Page 24 of Takeover
God, Michael. What the hell was he going to do about that?
He still wanted Michael—his companionship, his touch, his smile—all that simmered between them, but neither of them needed the stress of the shattered friendship that lay beneath them. If they were to make it through this release, this—situation—needed to end, one way or another.
If it meant firing Michael? Sam pressed a hand against the refrigerator when his heart tried to gouge its way out of his chest. He would do it. If he had to, he would do it.
He yanked open the door. Inside, Sam found two cans of diet cola and one lone can of ginger ale. He took the latter, grabbed a packet of something called “headache pills” from the generic first aid box on the wall, opened both, then washed the pills down with the “pop.”
If only the rest of his life were that easy to solve. He rubbed his forehead and waited for the medicine to kick in.
At least it was damn quiet in the office—that helped his head, though not his anxiety. If Sam hadn’t seen the clock, he’d have guessed it was well after five, not a few minutes before three. Not a single soul talking in the hallways—usually three o’clock meant chatter around the coffeepot. Instead, everyone had their heads buried in work at their desks.
This release was getting to them all. The whole place felt constricted, nervous, like a dark sky before a thunderstorm. The rest of the company might have no clue they were being courted by Sundra, but that tension, the worry, the anticipation, hung in the air anyway. Completely understandable, given their CEO kept late hours and the board had an on-site meeting. All that added up, and no one at Four Rivers was stupid.
The rumor mill must be grinding like wild.
Another fire Sam needed to put out: all the incorrect conclusions that were undoubtedly flying around, like the office closing or mass layoffs. Those falsehoods killed productivity.
He really didn’t have time for this shit with Michael. They should be a team. Partners.
Partners.
Sam shivered. That word rolled in his brain for far too long.
Wouldn’t happen. Not with Michael, not with anyone else, not while he pursued this career—and he’d come too far to just give up now. He was happy enough.
Yeah, and if he kept telling himself that, maybe he’d believe it. No partner, no lover, no Michael. Perfectlyhappy.
Sam curled his hands to fists.
He’d caused many companies to move on to better things—seen their employees well compensated with better and more challenging work. His presence had changed the environment at several places—better policies for domestic partners, better anti-discrimination rules in hiring.
You’re no saint.Too many companies had folded on his watch. People out of jobs. Men and women he’d had fired—because it was just business, after all.
At the heart of it all, Sam was a closeted gay man in a career where sharks and snakes preyed. And he was one of them, no matter what he told himself. A suit. What if he came out? What then? Or stopped running long enough to let himself care about Michael? Except he already cared. There was a laundry list of “what-ifs” that scrolled through his brain whenever he thought of Michael.
Coming out meant switching careers, to one that didn’t involve venture capitalists, boards of directors, and CEOs. He would be quite fucked by all of them the moment they knew. He’d seen it happen.Been there.
Sam let out a breath. His head hurt more than ever, and he hoped it was the last surge before the meds took the edge off. His whole body shook.
The picked-over remains of the board’s catered meal lay spread out over several tables. Nothing left, really. A leaf of lettuce here, some crumbs there. A tub of cocktail sauce. Sam gathered and pitched the empty plates into the trash, savoring the satisfying thump they made. They were the only objects he could throw with any force without breaking something important.
And tossing around chairs and tables wouldn’t help anything.
Instead, Sam wiped down the tables and set about straightening them up.
William had been right, in a way. Michael had overreacted, which was unusual. How much of that was job stress and how much was the remains of their friendship? Sam didn’t know.
On one of the tables by the wall, several photo albums of Four Rivers’ early years had been rifled through and knocked out of their usual neat stacks. Sam straightened the pile, then on a whim took the first one and opened it.
And there Michael was—a younger version beaming back with a grin that tightened Sam’s heart.
It was the same smile Sam had seen in Curaçao, one that spoke of excitement and thrill.
Michael stood with a woman and a man holding up a homemade Four Rivers Networks sign. If Sam had to guess, the two other people were Susan and Rasheed, the founders of Four Rivers.
The title under the photo said, “The Three Musketeers.”
Sam flipped through the book. Photos of the first office—a tiny converted house up north of the city. Rasheed on a skateboard in the driveway. Susan holding a line card in what looked like someone’s garage. A group of ten engineers in front of a hardware bench. That photo read, “First packet passed!”
