On Shaky Ground Page 6

  “No. That was sparring with each other.” Martin shifted over until he felt the arm of the sofa on his left. “Something happened last night, and we shouldn’t just let it sit or pretend it didn’t happen. And this isn’t a movie, so I’m not going to say something stupid, like ‘it was a mistake’ and ‘it shouldn’t happen again,’ because what I can remember was pretty amazing.” He patted the sofa. “I’m not the kind of guy who talks about all the shit in his life. God, I’ve told you more about myself than I have anyone else in years. I didn’t even open up that much with Jackson, and we were together for two years.”

  “Maybe that was part of the problem too. You can’t expect someone to be open and honest with you when you’re hiding stuff. That isn’t fair.” Brock’s weight settled on the cushions next to him. “Was Jackson the guy who instilled the notion that because you were losing your sight, you were going to be a burden?”

  Martin shrugged. “Jackson told me that I should sell my company because I wasn’t going to be able to continue running it if I couldn’t see. He said we could travel and would have plenty of money to make the most of the visual time I had left.” Back then Martin had taken that as selfish, that Jackson had only been interested in the money and having an easy life. “Maybe he was right. If I had sold, we could have done a lot of things….”

  Brock patted his shoulder without taking his hand away. “He didn’t really know you, did he? You live and breathe that business. You love what you do, and it’s what you get out of bed for each morning.”

  Martin turned to Brock, leaning in to try to look into his eyes.

  “You’re in the office before six thirty in the morning, and you rarely leave until after six at night. You have boundless energy and make time for each person there. I’ve seen you take financial order desk calls and speak to the traders. Is there anyone in that building that you don’t know by voice? Asking you to give up Graham Consolidated would be like asking you to give up a child. It’s part of you.” Brock paused. “God, I’m really sounding preachy, aren’t I?”

  “Maybe a little, but you have a point. I worked hard to build Graham Consolidated because it was important to me. So, if a relationship is important to me, then I should be willing to work just as hard at it too.” Martin closed his eyes because he was getting a headache. “But what if there isn’t enough of me to go around?” There certainly hadn’t been with Jackson, or the few guys before him.

  “Or maybe instead of just working all the time, you actually take the time to talk with the person you’re involved with.” The hand on his shoulder shifted to Martin’s cheek, and he leaned into the warmth of Brock’s palm. They sat like that for a while, with Martin afraid to move. “We still haven’t talked about what you really want and what I want. We’ve just danced around the subject.”

  “Maybe I like dancing?”

  “Then I’ll put on some music in a minute,” Brock retorted, sounding amused.

  “Things can’t change in the office. No matter what. We… both of us must be professional at all times.” A picture—fuzzy and dim, but a picture nonetheless—emerged in his mind, one of possibility and hope, where he could be happy. His belly did little nervous flips the more he thought about it. He could have what he wanted only if he allowed himself to want it. Okay, that sounded pretty convoluted in his mind, but it was the best he could do. “I don’t want people gossiping about us behind our backs. You have work to do, and so do I.”

  Brock jumped off the sofa hard enough that it shimmied a little. “You want to keep me a secret?”

  “No. If others find out, so be it.” Martin held out his hand. “But if we’re professional in the office, then there will be nothing to talk about. The people who work for me are good people. I think they want what’s best for the company and one another. I would hope that extends to me.” He waited, and Brock’s hand slipped into his. “Office romances happen. Phillip down in portfolio management is married to Regina in customer relations. They met at the office picnic one summer, dated, and got married. The office held a wedding shower for them. It was good. They didn’t go sneaking around at the office or making faces at each other when they were in meetings together. The two of them were professional, and that’s all I’m saying.”

  “What about when we aren’t in the office?” Brock squeezed his hand, and Martin tugged him closer.

  “You mean like right now?” Martin whispered, his voice sounding rough even to him. “In private… things between us will be private. I’m not going to talk about our lives at the office, other than putting a picture of you on my desk at some future point.” He smiled, because it was important that Brock knew he wasn’t going to be some dirty little secret. “We’re just figuring things out, and I don’t expect to have all the answers, not about something like this.”

  Brock came closer, darkening his vision as his arms slid around Martin’s waist. “I don’t either. But I want things to be clear. You—the person who doesn’t do well with relationships—want to try with me?”

  “Yeah. I want to try.” Just saying the words made him smile and calmed his roiling insides. “I know I’m not a romantic kind of guy.”

  Brock tugged him closer, their chests pressing together. “Is that what Jackson told you?” he whispered.

  “Yeah. He said I never sent him flowers or cards. I could never remember an anniversary, and I always worked late, even on the nights when he’d make a special dinner.” Martin closed his eyes as if to block out those memories. “He always said I never talked to him or told him things.”

  “That could be true, but it’s also possible that Jackson wasn’t listening either. Did you ever think of that?” Brock stroked up and down his arms. “Maybe things didn’t work out because the two of you were in such different places and wanted different things. It could be something as simple as that. Not everything is a matter of blame.” Brock pulled him into a hug.

  Martin closed his arms around Brock, contented, happy, and definitely more than a little excited. Brock guided him out of the room and into a much darker space. It wasn’t until the back of his legs bumped the bed that Martin realized where they were. Then the much bigger realization hit him. Martin hadn’t panicked or stopped what they were doing to know where they were because he hadn’t had to. He’d trusted Brock to guide him and keep him safe without even thinking about it. He doubted he would have been able to do that with Jackson.

  “Martin, relax. Last night you had your turn, and now it’s mine.” Brock pressed him back. For a second Martin felt like he was falling, but Brock was there, gentling him down onto the mattress, and then damned if Brock didn’t turn into a heat-generating wild man. Brock’s hands seemed to be everywhere, undressing him, roaming over his chest and sides. Martin closed his eyes, because in the darkness he could see nothing anyway. But that turned off his visual searching and let him settle and be in the moment.

  And what a moment it was. There were times when Martin wished he had his vision back. He supposed that was natural. Right now, for just a few minutes, he’d love to be able to see Brock in all his sweat-sheened glory, eyes blazing, looking back at him. Then, as Martin lifted his hands, sliding them over Brock’s rough, stubbled cheeks, holding them there, he realized he could. His imagination filled in what his eyes couldn’t, and Brock was there, soft lips parted, gazing at him.

  “You know, you’re stunning like this. I’m aware letting someone else be in control is hard.”

  “Not with you.” Hell, Martin loved that Brock seemed to understand how to make him feel amazing.

  Brock kissed him hard, pouring on energy and desire, stoking the heat that built between them. Martin slid his fingers through Brock’s silky hair, loving the tactility of it, of him. Brock seemed to quiver when Martin touched him, the same way Martin shook as Brock slid his hands down his sides and over his hips, then under him to cup his butt in firm, gifted hands. There was something so right about being with Brock, and yet this was so quick. The slight tension over th
e speed kept him on the edge, worried if they went too fast, this would come to an end just as quickly, and that was the last thing he wanted. This, with Brock, was something he hoped went on forever, even though that sort of dream was way too premature.

  MARTIN SAT at the oval conference table, with Brock taking notes as he and Chester laid out the details of their deal. The purpose was to develop a letter of understanding between them that could then be used by the lawyers to draw up the formal merger documents. Brock typed furiously as Martin and Chester went over everything they had discussed the day before, point by point. This wasn’t the first deal either of them had done, and they both knew the importance of getting everything spelled out on paper—how the deal would be financially structured, management structure, performance measures between now and the time the deal closed, for both of them, among other things. They even named coordinators and specific points of contact within each organization to make sure that communications remained open and that both teams could begin to make the transition from two into one.

  Brock read back the agreement, and Martin nodded, having all the points he had wanted. “Is there anything we need to add?”

  “Not to the agreement, no. But I think there is one other thing we need to speak about. In order for this to work, both of us are going to need to manage organizational culture and their differences. We do things differently than you do, at a base level. Mergers fail when the organizations don’t meld together.”

  Martin nodded. He agreed wholeheartedly. “What do you propose?”

  “That we designate people from each team to transfer and work with their counterparts. I expect you have people who would be interested in working internationally, and we have people who would love to work with your subscription service to incorporate and be able to add international investments to that service. Our people must get to know one another or they aren’t going to be able to work together.”

  “Very true. We need to develop a joint integration plan for both teams. The goal has to be becoming one cohesive unit, rather than different departments.” That definitely wasn’t what Martin wanted. “Is that the last?”

  “Yes,” Chester said.

  “Excellent. Brock, could you finish the document and print out copies for both of us so we can review it before we break?” Martin checked his watch. Their flight was in three hours, so they had half an hour before they had to leave.

  “Certainly. Excuse me while I finish it up and get it printed.” Brock left the conference room, the door snicking closed.

  “There is one more thing I want to ask you about—Brock.” Chester’s chair squeaked. “He’s way overqualified to be an assistant for very long. I see that. And I was wondering if you’d have any objection if I offered him a place… in this organization, once the deal is completed. He’s bright, a go-getter, and I think he could go far.”

  Martin hadn’t been expecting that at all, and his throat suddenly went dry. “I know he will.” He didn’t give a straight answer on purpose. There was no way he was going to stand in Brock’s way. He could be successful at anything he set his mind to. Martin was sure of that, and he had been thinking that, once this deal was completed, he’d instruct Edna to find Brock a position where he could grow and flourish, using all his talents. “I….”

  “Is there a reason you don’t want him to come over to this team?” Chester pushed.

  “No. In fact, I’d never hold Brock back. He deserves all the opportunities possible.” It was just that he didn’t want Brock halfway across the country. But they had only been more than employee and employer for two days, and he didn’t have any right to tell Brock what to do. And Martin had no intention of pressuring him to stay in Brooklyn. “We can definitely look at that in due time.”

  Thankfully Chester didn’t press it any further.

  Brock returned and handed Chester a copy of the agreement. “I sent a copy to your computer so you can listen to it,” Brock said, handing Martin his earphones.

  He listened through the document, making a few changes after discussing them with Chester. They both signed the letter of understanding, and Martin put his copy in his case before standing.

  “Thank you. This was a very productive visit, and I think we’re going to make this a huge success.” Martin shook hands with Chester as Brock packed away his computer. He waited while Brock said goodbye, then took his arm, letting Brock guide him out to the car.

  Martin got in and leaned back on the seat, resting his head, coming down from almost three days of adrenaline. He’d gotten nearly everything he wanted, and the letter of understanding in his case would serve as the road map until the lawyers could mop up the deal. Now all he had to worry about was the proposal Chester had thrown on the table that had nothing to do with the terms of the agreement, but had the potential to rock his fragile heart to the core.

  Chapter 6

  IN THE three weeks since getting back from Milwaukee, Brock’s work routine had varied little. He now picked Martin up on his way to work and did his job to the very best of his ability. Even in private, at the office, he kept things professional. But now, most evenings Brock drove Martin home, and it was on those drives that everything changed. Some evenings they talked, and Martin went inside after giving him a good-night kiss, saying he was really tired… or had even more work to do. Brock usually went up with him and they had dinner, talking until it was time for Brock to head home to his shithole apartment. They were taking things slowly, which Brock appreciated.

  On weekends they went out to dinner and then back to Martin’s, where Brock stayed until Sunday evening, when he needed to get fresh clothes for work so he wasn’t doing the walk of shame.

  “What do you have planned for tonight?” Martin asked as Brock drove through traffic on Friday evening. “Would you mind driving into the city? I know it’s a pain, but there’s someone I need to meet.”

  Brock thought it strange because there was nothing on Martin’s calendar, but he put the address in the GPS and followed the directions. “Do you need me to take notes for you?” Brock asked, growing more curious as to the type of meeting this was going to be by the minute.

  “Most definitely,” Martin told him with amusement in his voice.

  Brock wondered if he was the butt of a joke until he pulled up in front of a nightclub.

  A man approached the car and offered to park it for them. “We’ve been expecting you, Mr. Graham, and I appreciate you calling ahead.” He pulled open Martin’s door, and Brock got out as well, joining him on the sidewalk as the valet slid the car into a parking space set off with cones a few spaces away.

  “What is this?” Brock asked again.

  “You told me once that I spent a lot of time dancing around a particular subject, and since I like dancing, I thought I’d bring you here.” Martin took his arm, and they were escorted inside, past the line of people waiting to get into the crowded club.

  There were people everywhere, and Brock wondered how he was going to navigate Martin through all of them. It was a sea of bodies, some half-dressed, writhing and bumping against each other with so little space between them that he was sure Martin was going to be trampled if they entered the fray.

  “Just lead me to the bar,” Martin said, and a few people parted, letting them pass, then closed ranks behind them as though every inch of space was precious.

  There were no stools available, but Martin didn’t seem concerned. Brock got the bartender’s attention, and Martin placed an order for what he wanted, letting Brock do the same. He paid when the drinks arrived, then stood off to the side to sip his.

  “Is this really a good idea?” Brock half shouted above the pumping music.

  “Sure it is. I used to come here all the time. At least, before I met Jackson. He didn’t like it at all. But I was young, and this place had such energy.” Martin finished his drink and set the glass on a small nearby table. “Is your drink gone?” he asked, and Brock finished his club soda. Then, as though it was pl
anned, the music shifted and became something a little quieter. Martin took Brock’s hand, pulled him close, and held his waist. “You guide us through the people, and I’ll lead you in the steps.”

  “Are you serious?” Brock asked into Martin’s ear.

  “Of course I am.” Martin grinned. “I used to be amazing, but now that can be dangerous. So I try to dance much smaller and closer now.” He chuckled and held Brock nearer, feeling his way as they moved around the floor.

  The music was electric, working its way inside him, and Brock let it control how he moved his body, bringing Martin along with him until the two of them seemed as one, gliding together, hips rolling until nothing else existed. Dancing was like sex standing up, with clothes on—at least, he’d heard that on a number of occasions. But for Brock, dancing was more intimate, a special give-and-take that allowed you to show off and present your partner like a beautiful, graceful bird to admire, but only you could touch. And Brock wanted to show Martin off, his beautiful man who, day by day, held his heart a little more.

  The music changed, becoming more powerful, the beat deeper and more primal. He shifted his hips, rolling and snapping them with Martin’s, letting him hold him. The music threatened to carry Brock away, and he held Martin tighter, afraid he was going to fly apart without Martin’s hold to keep his feet where they belonged. Finally, after breathing in Martin’s scent for song after song, letting his natural perfume be the clouds his feet glided on, he pulled away, needing a drink and a breath.

  “Let’s sit this next one out.” Brock gently guided Martin off the floor, hands never leaving Martin’s. As Brock went to get a drink, Martin stayed near the wall, heaving in heavy air, though he pulled away from the wall as soon as Brock returned. Brock pressed a glass into his hand, and Martin drank, with Brock doing the same, the whiskey biting at first and then smoothing, sending heat down his throat.