Pent Up (8 page)

Crazy. He’d let Bauer’s paranoia seep into him until it metastasized into insomnia and blue balls. For the millionth time, he understood why guys jerked off out of boredom just to numb their brains.

He drifted to the dining room where the dishes waited for cleanup by Bauer’s staff. Resisting the urge to put everything in the sink, he tugged open the terrace door and stepped outside into the quiet, sultry air.

His skin started to ooze sweat, but at least he could breathe out here. His back prickled with the sensation of being watched. Bullshit, of course. He and his boss were alone up here, and he was the only one awake.
Right?

Hating himself, he looked up at the blank black of Bauer’s windows.

For reasons he didn’t examine, he stood looking up at them for a full two minutes, for a sign, for a clue.

Nothing and no one looked back, but his prickling unease did not subside.

Stupid.
His cock bobbed and finally sagged inside his creased boxers.

In other circumstances he’d have said his instincts had him on alert, but in this bullshit situation he knew better. Andy Bauer was more likely to be struck by lightning or abducted by aliens than fall prey to any kind of Tom Clancy scenario.

Bullshit.

Bauer had to be running a con, with him as window dressing. Maybe that was it. Maybe he wasn’t telling Ruben the whole truth after all. Maybe he did want a rough wingman to crack the ladies. And maybe the reason Ruben was earning so much for so little was to allow Bauer to act out some egomaniac kink. Exhibitionism, voyeurism. Best to stay dumb.

Sleeping dogs lie.

Two puzzle pieces snicked together in his mind, and in that moment, sweet certainty gripped him: his boss had duped someone.

Watching the dark glass above, he hoped it wasn’t him.

CHAPTER FOUR

FEAR IS
the cheapest weapon and the hardest to hold.

“Think fast.” A blue racquetball bounced off the window and smacked into Ruben’s chest hard enough to sting. He spun. “Ow.”

It was day three, 2:19 p.m., and Bauer glared from the other side of the living room with his hands extended to catch.

Ruben squeezed the little ball, collapsing it in his hand. Why was Bauer pissed? And why the ball?

“Think. Faster. Dumbass.” Bauer sounded angry and looked straight at him. “Well, then you tell him to sell or we destroy his family and sell them off for parts to the Swiss.”

Ruben straightened. “The hell?”

“I
want
him to shit his pants!” Bauer shook his head and pointed at his earpiece and laughed without smiling. “Lowball him.”

Oh. Phone call on the headset. Until today, Bauer had kept his business behind closed doors. What was this call, anyways, and why did he want Ruben to hear it? Or did he? Had he just come out to play?

Andy ground his teeth. His jaw flexed. “This close? He
should
shit his pants, man. And then he sells or you’re going to come give him a colostomy with a chainsaw.” He beckoned for the ball.

Speechless, Ruben gently tossed the blue ball back underhanded. He didn’t want to break anything. Fuck knows, he couldn’t afford replacements. Was this jagoff playing catch?

“Bullshit.” Bauer sighed, either at him or the call. “If not fast, at least you can fucking
think
, Joe. We got him pinned down.” With a snarl, Bauer pitched the ball hard at the window so that it smacked into Ruben’s chest again.

A game.

Ruben goggled and muttered, “Nuts,” but finally he threw the ball back at the glass.
Following orders.

It bounced wild but his boss caught it, giving Ruben a thumbs-up and that goofy clean-cut grin. Raggedy Andy wanted to play.

For the next half hour, they played fake handball against the window in a million-dollar room, grinning like idiots while Andy brokered some kind of takeover. Happily, nothing got broken.

By the end of the call, Ruben had learned fuck-all about international finance or the Apex Fund, but at least he’d started to think of Bauer as Andy. Dude was too nutty to be called “Mr.” Anything.

As predicted, Ruben’s security duties just peddled make-believe, but they sure as hell paid well. Every time Ruben felt like grumbling, he looked at those new suits hanging in his brother’s closet and bit his tongue. None of his business how Andy wasted his money or anyone else’s.

A couple of clients came to the apartment for meetings while Hope served drinks and research reports. Ruben shook their hands, laughed on cue, and saw nothing to endanger Andy’s money or safety. The clients were bland and blank, mostly old white dudes dressed like soap opera villains in handmade shoes, but not an eyepatch among them. Boring, actually. As he’d suspected, any black ops Wall Street mercs were strictly no-show.

Sure enough, the man spent most of his time on phone calls piped through a Bluetooth earpiece, shouting financial advice into the air like a schizophrenic with an MBA.

By the weekend, Ruben felt pretty certain the biggest threat to Andy Bauer… was Andy Bauer. The security gig ended up feeling funny but harmless. As long as Ruben stuck around, Andy could pretend he was in danger, but protected at the same time. Ruben could track Andy’s paranoid logic: he wanted an invisible goon, so he’d bought one.

Gradually Andy monitoring him and his lack of boundaries started seeming pitiful, unnerving, but unfreaky. He seemed as lonely as Ruben felt. Maybe he was.

Let sleeping dogs lie.

Funny thing: he dug Andy’s company. The occasional predatory flashes showed calculation and financial know-how, but he wasn’t a prick, exactly. He took an interest in Ruben, which automatically made him interesting. Not a bad guy, just lonely, rich, and too brainy to be normal. Personally, Ruben thought Andy had suffered from too much education and not enough life. Boarding school, fancy college, all kinds of shit that obviously kept him rich but made him no friends that Ruben could see. He sympathized; they were both private people, holding cards close.

A leaper and a looker.
They made a good team.

Maybe loneliness and boredom did strange things to his imagination, but Andy began to live rent-free in his head.

The long shifts with Andy left Ruben no time for a life. His best window for meeting some rich nymphomaniac was in the twenty-two minutes it took him to walk down Park Avenue in the morning, but Park Avenue at dawn proved to be sadly nympho-free.

Ruben got in the habit of taking a scalding shower every night before crashing on his couch. The hot water wore him out, and he’d struggle toward sleep while the cat glared at him, waiting to be overfed. At least he managed to hit a couple AA meetings, but in this neighborhood, most were packed with old-timers and in Spanish.

Still, tonight was Saturday and he’d hoped he might be able to go out, maybe a movie or dancing. Anyplace where he might be able to hook up, because these days his balls throbbed like a fucking root canal.

As soon as Ruben got downstairs at the Iris, he texted his brother that he was homebound, and a few blocks later he got a reply. “GIMME THIRTY” which meant Daria was over and Charles was getting busy.

Whenever his brother entertained the girlfriend, Ruben took a walk around the block for a couple hours. Stations of the cross for losers.
Here is the pizza parlor, here is the free clinic.
Wasn’t Charles’s fault. Tonight Ruben opted to hit the grocery.

On the way he dug out his phone. “Peach?”

All the way to Ninty-Sixth Street, she golfed and he griped. She kept asking about his social life and he shrugged it off. He was grateful for the friendly ear but conscious of the lonely box he’d built around himself. His weird fixation on Andy didn’t come up and he was too ashamed to spill the beans. Him, as a guy, having a female sponsor was really unorthodox, and for once he understood why. Her Sondheim quotes didn’t teach him anything, but they calmed him down even as he was surprised by how tired Peach sounded.

Finally, Ruben hung up and wandered into Associated Supermarket. Paying rent, he couldn’t afford, but since moving in four weeks ago, he’d helped his little brother out by covering groceries and meals.

Charles lived up on 109th in Spanish Harlem, so a lot of the locals and signs used language Ruben couldn’t understand. He tended to nod and glower so no one asked him questions. Scary mug to the rescue, again.

The grocery store still seemed like an alien planet to him. Marisa had done the shopping, always. He cooked sometimes, but mostly she’d been a housewife and happy about it. Standing by the baskets, Ruben fished the list out of his pocket: Fanta, Wheaties, pasta, chips. Nothing green, nothing fresh. Charles still ate like a teenager because Daria did most of the cooking. For the past month, Ruben had fought his gut with crunches and push-ups.

Ruben headed down the first uncrowded aisle and realized he was standing in a narrow aisle of wine and beer. What motherfucker had decreed that supermarkets could legally sell booze? He nodded to himself and avoided that landmine, knocking out the whole list in about twenty minutes.

The air conditioning inside the store chilled him so much that the swelter outside felt refreshing when he emerged. Taking his time to waste another ten minutes, he trudged back to the apartment, balancing the bags, praying the stretched plastic would survive the journey and that his brother had put on pants.

He took the stairs slowly and made noise with his key in the lock just to be safe. “S’me.” He ducked into the tiny kitchen.

The cat showed up expecting a snack, but settled for dry kibble, crunching at him with bored resignation.

Ruben scratched its head. “At least you didn’t have to walk around the block.”

Charles swore otherwise, but Ruben needed to find a place of his own ASAP.

“Rube?” His brother came out of the bathroom, hair damp and wrapped in a towel. “We’re good.”

Ruben put the groceries on one of the stools in front of the tiny counter to put away later. No way could they both fit in the kitchen.

“Nice threads. My jackets looked like shit on you. Jesus.”

“You got fat, man.”

“Fuck you.” His brother rubbed his hard gut.

Charles was tubby, had no kinda chin, and lived on maxed out credit cards, but he got way more pussy because he was without shame. He’d lie, beg, and whine to get inside a girl’s ass. Daria had managed to hang on to him for seven months, which was some kinda record. “Bauer’s right about the suit, though. He dressed you up sharp.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Job still kosher?”

“I guess? He’s buying.” Ruben nodded. “But I still can’t figure why Empire.”
Why me?

For a moment he imagined Andy’s shark smile. He realized it didn’t scare him anymore, which scared him.

“Bauer wants to feel like a badass with some pit bull on a leash, so let him.” Charles shrugged. “It’s all in his head, and he wants you to put on a show.”

“He thinks the pigeons are spying on us. Rich people don’t cheap out on safety.”

“Then who fucking knows, Rube? Slumming? I say thank God for paranoid cheapskates.” Charles took a swallow of milk and wiped his mouth. “He a homo, y’think? Crushing on your mean
pinga
.”

Ruben snorted. “Bauer? No way. Uptight is all.” He didn’t add that he’d probably spent more time scoping Andy than vice versa. “That dude uses the Playboy channel like the home shopping network.”

An odd look, clenched eyebrows. “You should get with some ladies, mingle. Get your ashes hauled.”

“Yeah.” Ruben pressed his lips together and looked at the mottled floor. For five seconds he considered braving the hot night to hit a meeting then crapped out.
Tomorrow.

“Socialize. Everything you got’s been taken. I get it, Rube. You’re not a kid, and you’re gonna have to get your feet under you again. Man up.”

“I’m not a charity case, Chucky.”

“No. No, you’re not. A charity case would say thank you and get off my back. No, you gotta bust my balls and bitch that I’m not sending you into something crazy and dangerous.”

Ruben exhaled. “I gotta feeling.”

“A feeling. You’re thinking about Marisa.”

Ruben shrugged. Actually he hadn’t obsessed about Marisa in three months, but it made more sense than what he had been obsessing over.

“Ruben, all that’s past. Almost a year, huh? She’s done. Moved on. You do the same.”

“Sure.” Eyes up. “No. I’m good.”

“I thought you dug Bauer’s assistant. Hot and smart.”

“Hope? Yeah. No. Engaged.” Every time Ruben flirted she held up a diamond the size of a throat lozenge, but she seemed unoffended by his attention.

“How engaged can she be?” Charles always assumed they could talk their way into any panties. Maybe he was right. Down the hall, Daria’s plaintive voice asked something.

Charles raised his voice to answer. “Almost,
cariño
. M’talking to my brother, huh?”

No reply from the bedroom, but Charles nodded toward Daria anyway.

How did they talk about Ruben when he wasn’t here? Did he even want to know? Shame choked him.

I’m intruding here.
Irrationally, Ruben wanted to be back at the penthouse spying on a life he’d never be able to afford. Plenty of room there. At least Andy listened. He swatted that thought away.

Peach’s voice in his head:
Analysis is paralysis.

He needed to make himself scarce somehow. The apartment was tiny, but it had an old, footed tub in there big enough for three people. Charles hated to sweat so he liked to sit and soak. Ruben tried to keep his showers short ’cause this wasn’t his place and never would be.

Ruben pointed at the john. “Okay if I rinse off?”

“Please! You stink,
papá
.” Charles wiped his face again and ducked back toward the safety of his girlfriend.

After making up the sofa, Ruben washed fast and went to bed wet and wobbly. If he slept at all, he didn’t remember it in the morning.

SOMETIMES A
plan is just a list of things that don’t happen.

Ruben talked Andy into working out and some basic self-defense training. In exchange, Ruben consented to hit the paths in Central Park three mornings a week at dawn. He refused to sleep over, but the tradeoff seemed fair.