2

Gregory opened the rear door with a polished gesture and waited perplexed for a few moments before he finally realized that Lord McKinley was already seated in the front passenger seat.

"My lord?" Collahan called cautiously, bending down in an attempt to see Brandon's face through the car's dark interior.

"You're no longer my driver."

"But I'm driving you, sir," Gregory pointed out after a pause.

Brandon turned around, slightly embarrassed:

"No, I asked you to drive because we're heading to our partner together and it's a long trip. I'll take over when the time comes."

Both of them knew that wasn't going to happen. After thinking for another moment, Gregory decided to support his lord's selfless impulse, if it pleased him.

There was something both sweetly pleasurable and painful about being enclosed in a small space with Brandon for an extended time. They remained silent for most of the drive. But that did not prevent Gregory from savoring the mystery of the presence, even though his face expressed nothing but the usual stern attentiveness of a driver. Peering into the panoramic mirror, he caught sight of the lord's blond hair tied back in a ponytail with a black ribbon. Collahan blinked and shifted into the left lane, showing complete concentration, but his thoughts bloomed with such searing images that his blood was boiling, giving Gregory a fresh blush. He wondered how it would feel to dig his fingers into that white ponytail, yank the ribbon loose with a single sweep of his hand, then cup the stubborn back of Brandon's head and pull him closer, unruly but trembling... He clutched the gearstick and eased the car gently to the right, and McKinley, sitting beside him, could hardly imagine what pictures were running through his partner's mind.

Sometimes Gregory tried to guess how the young lord felt about him. Every now and then Brandon would stare at him so intently that he would cringe under this gaze. Collahan's cautious, modest and discreet offers of help were almost always accepted, and the lord would cast him a quick, fleeting glance, a meager scrap of appreciation. It was the only sign of affection he offered, and Gregory received those crumbs each time like a rare, long-awaited treasure. The hardest part was not craving the next time or trying to please the lord beyond reason.

Collahan never allowed himself to hope. He trusted only in luck and the healing power of time: someday his insanity would settle down and disappear.

The yellow streetlights were blinding him. They were nearly at the hotel. Arrival was expected right on schedule, at nine fifteen. Gregory regretted that this little adventure was over and chuckled inwardly at how skillfully he could build something out of nothing.

"Sixth floor. We wish you a pleasant stay," the receptionist said politely, as she handed out a pair of plastic cards. "Your duplex is five-eleven."

Gregory pretended to search his briefcase for his phone to hide the flush of fear and excitement. He didn't dare to hope that Brandon would be around for these two days. And dreaded returning to the city, because the tale would end without fulfilling his expectations. It didn't take clairvoyance to logically conclude that nothing was likely to happen between them. Collahan would still pretend to think about numbers, tax bills, the motion of the stars, leprechauns — just not Brandon. He would watch him stride ahead, fantasize impossible scenes before falling asleep, suffer heart palpitations and unmistakable expressions of desire, all of which would be pleasant and very exciting, but would last only two days, and then leave him disappointed and empty.

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open.

"You don't look particularly jolly. Tired?"

Gregory looked up in surprise and found a hard stare fixed on him.

"I'm not used to spending so much time in monotony," he lied, referring to the long drive. "Why don't we visit the bar before turning in?" He asked suddenly, unexpectedly to himself.

"It's not even ten yet. I suppose we could. But only if there aren't any enthusiastic young girls. I'm not in the mood."

"Rely on me, my lord," Gregory said softly, busying himself with his jacket buttons while his heart thundered in his temples.

A quarter of an hour later they were down in the bar. The narrow, dimly lit room was thick with tobacco smoke rolling over the neon lights. The musical noise lost its intrusiveness in only one part of it, and Lord McKinley decided to settle there, taking a high chair at the bar. It felt strange and awkward for Collahan to pretend he could so easily spend an evening with the lord, drinking a bottle as if they were equals. Deep down he did not feel he was allowed to disregard these old prejudices.

"Whiskey, please," Brandon barely nodded to the bartender without even looking at him.

"Two shots," Gregory added.

The stone-faced bartender turned around to take care of the order.

They took sip after sip in silence for several minutes.

"So... what do you do, Gregory Collahan?" the lord asked lazily, watching the amber swirl in his glass.

"I serve as your junior economist, my lord," Gregory replied meaningfully, though it was a bit risqué.

Brandon finally turned and glanced at him briefly.

"And how do you spend your time when you're not serving?"

"I'm afraid I'm too dull a man to entertain you with stories about my life, sir," he thought a moment longer and decided it was rude to dismiss McKinley in that way. "I usually read or go out for a walk."

The conversation was clearly not exciting. Collahan couldn't dare to ask the lord anything in return, so Brandon soon continued.

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

Gregory tensed slightly and spread his elbows wider on the counter.

"No."

Brandon turned his head and watched him with interest.

"Boyfriend?"

Collahan turned as well, more abruptly than he would have liked, and burned the lord with a brilliant, astonished look. It was one of the rare times Gregory had ever looked at him so directly and openly. There was a clinking of flutes as the bartender dried the dishes with a towel.

"I thought that a man like you, I mean, at your age..." Brandon realized he'd touched on a sensitive subject and grew embarrassed. "Well... wouldn't stay unattended for long."

Gregory swirled his glass too and mentally cursed into the funnel. He shouldn't have gotten so flustered over a seemingly ordinary question... He could have just chuckled or made a joke...

"Actually, I'm not as unhappy as I might seem," he tried to smile. "And given my sudden promotion, I have nothing left to dream of, my lord."

Collahan looked at Brandon good-naturedly, noting to himself how the uneven colored light made his hair look mysterious and his impassive eyes silver, as if it were some kind of special effect. If you untie that black bow around his neck, undo a few of the small pearl-like buttons, and expose his chest — will it be smooth, or will it be covered in soft down? As white as his bangs.... The skin of his body must be even more transparent than of his face and arms.

Gregory took a hasty gulp of whiskey, a little more than he'd intended, and his throat constricted. Since when had he gotten so damn sentimental?

"I think we can dispense with this tribute to tradition. You don't have to call me 'my lord' every chance you get," Brandon set his glass on the bar and glared imperiously at the bartender.

Collahan watched as their glasses were refilled with more whiskey and thought that, with McKinley's careless command, he had just lost one of his most sacred pleasures. Each time he uttered that formal address, he infused it with the secret meaning of its original etymology, and calling Brandon "my lord" had been both a privilege and a deeply personal joy. He sipped again, feeling the bitter flavor shimmer across his palate. At times, the role of a nonchalant and unattached chaperone tightened a knot around his neck, and Gregory felt: just a little more — and he would scream

"Hey, buddies! Bored?"

What Brandon had feared from the start was happening. A doll-like blonde sauntered up to their left and leaned against the bar, eliciting a disgruntled look from the bartender jealously guarding his space.

"You, sweet kitty, wanna dance?" she turned to the lord with a sugar-baby smile.

Gregory involuntarily repeated her words to himself. Sweet kitty. One would have to be quite insane to address the unfriendly, cold Lord McKinley in such a way, even though he was as handsome as a god... He remembered how he had promised to protect Brandon from such intrusions and tried to invent something to fulfill that promise.

"I'm afraid he's not available," Collahan said tactfully, and immediately felt the blood rush to his cheeks as payment for his rash and unintended hint.

"Oh, really?" the girl mumbled disappointedly, rather naively and sincerely. "And you, handsome? You don't want to?"

"Unfortunately, he isn't free either," Gregory was surprised to hear the lord's confident voice.

The girl blinked sadly, accepting the news, then, as if catching an insight, smiled and waved her hand:

"But there's no one here! Who are you with?"

"Apparently, each other," McKinley said icily, flashing a gray beam at the annoying nuisance.

This time Gregory's cheeks turned dead white.

"Oh, come on," the blonde grinned cheerfully. "Who'll believe you, such a sweetie! You're all making things up! Let's dance!"

She held her hand out invitingly in their direction, and while Gregory was silently processing the reality, and how easily and simply the lord had played along, Brandon sighed irritably, took Collahan's chin firmly in his palm, turned it toward him, and pressed his mouth against his.

For the first instant Gregory thought he was falling. He was tumbling from his high chair, and for some reason, the floor was in no hurry to stop his fall. He instinctively grasped the edge of the counter to keep at least a fragile connection with the real world. My lord's alcohol-heated lips took Collahan's unresisting mouth imperiously and almost habitually, drawing air out of it and leaving a tingling vacuum on the soft, docile tissues. The lord made three whole approaches, each as bold and cool as the last. Gregory couldn't feel it yet, but he was diligently recording every detail on his internal flight recorder: the way Brandon's jaws opened wide, as if eager to take a greedy bite out of him, the way the long bangs tickled his cheeks, the way his hot breath slowly trickled over the upper lip, the way his sudden closeness made the lord even more real. There would be no getting away from it now. From now on, every night he would have to battle this memory.

At that very moment, as Gregory gasped for air and watched the multicolored flashes, he was glad that he had chosen jeans as his travel outfit rather than some light, loose-fitting pants. Better to sweat and ache than to show McKinley all the passion and unconditional readiness of his body. Mother of God... Just don't stop...

Collahan didn't particularly believe in higher powers, but he didn't forget to thank them for somehow miraculously keeping him from loyally following Brandon's lips when he pulled his face away and turned back to his glass as if nothing had happened. Thanks to the same miracle, Gregory didn't cry out or rush to overturn the chairs. He slowly and silently resumed his previous position and mentally worshipped the bartender, who meaningfully poured him another drink.

Two requests, equally loaded with pleading and despair, clashed in his head: "Sir, don't ever do that to me again" and "Do it again, right now."

"Well, it worked," McKinley remarked phlegmatically, taking the last sip.

Only then did Gregory realize that the girl had disappeared.

"Tomorrow morning, I have to add Clyde's name to the agreement," he said calmly, his dull tone hiding his anger, shock, trepidation, and the painful bulge in his fly.

"Yes, I think I'll do that now," Brandon replied idly, looking at the row of shiny glasses and scraping a couple of bills from his pocket. "It's deadly boring here."

When the lord's footsteps faded away, Collahan buried his face in his hands in exhaustion and let out a silent scream, mentally spitting out the choicest and harshest curses. He was distracted by a clattering sound and, opening his eyes, Gregory found himself staring at a porcelain espresso cup and the black, furrowed brows of the bald bartender.

"Your kid's a tough nut, but he can't hold his liquor. Use that. Cocktails are best — they go down easily, are inconspicuous, and hit hard. Loose his tongue, but keep your hands off. And don't get drunk yourself — you're gonna ruin everything."

Gregory tried to concentrate on the meaning of the words.

"You misunderstood. We're not..."

"I understood everything perfectly. Keep yourself under control, don't push him too hard. But don't wait too long either — the guy is almost ready."

Collahan timidly paid the bill, glancing wildly at the bartender.

"And don't be afraid," the big man added at the end.

Gregory decided to get some fresh air before returning to his hotel room, where the door between the adjoining bedrooms stood wide open.