets a photo of my bewildered face. I was expecting, honestly, to simply be in the background while this or that actress or singer was the center of attention. James tightens up behind me, nodding at the next photographer to snap a picture.

It's started, then. The world will think he's my boyfriend.

What does he think?

Inside, we both wave off champagne flutes, but James grabs an hors d'oeuvre off a passing waiter's tray and sniffs it before taking a bite. He looks pleasantly surprised.

He's also scanning every door and hallway.

Emptied for the guests, the museum, one of the largest in the country and the largest on the East Coast, is cavernous. The bulk of the guests have moved into the main hallway on the first floor, gathered around permanent displays of renaissance art and costumes in display cases brought up from storage for the gala. I stop and consider a pair of Judy Garland's ruby slippers. I've seen them before.

James is looking around more now, visibly agitated.

"What's wrong?"

"Probably nothing," he says, faintly. "I doubt that nut is in this crowd, but you never know. You recognize these people?"

I shrug. "A few. I'm going to have to introduce you. We need to mingle. You're ready?"

"I'm ready," he says, as if I'd just announced his execution.

The virtue of mingling is that it can be over quickly. I mostly circulate from cluster of guests to cluster of guests, exchange hugs or air kisses when someone recognizes me, and introduce James when someone asks who he is.

Bewildered, he walks next to me after we leave a clump of actresses; I knew one from the same private high school I attended, though she's two years older than I am.

"I wasn't expecting some of these people to be so short," he whispers.

"To you, everyone is short," I muse.

"Fair enough."

Then I spot her. Moving in a silken, slinky red dress, Agatha cuts through the crowd like a scarlet phantom, her dark hair piled high. With her pale skin it all gives her the air of a femme fatale, and no more apt description comes to my mind. She glances at me from the corner of her eye, nods, and then is gone, a red flash.

James must have seen her, too.

"What's she doing here?"

"Same thing I am, probably," I say. "She always loved the society stuff. You can imagine how she was when she had to babysit me when my father was here with my mother."

James frowns, turning a toothpick from a cocktail sausage between his fingers before setting it on a passing waiter's tray.

"I need air," I announce. "I'm heading out to the back porch."

Calling it that is a bit of an understatement. I head through the Egyptian wing and past an entire temple that's been taken apart and rebuilt here inside the museum to preserve it from the waters of Lake Nasser. The porch is a vast stone slab looking out over Central Park and the sculpture garden.

I lean on the railing and look out over the park. The museum's security guards form a distant perimeter, and a few individuals and couples circulate through the sculptures.

"So this is it?" he says. "So everyone just hangs around?"

"Pretty much," I say.

"That's incredibly boring."

I look at him and sigh.

"I know. I don't belong here."

"Where do you belong?"

James looks at me, expectantly.

"Hell, I don't know," I shrug. "I never have. I only feel comfortable hiding in my basement putting toys together."

He drums his fingers on the railing beside mine. "Why don't you show me?"

I stand up from the rail and look at him.

"I don't want to spend all night talking with strangers about nothing and eating bad food," I say. "Let's go."

"Oh, there you are."

Just as I turn, Agatha appears, cutting through the night like a destroyer through the water. A connection sparks in my brain and a childhood memory bubbles up. She looks like the smoky-voiced lounge singer in that movie about the cartoon rabbit and the detective, sans the red hair.

"And you're not alone," she says sourly.

"He's not," I say.

She considers James without speaking to him and turns back to me.

"You look dashing tonight," she says. "Very handsome."

I flinch as she fingers the lapel of my coat, the way she might have when I was in my teens, getting ready to attend some function with her as my chaperone. I never went anywhere without her for years. After making a non-adjustment to my jacket, she runs her hand down my chest.

James makes an angry gurgling sound that's almost a growl, but she ignores him.

"You better watch out, or you'll have a scandal on your hands with one of these actresses. I saw how that one girl was looking at you."

"What do you want?" I demand, plainly.

"Phoenix, we don't need to fight. We want the same things."

"Do we?" I ask.

"We do," she purrs. "I don't want you to throw away everything your family has built. I've worked very hard to prepare your legacy for you."

"Worked very hard," I say. "Yes. You worked very hard stealing water from African villages and selling it back to them while you took on new weapons contracts. I don't want to be a part of that."

She puts her hands on her hips, thrusting out her impressive bust as if she means to beat me with it.

"I haven't done anything your father didn't know about or approve of."

"My father would have approved of pretty much anything you put in front of him, but I'm not my father. I actually care."

"I know, honey. That's why I want to help you. With you at the helm, the company can rehabilitate its image. I'm open to hearing your ideas."

"So long as you remain in control," I say, smoothly. "If you want it so badly, you can keep it. I'll do fine on my own. If you'll excuse me. James."

He nods at her and follows me past while she slowly turns and watches me leave, her expression halfway between a sneer and smirk.

"Idealists always learn sharp lessons, Phoenix," she says, her voice echoing behind me.