Page 25 of Work: Strictly Professional

In all the photos, despite the various crimes against fashion committed through the decades, Derek’s eyes are the same. Dark and broody, simmering with rage when you first see them. Rage that softens at a second glance and softens more at a third. Rage that isn’t rage at all. Rage that’s pain. Ancient sadness masquerading as anger.

I flick through the photographs again.

Again, I humbly suggest I stop this madness.

Again, I ignore my own good advice completely.

My fingers flit through the images until I get to the one that stops my heart, squeezes it until I can’t take a good breath, and keeps it like that, unsteady, unhappy. Unable to look away.

It’s a photograph of Derek as a boy. A teen. Fourteen or fifteen, maybe sixteen at a push, I’d say. He’s a tall, gangly bean pole. Long legs and knobby knees. He’s standing next to a boy at least half a head shorter than him. Both of them are wearing tennis clothes, white from head to toe, and have their rackets in one hand and their other arm slung loosely around each other’s neck. The other boy is grinning so widely his eyes are almost closed and the bottom half of his face consists of nothing but teeth.

That I understand. That I get completely. He has Derek’s arm around him. What’s not to smile about?

What I don’t understand and don’t like at all is the fact that Derek is smiling just as hard.

I hold the photograph in my hand and study it carefully. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve done this now, but every time I do, I spot something I didn’t see before. The last time I was here, I noticed the boy was pushing himself up slightly. Not standing on his toes exactly, just lifting himself a little as if to make himself seem taller.

Today I notice that while Derek’s posture is near perfect, his head is tilted ever so slightly toward his friend.

A wicked, poisonous concoction of jealousy and something that feels idiotically like hope churns in my belly. I turn the photograph over and trace my fingers over Derek’s handwriting.

Carlo and me

It makes me feel sicker today than it did last time.

When I’ve had my fill, the photograph starts to simmer in my hands, quivering and getting hotter and hotter until I feel sure it will burn me. I drop it into the box and then quickly stuff it back into the middle of the pile.

I pull my shirt cuff over my hand and hastily wipe down everything I’ve touched. I smooth down the bed until the linen is as smooth as I found it and I have a slight crick in my back. I track back to the living room, pulling the doors shut and checking twice that I’ve locked them. Then I step into my shoes, scoop up Derek’s laundry bag, and head back to the office.

I make it just in time to serve him his lunch.

10

Derek

The call comes momentsafter Wyn steps out to fetch my water, a routine now so engrained I could set my watch by it—my keyboard has been brusquely cleared out of my way, a place setting for one has been laid, and I’ve been served a plate of food I didn’t order. I’m only halfway through my meal, but I answer despite the fact I recognize the number and I’m damn sure it won’t be a disturbance I enjoy.

I sigh heavily as the call connects. Barbara Anne is one of those people who insists on calling using video. Absolutely insists upon it. What’s wrong with a fucking voice call? Answer me that. Why people these days are utterly determined to prove that without decent lighting, most people look like they’re in the midst of a health crisis is beyond me.

Of course, Barbara Anne doesn’t look unwell. She never does, no matter the lighting. She has her hair up with little wisps cascading around her face and a fountain pen in her hand. It’s her official look. Her this isbusiness not pleasurelook. It’s a complete lie. This call is pure pleasure, believe me.

“Hello, Derek,” she says, voice dripping with sympathy.

Wyn makes his re-entry as she starts talking. He hot-foots it over to my desk and noses his way in front of my screen. “Mr. MacAvoy is having his lunch. I’m afraid he can’t be disturbed.”

Barbara Anne’s mouth drops in shock. So does mine.

I have to hand it to Wyn. This is an act of such sheer audacity that it borders on madness.

He straightens and asks if she’d like him to book an appointment for her to call me later today. This time, she recovers quickly. Steely gray eyes narrow and a smile that has the potential to spit fire peels back to show a row of perfect teeth.

“Actually, Wyn,” she says, “you’re just the man I’m looking for. Miller and I”—lies, lies, lies, Miller doesn’t give two shits about this—“have been tearing our hair out trying to get Derek’s plus one information out of him. Time is against us, as you know. We need to know who Derek’s bringing. I mean, of course, I’m bringing Sage, but it’s not an issue if Derek comes alone. We just need to know if he’ll have a plus one for the seating arrangements, you know.”

I’m not sure if it’s the dripping sarcasm, the glee, or even the hint of jealousy she’s trying her best to hide, but her words grow claws, and they grow them fast. No, not claws. Talons. Bright red meticulously filed talons. Talons that rake deep into my skin.

Wyn takes a small step back, wisely recognizing that he wants no part of this conversation.

I lean in, dropping my own set of claws.

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