Office Dynamics: M/M Workplace Straight to Gay First Time Romance (3 page)

“I’d really rather --” said Jonas, but was interrupted when the wall he was leaning against slid open without preamble. He nearly toppled over but caught himself just in time, shooting Tris an embarrassed smile as he righted himself and smoothed out his shirt.

Elevators. Right, he thought.

Tris’s eyes narrowed in concern. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Jonas, lifting a hand. “I’m fine. 
Sir.
 Mr. Hall.”

“Tris,” Tris corrected him.

“Tris,” said Jonas with a jerky nod. “Right.” He smiled again. “I’m 
fine
.” He held up his thumbs.

---

Parked across the street, rich and gleaming, with the touch-me-not appearance often reserved for the elite, Tris’s Bentley shone under the streetlight like the wings of a beetle.

Jonas felt his jaw nearly drop off its hinges.

The driver -- a man in uniform, with a hat and gloves, like Jonas thought only existed in movies – tipped his hat to them as they approached.

“Good evening, Mr. Hall,” said the driver with a smile, folding his newspaper under one arm. “Who’s your friend?”

“Oh,” said Tris, startled, as if only remembering Jonas’ presence. “He’s my temp until Edith returns from maternity leave.” He smiled distractedly.

“Doesn’t seem like your type,” said the driver with a toothy grin, casting Jonas an appraising look.

Jonas wasn’t sure what to make of it but one thing he knew for certain was: he better proceed with caution.

The interior of the Bentley was perfumed and clothed in rich brown leather. Jonas asked to be dropped off in front of Big Dice, the only club he knew off the top of his head whose clientele comprised not of minors trickling in from the local high schools but of the mid-twenty corporate grunt set of which Jonas now was a part.

As soon as Tris’s Bentley was out of sight, Jonas quickly flagged down a cab, too lazy to take the train and too exhausted to muster the strength to walk all the way to the station.

He tripped face-first into bed as soon as he got back to his apartment, ready to sleep with all his clothes on until his phone started vibrating in his pocket. He shifted around and fished it out with an annoyed grunt, pressing it to his ear as he toed off his shoes.

It was Luke. “Hey, are you free tonight? My babysitter has chicken pox apparently and Marge and I are going out to watch a mo--”

Jonas hung up before he could continue.

---

Eventually, Jonas got used to the head-splitting headache that was now his life at the firm.

Tris continued to be a consistent pain in his side, but Jonas learned to work around it by paying close attention 
and
 taking down notes.

For example, every Tuesdays and Thursdays, Tris always seemed to be in the mood for English Breakfast Tea; the rest of the week he either wanted an espresso or a caramel macchiato loaded with extra shots. He never finished a drink, turned his cup counter clockwise twice before he drank from it, read only the front page of the morning paper usually at nine forty-five when he clocked in, and possessed an unnatural love for pudding.

Two weeks ago, Jonas went on a goddamn pudding run because Tris suddenly had a craving for treacle sponge pudding. And only one store made treacle sponge pudding that had the flavor and consistency that Tris enjoyed: 
Carl Marletti
.

The store was halfway across the city, an hour away by bus, twenty-five minutes by train. Jonas took the bus because he figured he needed a solid hour to himself to reflect on his life and choices.

Any time spent away from Tris and the firm, he savored like sugar to a starving man.

It was why he often looked forward to the weekend. No work, no Tris, no coffee runs, and he didn’t have to listen to Tris complain about the stock market on the drive to wherever he felt like going for lunch.

Two days of blessed peace. It was divine.

Working for Tris, Jonas realized after a month, was mind-numbing work. He lost sleep, and as a result was tired and cranky often. He spent more time at the office than at home.

But, like a light headache, the job was manageable. Annoying, sure, but manageable. Sometimes, Tris left Jonas alone on the odd day he went out for golf or lunched at the country club, and that two hour reprieve made things bearable, affording Jonas a shred of sanity.

Jonas was on his way back to the office after having picked up Tris’s dry-cleaning when his phone rang in his pocket. 
Tris.
 Of course. He let it ring a few more times before picking it up.

“Where are you?” Tris said.

“I went to pick up your dry-cleaning.” Jonas ducked into the lobby and flashed his ID card at the security guard.

There was a pause and then a shuffling noise. “Meet me in the lobby,” said Tris. “Now.”

“I 
am
 in the lobby,” Jonas said. He scanned the wave of people flitting in opposing directions and zeroed in on the approaching figure whose hair of indeterminate color stood in curly tufts around his head. Jackpot. Jonas smiled a little until he remembered he was supposed to be hating Tris.

Tris slid his phone into his back pocket, checked his watch, and eyed Jonas with a sniff. “What is that?” He gestured vaguely to the plastic bag of clothes slung over Jonas’ arm.

“Your suits,” Jonas said. “You said I should go pick them up; and I did.”

“Right,” Tris said and strode brusquely to the door, signaling for Jonas to follow. “We’re going on a field trip.”

“Now?” said Jonas.

“Now,” Tris said, shooting him a look.

They took the Bentley to the suburbs, to the kind of neighborhood real estate ads often described as loaded with charm.

This was the place people often aspired to live in, Jonas thought, where the lawns were a massive expanse of neatly trimmed hedges and the crime rate was below five percent. This was why people at the firm put in so much overtime: so that they could live in the lap of luxury in a neighborhood untouched by economic pitfalls.

The Bentley entered the wrought-iron gates of a manse so enormous, it could’ve probably fit Jonas’ entire neighborhood and their extended family if permitted. It looked stately and handsome in the noon sunshine, four stories of marble towering above the trees.

In the courtyard stood a large five-foot granite statue of an angel blowing a trumpet out of which sprang water that fed a bubbling fountain.

Jonas followed Tris inside the foyer, shoes sinking into the plush carpeting. A crystal chandelier hung from the frescoed ceiling. Jonas kept his hands to himself in case he broke anything he couldn’t pay back.

Tris told him to wait in the hall with stern instructions to stay put before disappearing into one of the many doors. He emerged forty minutes later, looking constipated more so than usual, rubbing his jaw in a way Jonas recognized: something he hadn’t anticipated had come up and displeased him.

Jonas picked himself up from his heap on the floor, smoothing out his the wrinkles from his pants.

“You okay?” Jonas asked. “Mr. Hall?”

Tris walked back to the car. “I need a drink,” he said, sliding inside with a deeper frown.

---

Tris wasn’t kidding when he said he needed a drink.

They didn’t drive back to the office, but to one of those high-end bars Jonas often suspected was financed by the Russian mob.

Everyone in it spoke with an accent and wore a tailor-made suit, from the bouncers flanking the frosted glass doors, to the barkeep with the funny mustache and scar running down his left cheek. Admission was members only. Jonas was nearly left out on the street until Tris returned for him and tipped the bouncers. Generously.

Tris blended in perfectly in his expensive Berluti loafers and his Jean Dunand watch, flagging down a waiter to order a scotch on the rocks.

“And for your companion, monsieur?”

“He’ll have a malt,” said Tris right before Jonas said, “I’ll have a mojito, thanks.”

They shared a look. “He’ll have a mojito,” Tris said, and Frenchy Frencherton bowed and finally left them alone, sauntering back to the bar where he belonged.

“Thanks.” Jonas dropped in one of the leather seats surrounding the grooved table Tris had chosen. He dumped Tris’s plastic bag of clothes in one of the chairs, giving the place an appreciative whistle.

Tris snorted and shook his head.

“What?” Jonas said.

Tris continued to watch him. “Nothing,” he said and took his phone out. Tris stared at it for a moment before turning it off.

“You have an appointment with the guys from TFP,” Jonas reminded him. “In an hour. Why’d you turn your phone off? 
Sir
.”

Tris shrugged. “Because I felt like it.” He rubbed at his temples. “Stop calling me sir, we’re off the clock now.”

“Not really. My shift ends at five,” said Jonas.

“
Jonas
.” Tris clenched his fist on the table, unclenched it again, sighing. “I’m tired; don’t try my patience.”

That shut him up. “What happened in there?” Jonas asked once he found the courage. He was more curious than concerned, figuring that whatever it was, Tris could handle it. Jonas had seen Tris fire people last week without so much as batting an eye; he didn’t have feelings. He was a robot, Jonas knew.

“Family meeting,” Tris said with a humorless laugh. “Trust me, Jonas, you wouldn’t want to know.”

“Try me,” Jonas said, startling himself with his own candor. Tris blinked at him, tilting his head, but said nothing and simply smiled, snatching his drink from the tray as soon as the waiter arrived with it. He fingered his drink before licking a drop off his finger, wiping his hand on one of the paper napkins provided and staring wistfully into space.

He looked a little sad, Jonas thought, and was sure he was going crazy when the sudden unbidden urge to pat Tris on the shoulder overcame him in waves. He wasn’t supposed to feel sympathetic towards the same man who tormented him eight hours a day. Loathing suited Tris just fine, but not… Not pity.

Jonas sipped his mojito to distract himself from strange thoughts.

Tris lifted his glass in Jonas’ direction. “Cheers,” he said without any real… cheer. “To… 
I don’t know.
”

Jonas sipped some more and tipped his glass forward with a clink. “Cheers,” he said, and almost reached over and touched Tris’s hand.

---

The day continued to grow progressively stranger when, two and a half hours later, as Jonas hauled a staggeringly drunk Tris into the street, the Bentley was nowhere to be found and storm clouds began rolling across the sky.

Jonas didn’t know where else to bring Tris who kept pawing at his face and moaning about his father’s lack of parenting skills, so he took a cab to his apartment where he deposited Tris in an unruly heap on the crumby bed.

Tris fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillows and Jonas watched him for a while before pulling off his shoes.

He undid Tris’s tie, slid off his jacket, and was about to go for his pants before he realized how that would border on inappropriate, and he didn’t want to get fired before his contract ended, so he left them alone and put the coffee pot on in the kitchen, sending Giselle a text, asking her if she knew Joan from the front desk.

And if she did know Joan, to forward calls for Tris to Jonas’ phone so he could reschedule his appointments.

By six fifteen, Tris still hadn’t woken so Jonas showered, watched some TV, and was about to nod off when he heard a clatter in the bedroom. He sprang to his feet and was immediately greeted by the sight of Tris throwing up over the shag carpet, making a grotesque face. “Ugh,” he said, clutching his head. “I think I need a basin.”

Jonas herded him into the bathroom before he could do any more damage to the floor and then left him to mop up the mess; a terrible idea, it turned out, because Tris fell asleep again. When Jonas returned for him, he was slumped against the wall, mouth open, shirt wet and crusty with vomit.

Jonas shook him awake with sprays of water from the shower handle.

“Oh good, I thought you’d died,” he said, and Tris laughed, surprising him, as Jonas dragged him to his feet and propped him under the shower nozzle which spurted scalding hot water intermittently and nearly singed off Jonas’ skin. But Tris seemed to enjoy it anyway, tilting up his face and moaning under the gush.

After a few minutes, when Jonas deemed Tris awake enough, he turned the shower off and tossed his last clean towel at him. “I’ll have clothes ready for you in the bedroom,” he said, shutting the door behind him, shaking off the memory of Tris’s wet skin gliding across his own.

Jonas didn’t have anything that would fit Tris except a musty shirt from his collegiate days with a picture of a shrimp on the front. He found a pair of running pants that looked more brown than black from its many trips to the wash and folded them on the bed along with the shirt. Then he left, made coffee, heated the leftover beef stew Margaret made him take home over the weekend and sat at the kitchen table, twiddling his thumbs.

Showered and changed, hair an electric dripping tangle around his head, Tris clumped into the kitchen, feet shoved in a pair of worn out moccasins Jonas had left for him in the bedroom.

“Where on earth am I?” he asked, blinking blearily.

“My secret lair.” Jonas bowed with exaggerated pomp and pushed a bowl of stew Tris’s way. “Eat; it’ll make you feel better.”

Tris rubbed his nose and pulled out a seat. “It smells in here.”

Jonas chose to ignore that. “Coffee?” He raised a chipped mug.

“Yes, please,” Tris said, spooning food into his mouth and making an appreciative noise. “This is quite good. What’s in it?”

“Orphan meat,” Jonas said, handing Tris his cup. Tris breathed it in, like he always did before drinking coffee, turning his cup counter clockwise and then pausing, glancing up at Jonas. “Did you put sugar in this?”

“Yep,” Jonas said. “Yes, I mean. Sir.”

Tris smiled. “We’re not at work anymore, Jonas-Lee.”

“Only my mother calls me that anymore. 
Jonas-Lee
.” Jonas shuddered and shook his head. “It’s just Jonas. I mean, if you want me to call you Tris, then you might as well call me Jonas.”

He didn’t know why he was suddenly saying all these things though he had a sneaking suspicion it was the stew.

“Jonas,” Tris said, nodding. He slurped his coffee and hummed. “I like it. Sounds nice. 
Jonas
.”

It was weird, Jonas thought, to hear Tris say his name with such relish. Even weirder still was the fact that he now sat across from Jonas, wearing Jonas’ shirt, eating Jonas’ food, his face a patchy red under the murky light of the kitchen. He looked younger than he was, and thin, and it made Jonas want to touch him, any part of him, just to see if he would disappear like an apparition, just to see if he were real.

“You missed three of your appointments today,” Jonas told him, diverting his attention to his own steaming mug of coffee. “And your sister called and said she wanted to talk to you about the will. I told her you were going to see her for lunch tomorrow. 
At Club Regis.
 You always have lunch there so I thought--”

“Ugh,” Tris said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “No, I mean, go on. Anything else?”

Jonas shook his head.

Tris nodded, like he was processing all of this.

“You’re a funny drunk,” Jonas said, mostly to lighten the mood.

Tris leaned against his fist. “I don’t usually drink to drown my sorrows. And I am a man of many sorrows, just so you know.”

“That’s kind of sad,” Jonas said.

Tris licked his spoon clean before pointing it at Jonas like a sword. “I have a therapist on call and yet he seems to be unable to fix any of my problems. Why do you think that is, Jonas?”

Jonas shrugged. Rich people and their rich people problems, he thought. It never seemed to end. “You know what you should do?” he said after a minute.

“Tell me,” said Tris, leaning closer.

“Have a nice fat 
greasy
 burger.” Jonas jabbed a finger in Tris’s face. “Just sink your teeth into one of those heart stoppers and grab a beer or two, sit back, relax, enjoy your beef. People will let you down all the time, mate. But food will never 
ever
 let you down.”

Tris laughed, tipping back his head. His eyes closed and his shoulders shook and it was strangely endearing to watch, the way his mouth opened as he collected himself.

Tris’s laughter subsided and he wiped his face of tears, pursing his lips together. “I should promote you or something; you’re very entertaining.”

“Thanks,” Jonas said, not without a hint of sarcasm.

“No, I mean it,” Tris said, and there it was: the open earnest face Jonas recognized from when they’d met for the first time in the elevator when Tris was having allergies. He had to blink to make sure he wasn’t seeing things.