#but I can tell he’s a nice guy on account of the black loafers and blue socks. He’s probably listening to Taylor Swift in those headphones.

[callmecallmecrazy]

Keeping Up with Old Friends

*****

Well, it’s another odd one.  Somewhere between preppy and stodgy, old-fashioned man I guess?  This is actually brand spanking new!  If it hadn’t been for Covid, this would have been the fastest story I’d ever written!

*****

“Josh?  Is that you?”  Henley saw his old college pal, the wannabe hipster with a scruffy beard and flannel button downs ordering coffee at a Starbucks.  Except, scruffy Josh was smooth shaved with a gentle part in his hair and dressed in a tight fitting lime green polo, creased khakis, and polished loafers.  And the Josh he knew would never order from Starbucks or any corporate chain for that matter.  But the tiny polo logo on his chest suggested that had definitely changed.

“Henley!  Hey man,” his voice was still the same chipper and little high pitched.  Henley met his friend in a hug, noticing that his formerly thin arms had a plethora of veins bulging up over visible muscles.  For someone who claimed to hate pretension, he sure had gone full tilt.

“Surprised to see you here,” Henley half-joked while teasingly pressing on the polo player on Josh’s shirt.

“Ha!  Yeah man, turns out they have some good stuff!  Plus, it’s close to work.”

“Where are you working now?”

“Hemplebaum Inc.” The big smile he offered was met by a wide eyed stare from Henley.  Josh was a film and lighting guy.  Last they’d talked, he’d been working on some plays downtown.  Certainly not at “evil corporation incorporated”.

“What happened to the plays?”

“Ya know, I wanted a change.” Josh shoved his hands into his pockets.  “Plus, the money sucks.  I didn’t want to share a studio my whole life.” “Aren’t they, like, totally evil?” Josh frowned, his face taking on an overly broad and exaggerated look.  Had his head grown?

“Hey man, they’re cool.  I got headhunted by a department chief.  I’m not one of those office drones filling foreclosures and manipulating bank accounts.”  In response to Henley’s increasingly horrified look, Josh shrugged and laughed.   “I don’t think they do that stuff anymore either.”  

He glanced at his watch, a shiny rolex, and then back at Henley.  “Hey man, great seeing you.  Maybe we’ll hang out sometime?  I gotta get back to the office!”  Henley watched Josh walk out, noticing how well he filled out those khakis.  His buttocks had developed a shelf like quality, curving the pants out awkwardly as he walked away.  

“That was so strange,” Henley said aloud.  But people change.  Josh seemed happy and healthy.  Maybe he always wanted to be a frat boy after all?  Henley got his coffee, black, and took the train downtown.  As he sipped on the scalding coffee, Henley did think about some of what Josh said.  Downtown was prohibitively expensive.  Henley paid in time what he couldn't afford in rent having to ride in everyday.  Sure, he loved life down here but he really couldn’t enjoy it as much as he’d like.  But then, Henley could never handle being some corporate drone.

-----

“Josh?  Is that you?” The big man standing in front of the drink counter, picking up a gigantic fuzzy looking drink, didn’t physically resemble Josh at all.  He was big, the Navy blazer he wore couldn’t hide the broad shoulders and his green and blue rep tie had a hard time lying flat over his bulging pecs.  And his hair, last time well groomed but still with a youthful length, was sheared down into a practically flat bit of black hair, shiny and parted.  The face was still the same, even though the hair made his face look extremely square.

The man looked back at Henley confused for a moment before a tinge of understanding glittered in his eyes.

“Henley Tator,” his voice was slower and deeper.  While Henley went in for a hug, Josh replied with a one armed side hug and pat on the back.  He practically grimaced when Henley went full hug.

“Josh!  Man, it’s been awhile.” “Yes Henley, I’ve been very busy at work.  And please, call me Joshua, it’s more professional.”

“Wow, still at Hemplebaum?”

“Yes, moving up the ladder.  What about you, Henley?”

“Oh ya know, I’m still at the art funding startup.  It’s hard but I enjoy it.”

“Pay well?” “Ha, you know it doesn’t.” “I can tell,” Joshua eyed Henley’s tattered jeans and waffle shirt with distaste.  Henley was taken aback by the outright disdain.

“Well, I’m passionate about it.” Joshua just nodded.  “You’re looking good. Gym time is really paying off.” “Yes,” Joshua’s stern demeanor dropped a touch, there a bit more levity in his voice suddenly.  “There’s a corporate gym and it’s free and they even give you an hour a day to use it - paid!”  He was practically giddy as he talked.  Henley relaxed a bit.  This was the Josh he knew, chirpy and friendly though not exceptionally outgoing.  And honestly, Josh had always been the kind of guy who dove head first into anything.  It really wasn’t shocking that he’d treat his job the same way he’d treated edibles, EDM, and frisbee golf.

“You still doing frisbee golf?  Since you’ve got the bod now,” Henley playfully slapped one of Joshua’s broad shoulders and was shocked at how firm the muscle was.

“I’ve been doing a lot of golf!  I play with several of my coworkers and even some of the junior partners.  I’m getting my handicap down too.”

“Oh, you’re playing real golf?”

“Yes, it’s very enjoyable.  And great for business bonding.  Chance for men to talk about work, wives, sports.  Say, you watch the game last weekend?”  That was wholly unlike Josh.  But again, he was probably throwing himself into the corporate world.

“Nah, man, I’m not into basketball.”

“It’s football season.” He replied so directly and sincerely Henley almost fell over.  “I know not everyone is into the NFL, but I assumed you would at least watch your alma mater.  And our Bulls are having a great season.  4-0 in conference play.”  Joshua kept talking about football as Henley stared deep into his eyes.  Was this really Josh?  The guy hadn’t even known what sport a touchdown was part of.

“Anyway, Henley, it’s been great catching up.  Maybe we can grab some beers and watch a game sometime.  I need to return to the office.”  Joshua checked his watch, flashing the shiny gold in front of Henley.  As the muscleman walked out, Henley couldn’t help but notice the incredibly large derriere.  The vents on his suit jacket hung awkwardly over the luscious rump and it jiggled every so slight as he walked.  A stunning contrast to the hard muscle covering the rest of his body.

“Yeah, great to see you Josh-ua,” he forced out the last syllable.  It made sense to do it.  This was not the Josh he knew.  This was apparently Joshua, his friend?  Henley grabbed his coffee, black, and tried to sip on it on the train.  It was a little too hot for him and he was stuck holding it between his hands awkwardly for the whole ride.

-----

“Josh?  Is that you?  I mean, Joshua?”  Henley had avoided the coffee shop since their last encounter.  He told himself it was all in his head, but everything about these encounters creeped him out.  Joshua seemed like a totally different person.  He wasn’t sure if it was steroids, the growth seemed extremely quick, or perhaps just the makeover itself made him look different.  But he was finally caffeine deprived enough to step in, and there was Joshua.  Or at least a Joshua facsimile standing next to another man.

This Joshua wore a tight fitting suit, seemingly straining at both the broad shoulders and around the crotch.  It was exceptionally subdued, a rather pale black color with a white button down shirt and blue and green rep tie.  His hair was the same, but his face had undergone a change.  His jaw, formerly a little pointed and sharp, spread wide and hung low, giving his face a square, lantern shape.  He stood ramrod straight, sipping from his milky looking drink.  The man next to Joshua was older, but otherwise nearly identical.  He was thicker around the middle, but any gut he might have was hidden by the extremely high rise of his pants, sitting above his belly button just under the rib cage.  His tie was black and grey with a subtle windowpane pattern.

The man stared at Henley for a moment before tapping Joshua on the shoulder.

“John Howard,” his voice was slow and deep.  “I believe this boy is trying to get your attention.”  The younger man turned to look at Henley and then a faint bit of recognition crossed his face.

“Henley Tator,” the voice was practically monotone, low and deep.  He took a few powerful steps forward and offered a large, rough hand.  Confused, Henley accepted it and the grip practically shattered his bones.

“Mr. Amplebottom,” Joshua turned to face the older man.  “This is a friend from college.  Henley Tator.  Henley, this is my boss.”  He gestured robotically between the two.  Amplebottom offered his hand and it was the same rough shake.

“Nice to meet you….,” Henley sort of trailed off, hoping to get a first name.

“And to you, Henley,” he put a very strange emphasis on the words, as though he had never said them before.  Henley turned back to his old friend.

“So, Joshua,...” he was cut off by a cough from Amplebottom.

“Please call me John Howard,” Joshua said curtly.  “Mr. Amplebottom thinks I would be better suited professionally as John Howard.”  The way he spoke, extremely even in both rhythm and pitch, was unnerving.  Henley could make out some of Josh’s features in the hulking face before him.  An upturned nose and naturally thin eyebrows over wide eyes resembled the Josh he knew.  But the rest of the face clearly belonged to this corporate meathead named John Howard.

“Okay, John-”

“John Howard.”

“John Howard.  So, how is work?”

“I am very happy at Hemplebaum.  I was recently put in charge of development acquisitions under Mr. Amplebottom.  He has been a great advisor in my career.”

“That’s great.  Glad to hear you’re doing good!”

“Yes, Mr. Amplebottom has assigned me to a downtown acquisition project.”

“Acquisition?”

“Correct, we have a potential development on 520 Porter and need to remove the building.”

“Huh, okay.  So what building are you removing?”

“Currently the future site of Hemple Housing Porter is occupied by the Cherub Theatre.” “Cherub Theatre?  You used to work there?  You wanna tear it down?”

“It is an eyesore.  And it occupies a lot with high economic potential.  It is better suited for development.”

“Josh-,”

“John Howard.”

“What the hell happened to you?”  The wide eyes suddenly narrowed sharply and almost seemed to sink back into his skull a little.

“I’m offended by your tone, Henley.  And honestly,” he adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves while disgustingly eyeing Henley’s dirty clothes up and down. “I grew up.  You could do with some growing.”

“You’ve grown into a soulless jerk.  We used to mock those fucking money obsessed frat boys back in college.” “I just bought a house out in Chester.  Right next door to Chadwick Statton.  You remember Chadwick?” “Oh my god, he was that Kappa Kappa Kappa asshole.”

“The KKK joke is stale.  Besides, it’s very difficult to purchase a home in that neighborhood.  I was fortunate to golf with him and he gave me an in with the Board.  Plus, I’m working on my country club application.  The application fee is $50,000.  Could you afford that?” “Jesus Christ! Fifty k just to fucking apply?  You’re insane.”

“And you, Henley, are a child.  But if you ever decide to grow up,” he reached into his suit jacket pocket and pulled out a thick black card and stuffed it into the breast pocket of his plaid shirt.

“John Howard,” Mr. Amplebottom suddenly interrupted the discussion.  John Howard stiffened up and faced his boss.  “I’m glad you had this chance to catch up with your fraternity brother, but we have wasted time.  I assume you’ll stay late to make it up?” “Of course, Mr. Amplebottom.” They turned to leave.  Henley got a good look at the pair.  Despite the broad shoulders and bulging pectorals, both had a distinctly pear shaped body, with wide hips and massive butts that shook just a touch as they walked.  Henley laughed to himself, realizing Amplebottom really lived up to his name.

Henley grabbed the card from his pocket and examined it.  It was a thick card stock and slightly textured.  The Hemplebaum logo was obnoxiously large in one corner.  Right in the middle was John Howard Johnson, Associate.  Henley was quite sure he was going mad.  That was absolutely not his last name in college!  Had he changed his entire fucking name to fit in with these people?  Golfing with Chad, obeying his boss like some braindead goon, destroying his old workplace to build, what? Multi-use condos?  Like there isn’t enough of that?  The Cherub is a relic, in a good way.  Had Josh been putting on the entire time he was in college?  Was this who he truly was?  No, no this name changing was a deeper sign.  Maybe a psychotic break?

It occurred to him that standing in a Starbucks staring at a business card as people queued up around him made him look insane.   And he had to get to work anyway.  This whole thing had become so ridiculous he’d just ignore it.  He ordered his coffee, adding a heavy dose of cream, and went downtown.

-----

“John Howard?  Is that you?”

“You’ve reached Hemblebaum Inc acquisitions division.  How may I direct your call?” Damn, his card didn’t even list a direct number.  Henley had tossed the card around his apartment for a while, even starting to dial once or twice.  But then he’d ask himself why exactly he was doing this.  John Howard, whoever he was, wasn’t Henley’s old friend.  He wouldn’t have even spoken to Henley back in the day.  But theoretically this man was Josh or had been Josh.  And Henley couldn’t shake him from his mind.

“May I speak with John Howard Johnson?” Henley’s voice cracked a touch as he spurt out the words.

“I’ll transfer you to his desk,” replied the chipper female voice.  The line filled with static and then began ringing.  After a few rings, he was bumped back to the secretary.

“Would you like me to give Mr. Johnson a message on your behalf?” “Oh, uh, no thank you.”

“If this is a private matter, I can forward you to his personal mailbox.”

“Sure.”

“One moment.”  There wasn’t any ring, just straight to the mailbox.  He could practically see the stodgy man who produced the recording.

“You have reached the desk of John Howard Johnson.  Leave a message and I will respond.”  Damn, he was so terse and humorless.  And what exactly was he going to say?  The words came out of his mouth before he could think about them.

“Hey, John Howard.  This is Henley Tator, from college.  I was thinking about what you said when you gave me your card.  So, call me back?” He left his number and hung up.  What on earth had he been thinking?  I mean, the growing up thing had crossed his mind.  His two bedroom apartment was rough to afford even with two roommates.  It would be nice to have his own place.  And his clothes could use an update from his student days.  Of course, he wondered exactly how long he’d be waiting for a call back, which gave him far too much time to ponder his plans.

------

“This is Henley,” he wouldn’t normally answer the phone for an unknown number, but since he had no idea when John Howard would call, or from what number, Henley snagged the phone every time it rang.  Sure, he’d fielded a few calls from telemarketers, but he was going to get to the bottom of this.  Hardy Boy or something or other.

“Hello Henley, this is John Howard Johnson, I am returning your call from 2:15.” Damn, he was a total stiff.  He was probably sitting at his desk, feet flat on the floor, back ramrod straight staring straight ahead.

“Hey John Howard, how’s it going?”

“I am well, Henley, how may I assist you?” Straight to the point.

“Well, you know I was thinking about what you said at Starbucks.  About growing up and stuff.”

“Yes, you are quite childish.” “Can you help?”

“Of course, I think an interview with Mr. Amplebottom would be a delightful way to have a new start.  I shall arrange an 8:00 a.m. appointment tomorrow.  He’ll be expecting you.  Check in at the lobby by 7:45.  Oh, and please find more suitable attire.  This is a professional work environment.” “Great, well, that’s a lot more than I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“Umm, no idea.”

“You asked for help, I am providing it.  Is something wrong?”

“No, no, no.  Thank you so much!  I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“You’ll see Mr. Amplebottom.”

“Yes, yes, of course.  Thank you, John Howard.”

“You are welcome, Henley.” Click. Well, that was brisk.  But a development.  Now of course, he’d need to find clothes.  I mean, he had a suit, just the one, in navy blue, and it got pulled out once a year or so for weddings.  A dab of cologne would top it off.  He didn’t want to be suspicious.  Of course, as far as he could tell, the only person who thought something was amiss was him.

-----

“This is Henley,” he replied to the officer checking name at the front desk.  He was a private security guard, bulky and bull necked with biceps that practically shredded his sleeves.  The stern faced man checked a list carefully.

“First name?”

“Henley.”  The officer stared at him.

“Henley Henley?”

“No, Henley Tator.” He could sense the guard sighing internally.  Henley was such an odd name, it usually was more than enough information for people to locate him.  But, judging by John Howard, this was probably an extremely by-the-books business.

“39th floor.  Please give your name to the secretary and she’ll let you in.  Tator, Henley.  Less confusion.” The man curtly directed him towards the elevator and returned to his post by the door.

Everything about the lobby, the elevator and the entry way on floor 39 was the same: wood, dark, overbearing.   Harsh fluorescent lighting easily guided the path.  The whole place was like a time capsule, the height of early 60s style.  This might as well have been a set for the early seasons of Mad Men.

The sharp ping of the elevator signalled his arrival and after a quick check-in, he was led across a sea of cubicles towards a large office in the corner. Despite the early time, the office was already alive.  He caught glimpses of suited men at some desks and a trio of buff suits standing by a water cooler.

Amplebottom’s office continued the trend.  It was big with large windows along the wall.  He had a gigantic wooden desk with an equally large chair that seemed twice as wide as normal.  Which made sense given his butt.  He glanced up as Henley entered but did not stand.

“Henley Tator,” the way he said his name was so peculiar.  He spoke so slowly that emphasis ended up on the wrong syllables, making the words sound foreign to Henley himself.

“Mr. Amplebottom,” Henley walked over in front of the desk and offered his hand.  Amblebottom leaned forward and shook it.  He’d prepared himself for the vice grip and felt the muscles in his forearm swell as he clenched back.  Once that was over, Henley pulled back a chair and began to sit.

“Before you sit down,” his thick words poured molasses over Henley’s movements. He found himself standing upright and looking at Amplebottom.  The man was a practically a hypermasculine parody, low brow, big nose, wide jaw with a gigantic cleft chin.  A touch of receding hair over the temples added more dignity than age.  His clothing was similar to the other day, pale black suit and subtle tie.

“John Howard setup this interview.  I am unsure how you can contribute to Hemplebaum.”  Henley stood uncomfortably as Amplebottom stared at him.  He took a dry swallow and stared into the big man’s eyes.  They were a strange grey color, cold and severe and almost lifeless.  He also found it hard to look away, they were enrapturing.  “What do you expect from me?”  Henley was almost sure he saw the grey eyes flash.

“I guess, umm, I was just hoping for a job?”

“That sounds very convincing, son,” the droll response unnerved Henley more.

“I want to try something new.  More grown-up.” 

“Hemplebaum isn’t some urban start up with billiards and soy milk.  This is a very demanding corporation.  I expect my employees to be eager and dedicated.”

“Yes, Mr. Amplebottom,” Henley found himself nodding in response.  He spread his legs a little wider and clasped his hands behind his back.  It was more comfortable than just letting them hang and it prevented fidgeting.

“This job can also be very rewarding.  Acquisitions works on a baseline salary plus commission incentives and bonuses.”

“How much could I make?” Henley honesty hadn’t thought about the actual financial potential of the job.  Sure, he’d casually looked up the cost of homes in Chester, but he hadn’t really considered the salary.

“As a Junior Associate, you’d start with a baseline of 100 plus three percent commission with incentives quarterly based on goals and projects.  Do well, and you can quickly move up.”

“Shit, seriously?”

“I am always serious Henley.”

“No, sorry, Sir,” he tacked on the honorific quickly.  The financial prospects were huge!  “That’s more than twice what I make now.”

“Yes, the corporate world has perks.”

“I’d like a job as a Junior Associate, Mr. Amplebottom.”  That caused the bigger man to smile.

“Are you willing to dedicate yourself to your job, Henley?  We do not tolerate slackers.”

“Yessir!”

“Well, I think, based on John Howard’s recommendation, that I can give you a test run.”

“Thank you, Mr. Amplebottom.”

“However, there will be a few adjustments required.  Your suit is fine, the sneakers are not.  And ties are mandatory with a collared shirt.  Human resources will give you a rundown of our policies.  I’m assuming you probably won’t have work appropriate clothing.  The company can offer you a corporate card to get yourself setup.  You’ll receive automatic payroll deductions to pay it back.”

“Thank you, Mr. Amplebottom.”

“I appreciate this new eagerness from you.  I assure you, if you work hard, you’ll find Hemplebaum the most rewarding place.”

-----

“This is Henley Tator,” he said confidently to the guard.  The officer, a gruff man with visible tattoos on his hulking forearms, gave him a once over and checked his name off a list.  He said nothing as Henley headed inside towards the elevator. The glass walls of the elevator gave him a great chance to reflect on the past twenty-four hours.

The employee handbook was massive.  Something like 200 pages of rules, regulations, and suggestions mixed in with corporate speak and industry jargon.  While HR had gone over some basics of the position, personnel forms, and whatnot, the only section he’d read closely was on wardrobe since Amblebottom specifically mentioned it.  It wasn’t terribly confusing since it included not just general recommendations but pictures, stores, and tiers of items towards “building a man’s wardrobe.”

Henley followed the basic directions and found the elegant, tiny menswear shop the manual recommended. Upon hearing that he had recently gained employment at Hemplebaum, the elder employee immediately went to work, selecting an array of khakis and polos to start.  Henley had resisted the creased pleats but to his dismay the shopkeeper insisted.  He had successfully rebuffed the notion that he needed new underwear.  He was an adult, he could make private decisions on his own.  The man also said he’d begin working on a basic suit.  Henley referred to it as “black” and was politely informed that the color was “charcoal” and black suits were only for funerals.

Which is how he found himself, smooth faced from new toiletries, in a salmon polo and crisp khakis, waiting on the elevator.  He had a minor flashback to when he first ran into John Howard.  Joshua.  Josh.  Whoever he was now.  Their outfits were similar, but Henley took a moment as he brushed a lock of hair from his eyes to remind himself that he was just playing pretend.  He was figuring something out.  Capitalist finery was required.  Although his mind had already started calculating exactly when he could get his own apartment.

-----

“This is Henley Tator,” he answered as the office desk rang.  He’d quickly been put into a cubicle and signed into a company website to begin training.  Usual stuff, safety procedures, privacy policies and intellectual property, then lots and lots of company information, acquisition and retail training, even negotiating for beginners.  He had been expecting to find a diversity or harassment training, but the program, like seemingly everything else here, was highly structured and old-fashioned.  It was probably deeper in the training.  He’d swiped his new ID card when he got up for the bathroom or to get some water, the program seemed on a timer because if he dallied or got distracted the pages would time out and he’d have to start again.  On the plus side, it made the day pass extremely quickly.

“Henley Tator,” he recognized that stoic bass.  “This is John Howard Johnson.”

“Hey, John Howard, how’s it going?”

“I am well, Henley.  I will be going to the cafeteria for lunch in 15 minutes.  If you are hungry, you are welcome to come along.”

“Sure thing, John Howard!  Thanks! I am getting hun-.”

“Please meet by the elevator in ten minutes.” John Howard was not a chatter.  Never had been.  But it gave him something to look forward to so he rushed to finish a basic finances video quiz narrated by a corporate casting finance bro in a tasteful suit talking about “life at the club” and “the importance of appearances.”  Finally, he badged out of his computer for lunch.

By the elevators, in an impossibly rigid stance, legs apart, hands straight at his side, face forward, was John Howard.  The square faced muscle man was packed into a charcoal suit and shiny dress shoes.  Henley noticed the colorful tie had been replaced with a more muted one with barely noticeable muted black stripes.

“Henley Tator,” he offered his rough hand and Henley accepted.

“John Howard Johnson,” he said, half mocking but also happy to see a semi-familiar face.

“The cafeteria is on Floor 15,” John Howard said briskly as they stepped in.

“So, having a good day?”

“My day is doing well, thank you.  How is your day?”

“Good, lots of new information.  Guess I need a lot of training.”

“The gym is on the fifth floor.  It is a good source of weight training.”

“Oh awesome!  Yeah, man you look great.  I definitely should hit that up.”

“I am happy to show you.  I workout an hour before work each day and one hour afterwards.”

“Holy crap dude!  And you live out in Chester?  How do you find time to sleep.”

“A good night’s sleep is important for muscle growth.  I try not to waste time on silly things.”

Henley had built a small salad for himself and grabbed some water.  John Howard had taken the platter, a slab of meat in gravy, potatoes, and greens.  Combined with what appeared to be a frothy glass of milk.  He sat the two down at a table with two other men.  One was a stoic, stern faced man who looked like he could be John Howard’s brother.  The other was a much flashier man with smooth blonde hair and a plaid bowtie.

“Henley, this is Bert Anderson, accounting,” he gestured to his clone.  “And this is-” he was cut off by the flashier man.

“Rotterham Casper Cornelius Southard, call me Rip.  Accounts.  So, J.H. mentioned you were his old college bro?  Bet you got up to some mischief back in the day, eh?” he gave John Howard a playful punch, and he did not react.

“I prefer John Howard.”

“I know you do, J.H.”

“So, you’re both in accounting?” Henley asked.  Bert shook his head while Rip laughed.

“No, Bert here is a number cruncher.  I manage accounts.  Management, keeping clients happy.  Happy-hours, bars, strippers, the works.  I’m the fun one.” “I’m sure your wife does not approve.”

“She approves of that pool boy I hired for her.  She approves of our second home in Mayfield Valley.  She can approve of my dalliances.”  Henley mostly stayed silent as they talked about work, wives, and sports.

-----

“Take a seat, Henley,” Mr. Amplebottom gestured to one of the extra wide chairs before his desk.  Henley hardly took up half, but he wondered if they were wide enough for Amblebottom’s ample bottom.

“Is everything alright, Sir?” Henley hadn’t seen much of his boss the past week, but he’d found himself thinking more and more fondly of his boss.  The training videos included a lot of stuff on professional behavior, and while a lot of it seemed like a pathetically antiquated throwback to worse times, it wouldn’t hurt to adopt some of the culture.  At least while he was here.

“Just doing a check-in, seeing how it’s going.”  Amplebottom made constant eye contact.  Those grey eyes were engaging, sort of hard to look away from.

“It’s good, Mr. Amplebottom.”

“Enjoying the training?”

“It’s very informative.”

“Glad to hear it.  I take my employees personal development very personally.  I want you to think of me as a mentor.”

“Yes sir.”

“So, let me give you some advice.”

“Yes sir.”

“I appreciate the fraternity makeover.  Really, it’s a classic look.  But it doesn’t say corporate.  It doesn’t say rising star.  It doesn’t say money.  Does that make sense?”

“Umm, I guess so.” “Page 183 in the handbook.  Suggestions for the transition between fraternal life and entering the corporate world.”

“I wasn’t in a fraternity,” Henley laughed.

“I was under the impression that was how you know John Howard.  That you were one of his Kappa Alpha Sigma brothers?” “I, umm, no.  And I don’t think… John Howard was either?”

“You should work on speaking directly.  These umms and pauses don’t project confidence.”

“Yes sir.”

“Alright, you’re dismissed.”

“Thank you sir.”

One his way out, Henley took a moment to swing by John Howard’s desk.  Partially just to wish his fellow worker a good weekend, but also because that fraternity question bobbed around his head.

“John Howard?”  The stalwart man seated perfectly straight rotated his chair to face Henley.  Henley noticed that he sat on an extra wide chair and seemed to fill it well.  All those hours in the gym seemed to harden every muscle on his body except his butt.

“Henley Tator, do you need something?”

“Just wanted to say have a good weekend.” “Enjoy your weekend as well Henley.  If you’re feeling comfortable, I can show you the company gym Monday.  I workout at 7 am and 7 pm everyday.”

“Yeah, that would be great- wow you’re here a long time!”

“I take a lot of pride in my position at Hemplebaum.  I hope to become a division partner.  Legacy membership at Rolling Acres is five hundred grand.  And that’s my place.”  Henley pondered the man before him.  Honestly, there was a lot to like about John Howard.  He was honest, straightforward, and hardworking.  But there was something callous, cold, and privileged about him.  

“Hey, John Howard.  Were you in a fraternity?”

“Kappa Alpha Sigma, you know that Henley.” Did he know?  He looked like a K-Sig, the kind of former athlete who came to party hard and maybe pass a class or two.  

“Anyway, enjoy your weekend.  I need to finish up. Good night.” John Howard turned back towards his desk without another word, leaving Henley to shrug and walk to the tube and head home.

-----

Page 183 started with three pictures: a polo and khaki sporting college student, a man in trousers and blazer, and finally an old and noticeably thicker man in a conservative suit. Then it talked about the foundations of a man's future and his wardrobe.

“The navy blazer is a classic item that works for semi formal occasions and casual office places. Even as a man transitions to daily suits, the navy blazer will always have a place at a garden party or fraternity alumni event.”

“Ties and bowties are a delightful way to add color to an outfit.  It is important to view the event and location when making a selection.  Bow ties in particular are more flamboyant in a workplace and should be considered carefully.  Business attire defaults to long ties, and more conservative workplaces require more conservative choices.  Consider emulating the attire of your superiors.”

“Supports should be practical and supportive.  Belts are fine for casual outings; however, braces are more desirable for suiting, both for support and style as it allows a more traditional and flattering cut.  Similarly, undergarments should provide support and coverage.  A traditional undershirt with sleeves is ideal, as it provides sweat protection.  Briefs are the most appropriate underwear choice, as it provides support without being extraneous.  It is also compatible with tennis for those who participate in sport.”

This had to have been the third comment someone had about his choice of underwear.  It seemed a deeply intrusive thing for a company to comment on.  But a lot of other sections are good information.  It explained why men like Bert and John Howard wore ties and Rip, in a more colorful position, had the flashier bowtie.  He took some basic notes and decided he’d hit up that menswear shop.  They had a company account, he could probably just tack it on to his previous bill.

-----

“Henley Tator,” he said simply.  The guard, the same one as every other day, checked the list and let him in.  Uncharacteristically, the guard spoke to him.

“Early start?”

“I’m supposed to meet a friend at the gym.”

“Ah, good choice.  I’ve been lifting since my football days,” the guard said while flexing a bicep.  It strained the fabric of his shirt so much there was a tiny tear at the sleeve.

“Ah damn, gonna have to size up.  Sorry, please don’t report me.”  He suddenly seemed mildly afraid.

“Report you?”

“Some of the guys here are real sticklers about manners.  They don’t like cursing.” “No, man, we’re cool.  You look great!  Not sure I’d want to be that big honestly.”

“Hey, once you start, you never wanna stop.”

Henley wanted to stop.  John Howard was already changed and waiting on him, so Henley rushed to change and hit the floor.  The next hour was a diabolic hell.  John Howard started with squats.  Henley got a good look at his friend's monstrous calves and steel cut quads, surprisingly pale but doubted John Howard wore short pants much.  The most shocking feature was watching that jiggly ass clench and thrust with each repetition.  Hard muscle lurked underneath the jelly-like layer.  And it went on and on.  Big lifts, slow lifts, legs, legs, legs, he was deeply certain he would never be able to walk again.  John Howard had to help him strip down and lumber into a shower stall.

He took his time rinsing off, rubbing the corporate provided products into his aching muscles and letting the hot water relax him.  Leaning against a wall, still gasping for breath, he let himself drift off for a bit.

“You alright, Henley?” John Howard asked, cracking the curtain.

“Just, just finishing up,” he said, turning off the water and grabbing his towel.  In the locker room, he saw John Howard's muscled glory in more detail, the ravenous cuts of his back rippled as he walked.  He was thick from below his pecs down to his butt, no real waistline, and most of that part of his back was covered in cotton fabric.  His legs were bare below the butt, the garganuan thighs popping through the pristine white cotton of the briefs.

While Henley got ready, John Howard went to a mirror and began applying white shaving cream to his practically smooth face, treating every exposed piece of chin and neck to the cream and razor.  Slipping back on his underwear, Henley donned a white undershirt and pulled up some pleated khakis.  Out of his locker came a white button down shirt which he began hastily buttoning.  John Howard was finishing his face with aftershave and examining himself in the mirror.  As he approached the lockers, Henley got a frontal look at him.  He hadn’t realized how high waisted these briefs were from the back.  His bellybutton was completely hidden, practically cartoonish.

Henley went to the mirror and began combing and styling his hair, working in product and brushing a part in.  His hair was getting trained for it, the strands beginning to grow a part on the right side naturally.  It looked pretty good like this.  More corporate that he had preferred, but it was a classic style for a reason.

As he returned to his locker, John Howard was pulling some trousers up his legs, hoisting them up with a pair of silk braces.  Everything about John Howard was just so big nowadays, his proportions practically Marvel comic level, that he hadn’t realized how high waisted his pants had become.  No one wore them like that nowadays.  At least no one who wasn’t LARPing or Mr. Amplebottom.  John Howard reminded Henley of Mr. Amplebottom, a lot.  The book said to copy your bosses outfits.  John Howard had taken that to heart.

Henley fashioned the gold and green tie around his neck before slipping into a navy blazer with prominent buttons.  John Howard walked towards the mirror again as he rolled up the cuffs of his shirt and adorned them with cufflinks.

“Nice man,” Henley admired.

“Thank you,” John Howard was almost bashful as he showed them to Henley.  He noted the onix black button had the letters J.H.J cut into them.

“Are they monogrammed?”

“Yes!  It’s very popular at the club.  And they were suggested by the haberdashery.” “Haberdashery?  Wow, that sounds so English.”

“These are made in America.  All the clothes recommended by Hemplebaum are.”  John Howard seemed agitated by the suggestion. “I just meant the word.”

“I don’t want people to think I’m un American.”  The stern response caused Henley to stay silent as the pair continued dressing.

-----

Henley was honestly looking forward to his weekly review meeting with Mr. Amplebottom.  He was starting to get in the swing of this whole corporate thing.  And the tantalizing prospect of his first paycheck was right around the corner.  That wasn’t the only corporate benefit he was enjoying.  His clothes were tight.  Quite tight.  At first he’d thought something was snagged, but the small strain on the buttons of his shirt was unmistakable.  As he pulled up his pants this morning, he’d heard a slight tear as a few seams in the rear snapped.  He’d have to get some things let out.  Or maybe new ones altogether.

The growth had bothered him a bit at first, it seemed to come out of nowhere.  But John Howard explained it was just the result of an effective workout and diet plan.  On John Howard’s suggestion, he’d dropped the salads and switched to the daily platter, a fuller meal for growth.  And the workouts meant he was exhausted everyday after work and went right to bed.  Which kind of went against his reason for working here in the first place.  Wait, why was he working here again?  To make money.  He wanted to enjoy more of life downtown.  Wasn’t it something about John Howard?

“Take a seat Henley.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Henley gratefully replied.  He plopped himself into the cushioned chair and did his best to keep his back tall and straight.  The men around here had impeccable posture, at least the ones in acquisitions.  Rip certainly knew how to relax.  Which gave him an idea for after the meeting.

“How has work been proceeding?”

“Very good, sir.  The trainings have been very helpful and I am eager to begin assisting with projects.”

“Good.  I am pleased with the energy you’ve devoted to your job.”

“Thank you Sir.”

“I’ve decided to assign you to the Hemple Housing Porter project under John Howard Johnson.” “I look forward to it.” “Very good.  We’ve acquired the property, but there is still concern about ‘historical value.’  You will be tasked with pricing and selling anything valuable inside.” “Yes sir… is that the Cherub theatre?”  Henley got a touch concerned.

“We refer to projects by our goals.  But the Theatre currently sits there.  Is that going to be a problem, Henley?” His grey eyes seemed to flash.

“No, Mr. Amplebottom.”

“Good.  You never struck me as the theatre type anyway, Henley.  I assumed you were into sport.”

“Not really Sir.”

“That surprises me.  Since you are friends with John Howard, you must have attended many football games with him.  And that sport is your preferred leisure activity.”  The words came out like a metronome, even paced and simple.  But they stuck in Henley’s mind.  What else would he and John Howard have done together?  He was clearly obsessed with sports and his fraternity.  And Henley was enjoying the gym, which was truly just another sport.

“Now,” Mr. Amplebottom continued.  “You will be working with some old men from assets and banking.  Really conservative types.  You should try speaking slower.  That will deepen your voice and give you more presence.”

“Yes, Mr. Amplebottom,” the words spilled out in nearly double the time. His tongue felt heavy as he spoke and every syllable seemed to require extra effort to spit out.

“Very good, Henley, with practice you will also be able to use a deeper, more masculine tone.  That will be very helpful in business.”

“Yes Sir.”

“Now, just one last thing, Henley,” there was a venomous glint in his eyes as he stumbled over Henley’s name.  “Henley is a very peculiar name.  Unique.  It sets you apart when you should fit in, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know, Sir.” “In business, you know how important it is to give the right impression.  The men in these industries tend to be very old-fashioned.  And so much of this business is based on rubbing elbows and social connections.  You have to give yourself every possible advantage.”

“Yes, yes Sir.”

“I know you want my advice.  I am a good mentor.”

“Yes Sir.  You are a good mentor.”

“Professionally, I think you should introduce yourself as Henderson.”  Henley’s brain practically exploded.

“Yes Sir,” he muttered weakly.

“Try it on me.”

“Hello, my name is Henderson.” More brain explosions.  It felt partially like getting hit in the head and partially like taking really good meds. “Slower.”

“Hello, my name is Henderson.” A glitter bomb went off in his brain.  It felt like magic.

“Very good, Henderson.”  Hearing someone else say it, as though it always had been, made the magical glitter settle on his brain, covering it in an ashy fog.  “Well, I figure you might want this before you go for the weekend.”  He opened a drawer and pulled out a large printed piece of paper.  He handed it over to Henderson who grabbed it eagerly.  Upon seeing the amount of money on his check, Henderson’s pupils practically morphed into dollar signs.

“Associates get more than double that.”  More dollar signs flashed before his eyes.  “And it’s a fairly simple promotion.  Good work is always rewarded.”

“Yes Sir!  Thank you sir!”  The first set of words rushed out of his mouth.  He calmed himself and regained his slow speaking tempo.  He glanced down at the check and realized it said Henderson Tator.

“I don’t think I can deposit this.” “You’ll use the company banking system from now on.  You’ll find it has much better rewards for higher income brackets.  We have built in direct deposit.  But I wanted to see the look on your face the first time.” 

John Howard was hard on work when Henderson knocked.

“Henley Tator,” monotoned his deep voice.  Henderson had a flashback to Starbucks and a similar conversation, but now the shoe was on the other foot.

“Please call me Henderson, John Howard,” his thick, slow voice drawled out.  “It is more professional.

“I agree, Henderson,” Henderson could have sworn a tiny smile crept onto the corners of John Howard’s mouth.  But the stoic man’s face returned to it’s sculpted indifference immediately.  “What can I do for you?”

“I was considering asking Rip for some... herbals, for the weekend and wondered if you cared to partake.  Maybe watch a game?”  Henderson had a distinct memory of two dudes chilling out to some cheap weed and beer while watching Reefer Madness and laughing their asses off.  John Howard's face was not amused.

“No, Henderson.  You know I do not partake in such things.” “What?  You went through a whole rasta-ganja phase in college…”

“I did not,” John Howard was visibly angry even if his voice maintained its impressive monotone.  “I do not approve of illicit substances or behavior and I do not appreciate your slander.” “Woah, calm down, big guy,” not that John Howard wasn’t calm.  But Henderson knew that one punch from the dude would knock him silly.  “I was just thinking back to our college days….”

“Yes, I remember Chadwick forcing us to try the stuff during Hell Week.  As I recall, you disliked it even more than I did.”

“What?  What does Chad have to do with this?” “The only time I ever tried marjiuana,” his voice gained a hushed tone as he said the word.  “Was for a fraternity induction.  And if you continued to use it, I was unaware.  If you would like to watch the game and enjoy some beer or liquid that would be fine. But I will not associate with drug users.”  Henderson was taken aback.  This man, well maybe not this man, but this dude he might have been at one point spent nearly a semester acting like some sort of stoner God.

“I’m sorry, John Howard.”

“If you are still interested in watching the game and having a beer, I would not be opposed.”

“Yeah, totally!” Henderson swallowed awkwardly after he spoke.  Those words felt wrong.  But either way, he’d spend a little more time with Josh Howard and figure out what was going on.

-----

“Tator, Henderson,” he said at the gate.  The officer was the same as before, but there were a few subtle differences.  His tight uniform now had full length sleeves and he wore a cap on his even more masculine face.  “Good morning, Mr. Tator,” the man’s deep voice spoke slowly and severely.  His face had not a glimpse of recognition.  That was fine by Henderson because he was actually quite tired.  He’d ended up in Chester Saturday, bringing a small batch of beer to a football party.  It was very strange to him, meeting several of John Howard’s neighbors, though Chadwick was mercifully absent.  He had a great time, watching, drinking, and shooting the breeze.  The evening went on far later than he anticipated and despite the offer of a guest room, he had taken a late night Uber back into town.  Newfound interest in football meant he had spent Sunday watching football, drinking beer, and ordering pizza.  And now he was meeting John Howard for a workout with a beer hangover on a Monday.

The workout was much better this week.  He found himself making great strides in his max lifts which made him exceptionally proud.  John Howard gave his butt a big swat after they finished cleaning up and he felt his rump shudder within his pants.  His pants had gotten so much tighter and when he looked in the mirror, the back of his sportcoat practically lay flat from the shelf on his behind.  As he admired his form in the mirror, Henderson couldn’t help but brush the smooth shaved line of his prominent jaw.  It really stood out nowadays.

“Miss a spot?” John Howard asked, assuming Henderson was rubbing stray hairs.

“Hey John Howard, why is working out making my jaw bigger?”  John Howard stared at him curiously and shook his head.

“I don’t think I understand.” “Since, I’ve been working out with you, my face just seems bigger.  My jaw and chin in particular.” “Maybe losing some baby fat?  Or maybe your improved posture is making your face look different?”  Henderson couldn’t explain it.  He examined the reflection a few seconds more, sure that something was amiss. But he didn’t have an idea better than John Howard’s so he let it pass and went into the office.

Henderson’s job required calls, lots of calls.  Calls to landowners, historical groups, insurance companies, auctioneers, all with their own opinions and interests.  Henderson wasn’t actually supposed to do any research, simply talk to the right people to get appropriate evaluations and transportation.  He found himself mimicking John Howard’s voice, deep, slow, and disinterested.  It wasn’t exciting work, but the progress was slow and consistent.  Museums wanted some old posters, there was a buyer in Argentina for the chandelier, and several vintage stores wanted furniture pieces.  A few calls were less productive, with upset protestors yelled at him.  He’d tried being sympathetic at first, but quickly found that being stern and direct got them off the line quicker so he could return to work.

His days soon blended together.  Morning workouts, work, lunch, work, home, sleep, repeat.  He sometimes worried that he was missing out on stuff, his old friends called or texted but he rarely responded anymore.  It always seemed to happen at an inconvenient time.  Eventually, he joined John Howard for his evening workout as well, the results were great, even if he’d had to go up a size or two.  Walking around with pecs straining a dress shirt felt incredible, like a huge dose of testosterone had been injected into him.  Strangely, his buttocks were growing considerably, in strength and size.  But it accumulated a soft layer of fat that spread across, making him even wider.  He’d asked John Howard about it once, and he simply told him a big butt was better than a big gut.  And Henderson had to agree.  None of the men here had big guts.  Mr. Amplebottom had a huge butt.  And Henderson wanted to be like Mr. Amplebottom as much as possible.  More and more, Henderson felt extremely grateful towards his superior.  Not only had he hired an unqualified applicant, but he had acted like a mentor and guide and coach.  He gave Henderson more and more advice, about standing, walking, talking, and each time he came back eager to learn more.

“Stand tall, Henderson. Head up, don’t slouch.  Keep your hands at your side.  And don’t fidget.”

“A deeper voice commands attention better.  Be direct.  Contain emotions, you are better suited to appear calm and in control at all times.  There is no need to appear energetic or excited.”

“Wide steps, heel to toe.  Legs apart.”

-----

“Tator, Henderson,” he said calmly as he buzzed in.  It was old hat by now.  The security guard was probably the same one as before.  Henderson paid less attention nowadays to things like that.  He had noticed that the security uniform had slowly been replaced with something more formal.  The man wore a coat and bowtie along with his cap, looking halfway between a mobster and the world's most muscular butler.

“Good morning, Mr. Tator,” he intoned back as he let him inside.  Henderson felt the weight of his body as he walked, his chest stuck out and helped keep his chin up.  The broad shoulders made him feel like he took up the entire doorway.  And his big wide stride made his butt and crotch kind of wiggle as he walked.  He could feel the fabric of his pants tighten around his balls and release, then tighten on the other side.  It was mildly arousing.

As he walked in, he greeted a few of his fellow coworkers as he walked to his desk.  Moments after sitting down, he received a call to head to Mr. Amplebottom’s office.

He stood at attention in front of the desk, legs apart, arms slack at his side, and staring directly into the grey eyes of his supervisor.  Amplebottom seemed to examine his employee for a moment before directing him to sit.  Henderson did, his increasingly wide and plump bottom expanding out, consuming nearly 3/4ths of the extra wide seat.  He bagged his pants as he sat, causing the crotch of his pants to ride up and give him a large moose knuckle.

“The last sales were processed by accounts payable.  You did a good job getting every last dollar out of that disgusting building.” “Thank you, Mr. Amplebottom,” came the monotonous reply.

“How do you feel about the Theatre?”

“The Hemple Housing Porter project will be very profitable.” “Yes, but how about the Cherub Theatre.  It’s an old building.” “The lot is better suited for new development.” “Do you like theatre, Henderson.” “No Sir, I was never interested in art.” “More of a sports fellow?” “Yes Sir, I love football.” “Bet you were a big ole lineman back in the day, huh?” “No, I never played.” “I’m pretty shocked,” Amplebottom smirked.  “So, no hard feelings about tearing down a 100 year old Theatre.” “No Sir.  The development will be very profitable for Hempelbaum.”

“Good man,” Amplebottom kept his eyes focused on Henderson, maintaining steady eye contact.  “Well, looks like you’ve earned your first commission check.”  He pushed a small piece of paper forward to Henderson, who picked it up.  His eyes bulged and dollar signs flashed before his eyes.

“Holy crap!” “Don’t swear Henderson, it’s unbecoming.” “My apologies Mr. Amplebottom.  I wasn’t expecting this.” “Three percent commission can be an awful lot when you do a good job.  And your percentage goes up with promotions.  And good work like this makes me think you’ll be getting on very soon.”

Henderson thanked Mr. Amplebottom profusely and headed straight to John Howard’s desk.

“John Howard Johnson,” he said in a deep, slow voice. 

“Henderson Tator, what can I do for you?”

“I got my first commission check,” he said, flashing it for John Howard to see.

“Congratulations.  It feels nice to receive appropriate compensation.  Men like us work hard, we deserve to make money.”

“It feels great.  I could get a down payment on a house.” “Or you could apply for a membership at Rolling Acres Country Club.”

“Oh, no offense, John Howard, but I don’t think I’m country club material.”

“I think you’d like it, Henderson.  It’s very nice, and a good way to make connections with other successful men.”  John Howard flicked his wrists and displayed a set of ostentatious cufflinks engraved with the country club logo, a laurel wreath surrounding a tree with “Rolling Acres” written over it. 

“That seems flashy for you.” “I was accepted as a legacy member.  They only let legacy members purchase them.”

“They’re very shiny.” “Yes, too much for the office normally.  But I was very excited.  Oswald Laurence Carrington IV called personally to inform me.  It’s very rare to get a call specifically from the Director of the Board.”

“I’m happy for you,” Henderson said simply.

“Come golfing this weekend.  I know you will enjoy it.  I can bring guests now!” John Howard’s voice was still precise but there was just the subtle hint of mirth that made Henderson smile slightly.

“Fine, what do I need to wear?  I’m sure they have a dress code.” “Meet at my home before.  I will have appropriate clothing.”

-----

Henderson had thought a lot about Chester since his last time out here.  The spacious green lawns, gigantic homes, and expensive cars cleaned daily should have disgusted him or at least made his eyes roll.  Nowadays, he couldn’t help but imagine what life must be like out here.  There weren’t music festivals or concerts, but there weren’t smelly people vomiting on the sidewalk or polluting cabs on every corner honking loudly.  John Howard’s elegant home had a room dedicated for watching football.  It wasn’t even the media room, he said there was a room with a movie projector on the second floor!  This was just his man cave, except it was a sunlit, high-ceilinged game room.  It was bigger than the apartment Henderson was currently living in alone.  He’d kicked out his roommates a month back.  They smoked too much weed, it made him dizzy, and he could easily afford the rent on his own nowadays.

John Howard answered the door dressed exactly as he went to work.  Henderson had expected something more casual- he’d worn khakis and a pink polo himself.  Instead, his bulkier counterpart was embarrassed by his attire and insisted he put on one of his old suits.  Henderson thought about protesting, but instead allowed himself to be turned into a Ken doll clone of his coworker, the only difference being the subtle patterns on the tie.  He asked John Howard if they were golfing like this, and he insisted they would be changing at the club.  Henderson wouldn’t imagine most people showed up dressed like this, but whatever made John Howard comfortable.

Henderson was glad he’d been made to change.  After they got past the gate and into the main clubhouse, every man he passed had a tie on.  Some of the younger lads were dressed in polo and khakis, but the acne and baby fat on their faces made him happy to not be confused with them.  They checked in and “Legacy John Howard Johnson” entered his guests name and they headed to the lockers to change.  John Howard handed him a pair of black trousers made of a stretchy and breathable material.

“You sure this one is mine?” “They’re identical.” “Oh, I’m not sure I’ll fit.” “I’m certain we’re the same size, Henderson.”  Which they were apparently.  Henderson was shocked as the pants expanded over his thighs, showing off the thick trunks he’d developed and the amble jiggly buttocks that pressed generously backwards.  They sat a little higher on his waist than he was comfortable with, but he didn’t want the pants to sag on the ground.  John Howard handed him a white sport polo with the clubs logo on the left breast.  Then he added a black golf cap.  Henderson had been afraid he might be wearing jodhpurs and knee socks, so the mainstream outfit was relieving.  They tidied up in the mirror, and seeing the two of them side by side, dressed exactly the same, Henderson had a bit of a shock realizing how much he looked like John Howard.  His body had filled out tremendously, broad shoulders and baseball like biceps, a thick but strong core, that overly wide ass that led into legs and calves formed by deadlifts and deep squats.  The biggest thing was his face.  He really could swear that his face had been almost heart shaped, but now there was a distinctly square shape to the thing.  His longish ivy league haircut gave him a more youthful appearance than his coworker, but otherwise he might have been a son or young brother.

As they walked out onto the course, golf bags strapped across their backs, Henderson could see a tall figure in the distance, seeming to greet them with a small wave.  John Howard returned the small gesture.

“Who’s that?” “Chadwick Stratton.  I invited him to play with us?” “You invited Chad?” “Chadwick, yes.  He’s been a friend since my fraternity days.  You know that Henderson.  I thought you would get on quite well.  Besides, he’s on good terms with many important people.  No one is a better connection.”  Chadwick was in stretchy salmon colored pants and a white polo exactly like the ones they were wearing.  He had a ballcap on with their college logo on the front.  Locks of blonde hair spilled under the brim.

“Hey bro,” Chadwick shook John Howard’s hand and pulled him in for a pat on the back.  For his part, John Howard tensed up but did not resist.  “Damn, you’re getting thicker all the time.”  He groped John Howard’s shoulders aggressively.

“Henderson, this is Chadwick Stratton.  Chadwick, this is Henderson Tator.  We work together in acquisitions at Hemplebaum.  He also attended college with us.”  Chadwick grabbed Henderson into a similar handshake to hug and Henderson felt a strange repulsion in his stomach.

“You look familiar.  Were you a brother?”

“No, I wasn’t,” Henderson replied.

“What fraternity were you in?” “I wasn’t.” “A big bro like you?  Damn, we missed you.  Would have loved to see you on our intramural teams.  Bruiser like you can definitely rough some people up huh?” He laughed playfully and punched Henderson solidly in the chest.  It didn’t hurt.  “Well, let’s play.” “Are we taking the cart?” Henderson asked, pointing to a line of white, polished golf carts.

“Nah,” Chadwick reached out and gave both John Howard and Henderson hard butt slaps.  “Figure you two fatasses need some cardio!”  He laughed barkingly and John Howard laughed along.  “Kidding, bro.  I know dudes like you are all about that max lift.  But I still got abs and the ladies love ‘em!”  He pulled up the bottom of his shirt showing off the solid, smooth abdominals carved into his tiny waist.

Chadwick was extremely friendly and a little physical.  Upon learning that Henderson had never golfed, Chadwick took it upon himself to teach him everything he could, resulting in him saddling up behind him to correct stance and form, but also jokingly pressing his crotch into Henderson’s butt and thrusting.  The boys all laughed at the inappropriate horseplay.

Henderson had a hard time hating Chadwick.  Taking away all the pomp of politics and social structure, Chadwick turned into an incredibly friendly alpha.  The kind of guy who would be quarterback, homecoming king, and fraternity president (all things he learned Chadwick had been).  And Henderson was just another one of his bros, dressed in expensive clothes, spending a morning on the course talking about work and finances and spouses.  He could remember specific events, Chadwick being horrible during the election season when he was campaigning for a fraternity brothers father, taunting an LGBT students group, and pissing on Tara Kissimmee’s car.  But his brain was giving each of these events a little different interpretation now: he was working hard to get Senator Mulligan elected, taunting the gay kids had been meant as a harmless prank, and he was drunk out of his mind with Tara and she never pressed charges so it wasn’t that big a deal.  Chadwick was just being a drunken frat- fraternity brother like everyone expected.

“Wife’s pregnant with the third.  I got started early!” He bragged while grabbing his crotch. “Chrissy Collop was always into you.” “Yup!  Her dad’s super rich, he’s president of the C-Group, that big currency trading operation.  Old, old money.  But how about you?” Chadwick got a mischievous glint in his eyes as he hand reached towards John Howard’s crotch and gave it a hard smack.  John Howard yelped as he grabbed his balls.

“Nut check!” Chadwick busted out laughing.  “But seriously, bro, getting those fellas ready?  Almost breeding season, boys,” he whispered to John Howard’s balls.  Henderson was kind of disturbed but John Howard was laughing and so he joined in too.

“What does that mean?”

“J.H. is getting married.  Missy Dorianger.”

“Congratulations!” Henderson said happily.

“Thank you. We’re finishing some final details.  Her Mother is very specific.  Sometimes she acts as though I’m unworthy.” “Missy can’t do better.” “She is a perfectly suitable spouse.  I am very pleased with the situation.” “Can’t wait til we can throw that bachelor party!”

“We’ll do something at the club.  I have no desire to watch you stagger around Vegas and hold your head while you vomit.” “It’s your party bro!  I’d be holding your hair for once,” Chadwick laughed.  John Howard rolled his eyes as he set up his shot and launched the ball.  He let out a whistle of appreciation.

“Good shot,” Chadwick and Henderson said simultaneously.  John Howard suppressed a grin.

“Henderson, I know it’s late notice but I hope you can at least attend the wedding.  The club has strict guest limits and I’m running out of passes for nonmembers for the bachelor party.” “Thank you John Howard.  I’m sure I can make it.” “And if you get your membership before, you can enjoy all the fun!” Chadwick winked at Henderson and snagged at his nipple that pressed out firmly from the polo. The boys laughed and continued playing.

The locker room at the clubhouse was a lively place stocked with bathing supplies and also booze.  Henderson intended on just showering up and getting dressed, but John Howard and Chadwick were both sitting in their briefs (Chadwicks a traditional cut, John Howard's extremely high waisted to fit over his enormous rump) and undershirts removing the cork from a glass bottle and pouring three full glasses of amber liquid.

“Bourbon,” Chadwick said shortly as he handed Henderson a glass before taking a deep swig of his own.  Henderson was very confused about what to do.  He was standing in a towel while his two golf buddies relaxed in their unmentionables sipping on a bourbon that probably cost more than those obnoxious club cufflinks John Howard has.  He didn’t want to upset his new friends, and the financial connections they represented, so he pulled on his grey Hanes Boxer briefs (his growing buttocks had necessitated so many new underwear purchases that he was desperately searching for cheaper brands) and white undershirt and sat down.  Taking a big swig of the liquid, he did his best to relax, leaning back in the chair and spreading his legs as his friends chatted.

“You’re getting pretty good at the trap shot,” Chadwick toasted John Howard.

“You’re still better,” John Howard was already refilling his drink happily.

“Always gonna be, dude,” Chadwick laughed again.  “But keep trying.  I enjoy competition.” He held out his cup which John Howard dutifully refilled.  “Man, I’m glad you’re here, J.H..  I miss having some bros.  This club is great, but too many of the brothers moved away.  But at least I got you two!” Chadwick winked at Henderson and encouraged him to finish up as another round needed to be poured.  Despite his increasingly sturdy frame, Henderson hadn’t been drinking much lately.  He hadn’t been much other than working, but the alcohol was working its way through his golf dehydrated body quickly.

The trio continued chatting until John Howard excused himself to the toilet, leaving Henderson alone with a man he once thought of as detestable.  But this afternoon was fun.  He got a small knot in his stomach as Chadwick turned to him with a viperous grin.

“Henley?  Henley Tator?” Chadwick suddenly said, dropping his voice low.  Henderson was confused for a moment.  He hadn’t thought of himself as Henley in a while.  It was almost shocking.  But then he cautiously nodded yes.

“Please, call me Henderson, Chadwick.” “Oh, I will, Henderson,” he emphasized the name.  “You look good.  I was pretty sure I recognized you, though you look a lot better now.  Hemplebaum’s done wonders for you.” “Thank you, Chadwick.  I am very happy working at Hemplebaum Incorporated.”  Chadwick nodded and smiled as the robotic words left Henderson’s mouth.

“I like having fraternity brothers around.  It’s a real lifetime bond, ya know?” He took another deep swig.  “Something that really defines a man.  Who he is. Who he’s going to be.” He seemed to stare at Henderson curiously.  For his part, Henderson had no idea what to say, and so stayed silent.  “If I’d known this is who you were going to be, I’d have made sure you were my brother.  Of course, I knew Henley.  Not Henderson.  Not big strapping Henderson.”

“Yes,” Henderson stirred his glass and sat there.  Chadwick was slurring slightly, but Henderson wondered if he'd be able to stand up.  This drink was strong and Chadwick was pouring him a third.

“Now, Henderson.  What do you think Henderson was like in college?”

“I’m Henderson.” “Yeah, but in college you weren’t.  I just wonder what you wish you had done?”

“I wish I’d gone to football games.  I love football.” “Fuck yes dude.  Big guy like you played in high school,” it wasn’t a question.

“I’d want to have a group of men to watch sports with.” “Yup, every game we had a part at the house.”  Henderson stared at him with glassy eyes.  He was confused.  It seemed like Chadwick wanted him to say something but he could only shrug.

“Would have been nice.” “I hope you apply for membership.  The club would be a good fit for you.”

“I really enjoyed myself.  It’s very expensive.  I was kind of looking into getting a new apartment.” “Where are you living nowadays?” “I have a two bedroom downtown.  It’s a heap, but I live alone.” “Thought about buying a house?” “I can’t afford a house in the city.” “What about in Chester?”

“What?! No, I haven’t, I mean, I don’t need a mansion,” Henderson sputtered as he spoke despite training himself to not.

“Not yet, but once you get a wife and some kids, plus Chester is right next to Rolling Acres.” “I’m not sure it’s right for me.” “It’s right for Henderson.  For football playing, fraternity brother, corporate shark Henderson,” Chadwick smiled and let out a tiny burp as he finished another drink.  Henderson blushed, though it was hard to tell through his liquor flushed face.

“It’s hard to buy a house in Chester.” “I can set you up.” “Really?” The idea was setting itself in Henderson’s mind.  Far from feeling like a fresh fantasy, it embedded itself deep inside, as though it had always been there, as though he’d always wanted to buy a giant mansion in a gated neighborhood with an expensive country club.  It was always the goal.  It’s why he did what he did.

“I always support my Kappa Sigma Alpha brothers.” He poured two more drinks and raised his glass in a toast.

“Kappa Sigma Alpha, brothers strong, brothers long. Four years forged the lifetime bond.”  Chadwick said and stared at Henderson.  Henderson hesitated, but his mind wanted it so bad.  He wanted Chadwick to like him, to be his brother, to go back and be a total frat boy in college.

“Kappa Sigma Alpha, brothers strong, brothers long.  Four years forged the lifetime bond.”  Chadwick smiled and the two chugged down their drinks.  John Howard showed up a moment later and plopped down while pouring himself another, though he was several behind now.

“What did I miss?”  The other two smirked and poured another round and the three K-Sig brothers passed another toast to their fraternity.

-----

Henderson woke up naked with a gigantic erection on the softest white sheets he’d ever felt.  HIs head throbbed like never before.  A glass of water and several ibuprofen sat next to the bed and he swallowed both without hesitation.  Looking around, he admired the pristine cleanliness and order of the room.  He was pretty sure where he must be, even if he’d never seen John Howard’s guest room before.

A white cotton robe laid over an old wooden chair, but no other clothes were about.  Wrapping the fabric tightly around himself, he opened the door and peered down an equally clean and quiet hallway.  He ducked back in the bedroom, helping himself to the toiletries in the attached bath before heading downstairs.  John Howard was dressed similarly, though the half closure of his robe meant that Henderson could see the waistband of his briefs.  He smiled weakly at Henderson and offered him a cup of coffee which he accepted happily.

“Where are my clothes?” Henderson croaked after a strong sip.

“Washing machine.  You vomited all over your suit.”

“Your suit, sorry man.”

“Quite fine Henderson,” John Howard let out a quiet laugh.  “Haven’t had a night like that in years.  Reminded me of our fraternity days.” Our fraternity days.  Henderson went to protest but found his brain muddled.  They had talked about it a lot last night, keggers, hell week, initiation, rush, all kinds of random details of fraternity life flooded his brain.  The memories seemed like his mostly, though they had a dreamy quality that he attributed to the hangover.

“Remember that party where Van Boegearden vomited after his keg stand?  And then he insisted on drinking it up again?”  Henderson laughed hoarsely and John Howard joined in. “He’s a congressman now,” John Howard added.

“Good, good.  Always knew he’d do well in politics.”  They both took large sips of their coffee.  John Howard was reading a paper but also had ESPN on, reviewing yesterday's college football.

“We missed the game!” Henderson moaned.

“We watched the game, Henderson.  At the club.” “Oh God.  They’re never going to let me join now!” “I wouldn’t be so sure.  Oswald V seemed quite amused by you.” “Which one is that again?”

“Son of the Board Chairman.  I’d commit that to memory.” “I have now.  Well, so long as he was amused.  Hopefully he can appreciate old fraternity brothers getting together.” “We’ll have to do it again soon.” “Hopefully often once I’m a Rolling acres member.” “I’m glad you’re going to apply,” John Howard smiled.

“I belong at a place like Rolling Acres,” Henderson said with a new confidence.

“Men like us need places like Rolling Acres,” John Howard replied.

“I’m going to have to call a cab,” Henderson said looking at the clock.

“I can take you.” “It’s quite a drive into town.” “I slept through church,” John Howard said, yawning.  “And I’m not feeling up to a workout today.  Besides, I thought I might take you around Chester first.  There are a few lovely homes for sale you might want to see.” “That would be delightful!”  The two men turned their attention back to the TV and their coffees, nursing the kind of hangovers they swore they’d never get again but always did.

-----

Henderson strode into the building swiftly, impossibly perfect posture, dressed in a charcoal suit and tie that he borrowed again from John Howard.  He noticed there was a new guard at the gate when he gave his name.

“Fine weather, Henderson?” the young guard, a redhead with a trace of a tattoo on his neck asked.  Henderson was appalled.  He’d ended up spending most of Sunday at the club, enjoying dinner at the men’s grill.  At the club, the staff spoke using honorifics and only used questions relative to their service.  He was deeply annoyed that this young guard spoke.  However, he buried that feeling as he hustled to the elevator.  He had a busy morning ahead.

After his workout, a grueling leg day that left him wobbly but his calves looked tremendous, Henderson asked Mr. Amplebottom’s secretary for a meeting, and his 9 a.m. was open.  So it was that he found himself standing before his boss's beautiful desk, arms at his side, staring into his eyes.

“What can I do for you, Henderson?”  Henderson had been trying to find the words to be concise but found that impossible.

“I want every piece of advice you can give me.”

“Why is that?” Mr. Amplebottom was suppressing a smug smile though Henderson didn’t notice.

“I want to be just like you.  And John Howard.  And the men at Rolling Acres.” “Enjoy the club?” “Immensely.  I belong there.  And here at Hemplebaum.  I want to become a partner.  I want to move out to Chester, in a house, not in some rubbish apartment in this squalid town,” he cast a disgusted look out the skyline of the window.  “I want money.”  That was low, deep and felt like a great truth awoke inside him.  Mr. Amplebottom smiled.

“So, Henderson, are you willing to fully commit yourself to Hemplebaum?” “I am sir,” he replied like a soldier.

“Excellent.  Well, I may say this suit is a good start.” “I’m borrowing it from John Howard.” “Yes, a good start.  You should get a dozen I think, at least.  Plus a few formal ones for special occasions.  Many ties and shoes.  New supports as well, you do look much better with your trousers at your proper waist.” “Thank you Sir.”

“A haircut.  I’m quite surprised you’ve stuck with the ivy league so long.  You are much better suited to something short.  Like mine and John Howard’s.  The part is a classic.  But I can set you up with my barber.”

“Yes Sir.” “Now, there is a rather large change that I believe is a necessity for your continued progression at Hemplebaum as well as your new social circle.” “What is that sir?” “Tator.  Just a gross, common name.  You agree?”  Henderson snapped back confirmation even though it made his head spin.  “Personally, I’ve always been very fond of alliterative names.  It’s a nice mnemonic device socially.  And it looks so great monogrammed.” “You want me to change my last name?  To something with an H?” Henderson asked, slightly confused.

“Well, I thought you wanted to.  To succeed.” “Yes Sir.” “So you want to change your name?  To what?” “I don’t know Sir.” “So you want my help, is that what you are saying?”  The words were coming so fast and his eyes so enticing that Henderson nodded.

“Yes Sir, please tell me what my name should be.”  Amplebottom leaned back in his chair, clearly relishing in the moment even though Henderson had no idea why.

“This is my favorite part.” Henderson didn’t say anything.  His boss clearly didn’t want him to.  And he’d just asked for help so there was no need to say anything.  “It’s a great moment, when you realize you want to be whatever I want you to be.  I was wrong about you Henderson.  I did not think you’d make it.  But here you are, willing and able.  And looking much better with the muscles.”  He reached into a drawer in his desk and produced something that looked like a ring box.  Ceremoniously, he pulled it open before Henderson’s eyes.  Inside were two silver and black cufflinks.  LIghtly engraved in the black was three vertical lines and one horizontal connecting them all.

“Henderson Harold Hearst. H.H.H.  Classic, but preppy, which seems to be the direction you’re taking.  Though I believe you should at least be a Junior.  Yes, Henderson Harold Hearst, Jr.”  Amplebottom suddenly got a concerned look in his eyes and made even more intense contact with Henderson.  “You’ll insist on being called Henderson.  No nicknames or shortening it.  Certainly, not Henry.  Tell them it was Grandmama’s maiden name.  A fitting tribute.”  Amplebottom seemed deeply satisfied as he leaned back in his chair a bit.  His jacket fell a touch to the side, and Henderson caught a glimpse of his black silk bracer.  He eyed the waist of the trousers, noting the lack of wrinkles and the perfect transition from charcoal wool to starched, cotton white.  Nothing was ever out of place on his supervisor, it was probably easier when you had such a boring wardrobe, each piece fit together without thinking.

-----

Henderson had set up an appointment at Winston and Co. right after his meeting with Amplebottom. They booked him for a half day on Saturday, which seemed like a very long appointment but they had assured him that this would be a one time appointment to get a permanent account situated.  His palpable excitement made his workouts and work days fly by.  He’d reworn the suit he borrowed from John Howard three times.  It was remarkable how it made him feel, strong, manly, and also kind of plain.  He’d talk shop with other men in his department, bland conversations about work and sports and home, that he found uninteresting but comforting.  There existed very little variety among the men at acquisitions.  No one ever brought up a thoughtful or challenging conversation, the most confrontational it ever got was between rival football teams.

And so it was that Henderson showed at exactly at 8 a.m. in front of the delightfully antiquated haberdashery (as John Howard had called it) for the full treatment.  He was greeted studiously by an old man with silver hair and thick black glasses who introduced himself as Art Sebert and insisted on calling Henderson “Mr. Hearst.”  That name made his blood jump and boil.  He’d thought the concept awkward only days ago, but found himself spouting off the name with such a simple, natural cadence he might as well have been born with it.

Forced to strip down in a rather spacious dressing room fitted with a few chairs and mirrors, Art had offered him coffee which he happily accepted after adding some cream and milk.  His personal fears around nudity had decreased in the corporate locker room but it still took him a minute to feel comfortable letting Art assess his bare form.  But he measured every inch with such quiet professionalism that Henderson soon became quite comfortable.  Art rattled off small measurements as he worked, informing Henderson that he’d need custom clothing for life.  Henderson found his brain startled by that information, but an honest assessment in the mirror showed how true that statement was.  He simply wasn’t built like a normal person anymore.  His neck was thick and his shoulders cartoonishly broad.  The jutting chest gave him a permanently puffed up vibe.  Uninterested in cardio, his thick rib cage continued straight down into hard abs.  And then the true shock, his sumptuous round booty.  It looked unreal, not only were his hips and buttocks wide and strong, but somehow there was a gelatinous layer on top that wiggled and shook whenever he moved.  It was a shockingly feminine touch on an otherwise hyper masculine body.  Henderson loved his butt.  It reminded him of being a lineman in high school, it was just like John Howard’s and Amplebottom’s.  Ridiculous but masculine and prominent, it took up space, like a man should.

“Alright, Mr. Hearst, give these a try,” he handed Henderson two carefully folded white objects.  The first was an undershirt, quite stiff and recently pressed.  He pulled it on with little problem, the starchy material felt soft enough on his skin and he appreciated how there wasn’t any excess pulling or snugness.  Even better, it actually reached past his belly button, which was further than his current shirts were doing, but still seemed undesirable.  The next item was a comically cut pair of briefs, again seemingly starched and pressed, blindly white with a simple waistband with a thin blue line running halfway through.  Henderson’s mind mounted a short-lived protest that didn’t even exit his mouth.  He’d known it was coming, it was in the book, from his boss, even at the club.  It was just another way he was going to fit in with the others.  It was deceptively erotic, something overly personal but seemingly inconsequential that he was giving up to fit in.  He pulled the cotton fabric up his body, watching the white fabric stretch perfectly across his rump.  He attempted to leave the underpants lying low, just above his hip bones, but Art stepped up and dutifully pulled them higher, keeping the undershirt tucked in as they stretched over the belly button, up the stomach, before settling just below his rib cage.  He looked like a strange sort of sausage stuffed into a bleached white packaging.  There was something about, so uniform and simple, that Henderson couldn’t stop himself from smiling broadly at his reflection.

It went significantly faster after that.  Art offered him a range of trousers of slightly different fits, making marks and eyeing alterations, seemingly finding the best base.  An overly starched, white button down slipped over his upper body.  Henderson let it hang open as he sat in his skivvies and shirt, drinking a whiskey the store offered, as a suitable pair of trousers were whipped up for the day.  Half an hour later, he was being ordered to button up his shirt, as silky black dress socks were pulled on his feet and the wool fabric of the pants began their climb.   Higher, much higher than his old pants, even seemingly than the borrowed ones, these custom trousers rose up until the very top of the pants rested just millimeters below the briefs.  The pants were already designed for braces, completely lacking belt loops, and Art adjusted them precisely, ensuring that his pants would sit at this exact height forevermore.  Henderson recognized something was being pushed out, some bits of color or variance in his lifestyle and perhaps personality as he allowed himself to be dressed like a doll, clothing cut and shaped so he wouldn’t even have an option on how to wear it, let alone what to wear.  It was a deeply comforting thought.

The process was repeated with the coat, explaining why he had been required to book hours of time with a salesman and tailor.  But they assured him, everything would be perfect afterwards.  All his measurements would be on file, new pieces would be created on a strict schedule to ensure he had neither too few nor too many pieces.  He enjoyed another libation as he waited, the old fashioned television in the room had been flipped on to college football and he delighted in sitting back and watching.  Not that he really sat back as it were, the stiff shirt and exact cut of his trousers seemed to keep him upright and tall, legs planted firmly on the ground, the crotch of his pants pulled tight into a prominent moose knuckle, head staring almost directly forward.  Henderson sort of laughed to himself about it, feeling slightly robotic, and enjoying the rigid pose.  It reminded him of John Howard.  And he liked John Howard.  He liked being like John Howard.

The cut of the jacket was phenomenal, even with a thick waist, his broad shoulders and bulging pecs required a fantastic V shape that made him look thick and strong and almost debonair, in a sort of boring way.  Art selected a beautiful silk tie, completely generic and tasteful, and made it taut around the neck.  He stepped back, admiring his work and checking the length of the cut of small sections as Henderson stood, militaristically straight posture, arms at his side, staring straight ahead.  Once everything seemed to be in order, he instructed Henderson to remove the tie, jacket, and oxford shirt.  He’d continue working as another man offered him a pair of house slippers and escorting him into a room that looked like an old-timey barbershop with two chairs.

The wall had four pictures on it of generic hairstyles, each numbered.  His barber pointed at number one and told him he would receive that cut unless he did not approve.  Henderson felt nothing and simply nodded.  The shearing began, his back and sides thinned and trimmed and the edges shaved smooth.  The top was reduced and thinned repeatedly, clumps of hair falling lazily to the floor.  Each time, the barber seemed to be examining something on his head, but he said nothing to Henderson, who was silent in turn.  Finally, apparently satisfied, he squirted a greasy clump of goo into his hands and began working through Henderson’s much thinner hair before combing it aggressively.  The final look should have been shocking, but Henderson seemed to have accepted it already.  His hair was now dark, short, and combed and parted within an inch of his life.  The product gave his hair of bright sheen that was the only notable trait on the otherwise generic hairstyle.  It was an exact replica of John Howard’s and Amplebottom’s and almost every man in acquisitions.  It was perfect.

The only thing left was a hot shave, which left his skin buttery smooth, and tingly once the aftershave was applied.  The barber briskly informed that all the items would be added to his order, so he’d have everything he needed to maintain his appearance.  Henderson thanked him shortly and was directed back to the dressing room.  The slippers were removed and a highly polished pair of black oxfords were slipped onto his feet.  He was redressed in shirt, tie, and jacket and Art began applying a few small touches.  First, his french cuffs were closed with shiny silver cufflinks, square, with a delightful HHH cut in them.  A white handkerchief was tucked into his breast pocket and folded ever so carefully so that the monogrammed HHH was just visible over the jacket.  A dab of cologne followed, smelling woody, leathery, and astringent.  They informed him he could leave today with undergarments, ties, and grooming products, and to return in three days to pick up a large order, twelves suits, twenty four shirts, plus two speciality suits (one in seersucker and a formal black) in addition to a tuxedo.  He shook hands with the salesmen who had helped him, feeling quite pleased with the whole experience.

-----

“Heart, Henderson,” he said curtly to the well dressed guard at the gate.  Henderson noticed that he was far less chatty than last time.  In fact, the security officer barely seemed to register Henderson as a person, and more as an item line to check off.  He marched dutifully to the elevator.  Henderson admired himself in the mirror as he waited.  Quite frankly, he embodied everything a man should be: big, strong, soon to be rich.  Those commission checks had added up quite quickly, combined with incentives and the fact that Amplebottom had been hinting that he would be moving up to Associate very soon, so Henderson was feeling mighty pleased with himself, and honestly a bit haughty, as he slipped how hands up and down the tasteful braces holding up his trousers.  Despite the fact that his clothing hardly moved an inch in any given direction, he still unconsciously attempted to pull up his pants and underwear, making sure everything was in place.  It was a big day after all.

Mr. Amplebottom took John Howard and Henderson out to a large lunch in a company car that was clean as a whistle and beyond luxurious.  As they stepped out of the Partner elevator, they were greeted by a strapping man in a full chauffeur outfit, cap, gloves, and jodhpurs.  He greeted the men properly before taking Amplebottom’s keys and practically running to fetch his car.  He held the door open militantly as each man entered.  Henderson stopped to give him a good look, there was something familiar about him.  Henderson realized this was the old door man from his side, although the corporate makeover and more servile uniform gave him a less threatening appearance, and his empty obedience was a far better look than the military scowl and tattoos that were once visible.

The car took them downtown.  Amplebottom had made casual conversation about work but the atmosphere in the car was mildly tense.  Henderson had never been invited to something like this and he wanted to make a good impression.  John Howard seemed rather himself, upright and professional, nary a mention of personal life unless questioned.  

They exited the car and Amplebottom led them into a high rise building with black reflective glass covering the outside, making it look kind of like a supervillain’s lair.  They rode the elevator up, stopping at the 6th floor.  Unfinished with not even a desk or chair in site, they ambled over to the window and looked out.  They weren’t high enough to have a great view of the city, but they did overlook one particularly small building below.  Police had cordoned off a section as a throng of protestors with signs seemed to be confronting them.  Behind the police, by the building, were construction workers.

“I thought you’d want to see the results of your hard work,” Amplebottom said slyly.  John Howard and Henderson stared down curiously as the protestors seemed to get louder.  He hadn’t been here in so long, Henderson was unsure what he was looking at.  The chintzy building was old and surrounded by expensive real estate.  His mind began wondering how much the lot was worth and who could possibly own it when John Howard spoke.

“Cherub Theatre,” his voice was different than usual, quicker and lighter.  Amplebottom smiled.

“The future site of Hemple Housing Porter,” he gloated.  “And it’s all thanks to you.”  John Howard seemed uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot.  Henderson just looked quietly.  Then something happened.  The entire building shook and collapsed.

“Well, it wasn’t very grand, I admit.  But that’s the start!” Ample said happily.  He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two envelopes and handed one to each of the men.  Henderson opened his tenderly, wondering what awaited him.  It was a very formal letter, on thick paper, declaring his promotion to Associate with a new salary of 400k a year, four percent commission, and a new set of company perks.  Henderson practically came inside his briefs and when he looked at Amplebottom he was holding out his hand.  Henderson accepted the firm handshake happily.

“Wow,” John Howard spoke quietly as he read the letter.

“Surprised?” “Yes, I, thank you, Sir!” John Howard’s momentary trepidation was gone, replaced with a beaming smile and he shook both their hands with the energy of a toddler on redbull.

“You’re a little young, to be honest.  But I think you’ve demonstrated a dedication and promise that will benefit Hemplebaum for years to come.  And Hemplebaum rewards good employees, Junior Partner John Howard Johnson.” Amplebottom emphasized the last bit so Henderson understood.  J.H. had just moved into a whole new income bracket.  A whole new way of seeing the world.  There had been some trepidation, some fear, as he had looked at the theatre, but now all he saw were profit margins.

“I'm starving.  There’s a great steakhouse nearby.  I say we get some prime rib and bourbon and have a toast.”  The three fatasses business men strutted out of the building, richer and more content than ever before.

-----

Things had progressed really well for Henderson.  He was now a member in good standing at Rolling Acres Country Club, which meant he’d been bumped up from guest to groomsman at John Howard’s oversized wedding.  Apparently, everyone and their dog walker’s best friend had been invited, so long as their net worth was greater than John Howard’s.  Which is how Henderson found himself, sitting in an auxiliary dressing room with the rest of the groom’s party, in nothing but their skivvies getting toasted hours before the ceremony.  John Howard himself was maintaining a pretty stoic demeanor, but several of the groomsmen were going whole hog.

“Just brilliant, J.H.,” Rip patted John Howard on the shoulder again, his eyes were slightly unfocused.

“Careful, you’ll be unconscious before the ceremony,” came a stern warning for their co-worker Bert.

“Imma juss wishing my buddy all the damn- happiness in the world!  Hopefully, your marriage is happier than mine!”  Rip sat down clearly woozy.  Rumor around the club was that his wife did not “approve of his dalliances” like he had hoped.  He’d recently spent some time warning the college boys about the value of pre-nups.

“Have some water, Rip,” Chadwick said, forcing a tall glass of sparkling water into his hands.  Even though it was John Howard’s day, Chadwick did a great job of ensuring he was generally at the center of things.  He’d been the best man, the bachelor party planner, the one who got everyone to relive fraternity induction by sitting around half naked drinking whiskey straight on a saturday afternoon.  There was something deeply fraternal about the thing.  Henderson could recall himself and a few dozen other young freshmen in a similar situation as their pledge master and rush chair had guided them through a vow committing them to the fraternity.

“I’m ready for another, not you Rip.  You’re sitting this one out,” came a highly affected male voice.  It belonged to Oswald V, practically a guest of honor.  John Howard had been absolutely beside himself when Oz had agreed to be a groomsman.  Henderson was happy for him.  J.H. was definitely a social climber and at Rolling Acres he could not do any better.  For his part, Oz was charming and congenial, born into a life of socializing and money, he had all the natural airs of an heir apparent.  

“So, I got the bridesmaid situation worked out,” Chadwick leaned into John Howard and Henderson.  “Missy was insisting on Kitty Bell being third, but I got her to swing her down the line and swap in Millie Cashon.  Oz doesn’t like her, but fuck him, he’s married.  So, Henderson, I got you set up with the hot one.  And the single one.”  Henderson looked bashfully at the floor as the other two stared at him.

“Oh, okay,” he sort of shrugged.

“Listen, Huck,” Chadwick had taken to calling Henderson “Huck” because apparently all men needed a nickname among brothers.  “This took a LOT of work on my part.  I’m not saying you have to marry her, but if you don’t get to at least second, I will consider you a waste.  Also, I owe Missy a doubles game of tennis now,” John Howard looked horrified at the prospect.  “So, J.H. is gonna have to slip into some tiny white shorts and I’m gonna deal with a ticked off aristocrat.  So have some fun!” Chadwick slapped Henderson’s shoulder in a paternal fashion as he returned to keeping up the fun in the room.  John Howard and Henderson made awkward eye contact for a minute.

“Sorry,” Henderson said sheepishly.

“She’s hot,” J.H. appraised.  “Dad’s not worth too much, but he does have some great boats.  Might as well make the most of it.”  He tipped his glass up to Henderson who met it solidly, producing a harsh click in the room.

“Here’s to J.H.!” Rip was attempting to make a toast, seemingly recovered from his drunken daze.  

“To J.H.-John Howard!”  Henderson polished off his drink and happily accepted a refill.  Without John Howard he never would have gotten a job at Hemplebaum, he’d never been sitting in this room, drinking liquor that cost more than a cable bill, planning on making an offer on a home in Chester, and planning on how to get into Kitty Bell’s dress tonight.  Cheers to J.H. indeed.

[axwalker]

Tears in Heaven 1: Beginnings

Synopsis: Alexis O’Brien is about to get married but memories of her old life are coming back to haunt her.

MASTERLIST

Pairings: Liam x MC Drake x MC (TRR)

Warnings: This story will deal with very dark subjects such as death, severe depression and suicide attempt (among others) if you’re triggered by any of those issues, please do not read this story.

A/N: The story will go back and forth between three different periods of time (2009 / 2015 / 2019) 

Word count: 4,800

Songs inspiration: Tears in heaven by Eric Clapton

THANKS TO: @mskaneko​ for the beautiful edits in the mood board. to my awesome beta reader @pedudley​ and to @fromthedeskofpaisleybleakmore​ for helping me figure some things out. Love you girls 💕💕

Tagging: @mskaneko​ @pedudley​ @burnsoslow​ @fromthedeskofpaisleybleakmore​ @lauzales​ @yukinagato2012​ @kingliam2019​ @texaskitten30​  @loveellamae​ @nomadics-stuff​ @drakeandcamilleofvaltoria​ @flutistbyday2020​ @mrsdrakewalkerblog​ @ladyangel70​ @kimmiedoo5​ @debramcg1106​ @ao719​ @msjr0119​  @ac27dj​   

If you want to be added or removed from the list, please don’t hesitate to ask ;-) 

March 2015

Maxwell and Liam arrived at Alexis’s apartment and ran through the stairs. Maxwell knocked on the door several times, but no one came. He threw a worried look at Liam; she hadn’t answered any calls or messages for two days.  

“Olivia gave me the spare key” he screamed through the door “We’re coming in Alexis, I’m sorry”

Liam opened the door and saw an impossible mess. Dozens of wine bottles, pizza boxes, and piles of clothes were scattered everywhere. She wasn’t in the living room, so they went to her room where they found her on the bed. She had her back turned to them.

They exchanged another concerned look.  Maxwell sat next to her and rubbed her back “Lexie, we were so worried”

She didn’t turn her head, but Max felt her crying silently.

“Go away. I want to be alone”

Liam’s chest tightened “Alexis we can’t leave you like this. Come with us, please”

Her sad, hollow voice was barely recognizable “Where?”

Liam gestured at Maxwell to stand up so he could sit next to her. “To Valtoria. You know how big the estate is, you won’t have to see me if you don’t want to, but I want to take care of you, Alexis, please”

Alexis shook her head, they didn’t understand. How could they get her pain, the emptiness in her chest, the despair that never left her? She needed to be left in peace with her memories, that was everything she had now.

She sat up on the bed, her face was pale, almost grey with deep purplish rings encircling her eyes. Liam noticed that she was gripping a photo album.

“I don’t need you or anyone else. I lost everything” She bawled at him “Everything!  Just leave me alone”

Maxwell’s eyes watered too “It’s been five months, Blossom, maybe we could get some help”

She scoffed bitterly “Is that so? Five fucking months? So, I’m supposed to forget everything? I’m supposed to just move the fucking on?” Tears ran through her cheeks “Just leave !”

“Darling, I-“

“Leave.Now”

Liam stood up “We’ll leave now, but we will come back later with Olivia and every single day after that, Alexis. You may want to die but I won’t allow it” He didn’t dare touch her, even if he wanted nothing more than taking her in his arms and comfort her, he knew he couldn’t help her right now.

After they left, Alexis gathered the little strength she had and stood up to pour herself another drink. More tears came to her eyes when she remembered how he used to tease her for her love of pictures and old photo albums.

She opened it and saw the first one.  It was a picture of a dark sky illuminated by hundredths of bright stars, with the legend “August 2009” scribbled underneath. Next to it, there was a picture of Drake smiling, and then another one of both of them smiling at each other. She was unable to look more photos knowing that dozens of other memories were waiting for her in that fucking album. Memories that were happy once, and that had become excruciating after that day. The day he had… died.

She couldn’t understand why everything was so incredibly unfair. They had so much love. He had so much life left to live. An uncontrollable rage overcame her, and she threw the album across the room.

Then she went to her drawer and took a bunch of sleeping pills. She needed some rest.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

August 2009

Alexis shut the door behind her and hurried to the bar where she had been working since last summer. She lived with her family in a suburb outside of Cordonia city. It took her one hour and a half to go to work or college, but Cindy, her stepmother, insisted on moving there because it was a neighborhood “where rich people lived”. It didn’t matter that her father was an ordinary accountant or that she had to work to afford college. Appearances were everything for her and her father.

She arrived at the bar five minutes late and panting, but she didn’t have time to catch her breath. She changed into another t-shirt and put on her apron, as soon as she finished tying it, two men entered the bar. They seemed completely disparate, one was wearing a jean shirt and Timberlands while the other one had an expensive jacket and loafers.  

She went to their table noticing how handsome the man in the denim shirt was. He looked angry and brooding, not her usual type but he made it work.

“Hi, guys. What can I-?”

“Waitress, the menu!” The other man interrupted her.

Alexis cocked her brow, as used as she was to the rich kids on campus and their poor manners, some nights she just didn’t have the patience to deal with them.

She smiled widely before answering “My name is written on my tag, it’s Alexis. I also work faster when people add please or thank you to their sentences” Fuck! There goes my tip.

Drake was suddenly interested. He turned his face to look at her for the first time and his heart skipped a beat. Even wearing a horrible green apron, and with her hair in a messy ponytail, he could see how pretty she was. Shiny eyes and a flirty smile. Fuck, a beautiful smile.

He cleared his throat “We apologize, erm… Alexis. Can we start over?”

Alexis felt his dark eyes penetrate hers and she bit her lip feeling slightly nervous. “Of course, that’s fine” She smiled again “what can I get you?”

“We’ll get three burgers and three glasses of whiskey, please” He added smirking.

She looked puzzled “Three?”

Drake nodded behind her, so she turned around and saw a tall, blond man smiling at her.

“Hi, I’m Liam” He looked at her tag “Alexis?”

She smiled at the impossibly handsome man in front of her. “Hi, Liam, yes, that’s it”

“Nice to meet you, Alexis. That’s Tariq and Drake” He said pointing at the men on the table.

She grinned back at them “Nice to meet you too, I’ll bring your order in a few minutes”

Liam watched her leave for the kitchen “Damn she’s pretty”

“The waitress?” Tariq arched his eyebrows in surprise

Liam smiled “Yes, she’s very cute” he looked at the main counter where she was animatedly talking to the bartender. “I’ll go talk to her after diner, maybe she’ll accept to come out with us”

Drake didn’t bother to say anything, Liam wasn’t only kinder than him, he was also much richer and a noble. He didn’t stand a chance with her, not that it mattered anyway, he was only looking for another fun night.

After dinner, Liam went looking for her, when he came back to the table, he had a huge smile on his lips. “She agreed to come with us. Let’s wait for her outside”

Fifteen minutes later she came out with the same black jeans and sneakers than before but without the apron and the t-shirt she used for work.  Instead, she was now wearing a white tank top that highlighted her tanned skin and hugged her curves. Her hair was down, and she wasn’t wearing a lot of makeup, but it didn’t matter, she was completely natural, one of the most beautiful women Drake had ever seen.

His mouth went immediately dry and he couldn’t avoid blushing as a loud “Wow!” escaped from his lips.

She smiled flirty at him “Wow?”

He cleared his throat and said the first thing that popped into his head “I almost didn’t even recognize you”

She laughed “He! Thanks? I guess?”

He laughed too, a bit embarrassed but didn’t take his eyes off of her and something intangible seemed to pass between them for a second until Liam spoke.

“I booked a table at Kismet, is that alright with you, Alexis?”

“Isn’t that a super fancy club?” She looked at her simple clothes and sneakers.

Liam grinned at her “A woman as beautiful as you would go in spite of what she’s wearing” He winked at her “but I know the owner too”

She blushed “Thank you Liam and I supposed it’s okay then”

Liam offered her his arm and walked her to his Mercedes Benz, Drake was getting more and more annoyed at them, at least he had his jeep and wouldn’t have to ride with the new happy couple to the club.

Kismet was a trendy club at the heart of Cordonia city, when they arrived the manager himself took them to their table upstairs in the VIP section and asked for their order.

Liam talked with a kind but assertive voice “We will be drinking the same as usual, Terence. And you, Alexis?”

“I would love a glass of whiskey, thanks” She smiled at him.

Drake looked at her even more intrigued than before but didn’t say anything. Liam was captivated, so he was already talking to her and making her laugh.

After a while, Alexis turned to the other two friends. “Liam tells me he just finished his MBA. Were you in the same class together?”

Tariq answered fast “Yes, we were, but I still need some credits to graduate”

Drake snorted “The understatement of the year, you were drunk the whole semester”

Alexis chuckled as she turned to Drake “You did an MBA too?”

“No, I hate that kind of shit”

Liam shook his head amused “Drake is in Vet school”

“Wow, that’s interesting” She looked at him “Is this your last year?”

Drake shook his head no and took a sip of his whiskey without adding anything else. He hated her feigned interest; it was obvious that she was only trying to impress Liam by befriending him and Tariq. After years as Liam’s best friend, he knew all their tactics.

Liam sighed “No, he still needs two more years to graduate”

She cocked her brow “And does Drake speak, or does he need you to translate for him?” Liam chuckled. 

Drake shrugged “I just hate small talk”

“Suit yourself then” Alexis scowled; he was infuriating so she wasn’t to lose any more time with him, no matter how handsome he was.

Tariq let his eyes roam over her body as discreetly as he could, she was a simple waitress but certainly a very hot one, maybe he could have a chance with her when Liam got tired. “And you?” He asked, barely listening to her answer.

“I’m an English literature major, I start in the Fall”

He frowned “How old are you?”

“Nineteen. I took a year to save for college”

Before Tariq could reply anything, he saw Alexis jumping off the table to greet someone.

“Blossom!!” Maxwell’s shout could be heard despite the high volume of the music “What are you doing here? I called you like a thousand times. Olivia is here too, she’s downstairs.

Alexis hugged Maxwell. Maxwell, Oliva and her had met each other in High School. Maxwell and she were almost soulmates and had become instant best friends while Olivia and she were completely different so their friendship had taken longer to build but she couldn’t imagine her life without either of them.

“Come, I’ll introduce you, Max”

He giggled “I know the Rhys, Blossom. They’re my brother’s friends” He got closer to her and whispered in her ear “Remember the guy I wanted to set you up with?”

She nodded

“Well, It was Liam” She smiled but her eyes went to Drake, which didn’t go unnoticed by Maxwell.

“Forget it, Blossom. Bertrand says that he and Leo, Liam’s brother, are only interested in one-night stands. Liam is more like you, a romantic”

I gotta feeling (here) started playing on the speakers.

“Our song, Lexie!” Maxwell screamed “Come on guys! Let’s dance”

Liam grabbed Alexis’s hand and took her to the dancefloor, Tariq followed them to talk to a lonely blonde by the bar and Drake stayed alone at the table. Finally.

He poured himself another whiskey and changed seats to watch the people dancing. His eyes instantly drifted to Liam and Alexis.

Liam was a decent dancer, but she was mesmerizing. Her hips moved in sync with the music, and a playful smile never left her lips. He had never seen anyone enjoy music so much, or be that joyful, that full of life.

He must’ve been staring hard at her because she suddenly locked eyes with him and he felt the same intangible energy passing between them that he had felt earlier.

He held her gaze for a few seconds, feeling his heart beating much faster, and his mind running wild with thoughts of him with her on the dance floor ravaging those lips.

He shook his head, breaking the eye contact, she was there with Liam, his best friend.

He needed a distraction, so he went to the bar for another whiskey. While he was waiting, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Hi, there!” She was standing in front of her, grinning at him.

“What do you want, Alexis?”

“Aren’t you a real charmer?” she laughed “Come dance with us”

He shook his head. “I don’t dance”

“As a rule?” She gave him an adorable grin, that made him smile almost against his own will. 

 “Well, I’m a man of principles.” They both chuckled.

She Will Be Loved, started playing. 

“Oh god! I love this song. You’re not going to let me like this, are you?” She said as she offered him her hand.

Drake shook his head smiling but took her small hand, almost nervously. He had no trouble engaging with women almost anywhere except for a dancefloor.

Beauty queen of only eighteen she Had some trouble with herself He was always there to help her, she Always belonged to someone else

She grinned bashfully at him “This song is meant to be dance closer than this”

He smiled as he put his arms around her waist and she settled her left hand on his shoulder and her right hand on his waist. “Just feel the music”. She winked at him. He was instantly charmed. And damn, she felt good in his arms.

She was delicate and tantalizing and had a fruity scent, cherry maybe, that was driving him insane.

He felt her move against him, her hips swaying with the rhythm of the song, and her eyes fixated on his. She was the sexiest woman he had ever held before. She had her head turned to him, so he could finally watch her face freely. Her eyes were black and bright with long eyelashes and they were looking at him in a way he had never been looked at before. Her lips were pink and full, and she had the cute habit of biting her bottom lip when she was nervous.

He felt an irresistible need to feel her even closer, so he pulled her against him as they danced. He smiled when he saw the pretty blush coloring her cheeks. She looked away so he took her chin between his fingers and turned her head back to him without a word. He couldn’t get enough of those eyes.

Tap on my window, knock on my door, I Want to make you feel beautiful I know I tend to get so insecure It doesn't matter anymore

Alexis’s heart was beating so hard she couldn’t believe it, a few minutes ago he was driving her crazy, and now she felt like melting in his arms.  

His chocolate eyes were looking so intensely at her, that she was having trouble breathing normally. Suddenly, she felt his big hand on the small of her back pulling her impossibly close to him, getting her knees weaker too. She looked away but his calloused fingers raised her chin to him again, and she saw that he was smiling at her for the first time that night. He was incredibly handsome, with cute dimples and kind eyes that made her feel instantly safe.

Please don't try so hard to say good-bye I don't mind spendin' everyday, out on your corner in the pourin' rain Please don't try so hard to say good-bye

They didn’t notice when the song was over, completely lost in each other, Drake was about to tell her something when Max interrupted them to take Alexis to the bar for a shot drinking competition.

Drake let her go reluctantly, he could’ve stayed on the dancefloor for hours just holding her. He went to the bar as well and saw Liam talking and flirting with her. Maybe it was the whiskey, but just looking at them was making him feel nauseous. And even if he knew he didn’t stand a chance, not if Liam was really interested, he couldn’t help himself, he was drawn to her.

Liam arched his eyebrows seeing his usually brooding friend come to the noisiest corner of the club, where the bartenders were offering free Jello shots.

He hadn’t taken his eyes off of Drake and Alexis while they were dancing. Just a few minutes ago, they appeared to really dislike each other but while they danced, they both seemed…smitten. It was out of character for Drake to be so captivated by someone. He was used to seeing his best friend taking off with a different woman every night but never acting like that. It was a pity because he really liked Alexis too.

He turned his head to watch her and saw her eyes looking for Drake’s. He shook his head; it was clear that she was captivated by his best friend too and he had no interest in a twisted love triangle. He smiled to himself, the cute blonde in the bar had been flirting with him, maybe he should give her a chance. He checked his phone before talking to her and saw a message from his father, he was going to have to cut the night short.

“Drake! I need to go home earlier, Father wants to speak to me about something tomorrow morning, and I better be rested. Could you take Alexis home?”

“Of course, I mean if you don’t mind” He turned to Alexis.

She smiled at him and was about to answer when Maxwell spoke for her “Don’t worry about it, Lexie. I can take you”

Drake and Alexis’s locked eyes with each other, she bit her bottom lip trying to find an excuse.

Fuck, those lips are going to kill me. Drake cleared his throat. “It’s ok, Max. I don’t mind”

“Well, we’re neighbors so it’s really not a prob-. Auch!” Maxwell grabbed his right arm, where Alexis had discretely pinched him.

She gave him an innocent smile “Are you okay, Max?”

“Uhm, yes, but I remembered that I can’t take Lexie home because… because I have, uh, something to do”

“That’s settled then,” Liam said good-bye to everyone and left, after a moment Maxwell went back to the dancefloor, leaving Alexis and Drake alone.

Drake turned to her “Do you want to stay here?”

“What do you have in mind?”

He locked eyes with her as he tugged a strand of hair behind her ear “Do you trust me?”

Inexplicably, after only a few hours of meeting him, she did “Yes, I do”

He smiled. Normally, he would ask her if she wanted to go back to his place, but there was something special about her. For the first time in his life, he wanted to take his time first. And he knew exactly where he wanted to take her.

They got into his jeep, and debated about movies, music, and tv shows while he drove.

After an hour of driving and laughing they arrived at the beach. Drake’s favorite spot.

He took a blanket that he kept on the trunk of his car and extended it on the sand, remembering that he had bought a bottle of whiskey the day before, he put it on the blanket so they could share it.

“It’s a beautiful beach” She took a sip from the whiskey feeling the warm sensation burn her throat.

“It’s more beautiful if you lie down” He nodded at the sky. It was full of stars.

“Fuck! That’s gorgeous”

He grinned “I told you”

“I need to take a picture of this” She took an old camera from her purse and took a picture of the sky, then she turned the camera to them.

“Smile, Drake, I mean if you know how” She stuck her tongue out.

He chuckled shaking his head, he was loving the way she teased him. She took two or three pictures of them and put the camera away.

“Do you come here often?”.

“I do, whenever I can. It’s calm, quiet and far away from everything”

She smiled “I have a similar spot close to home. We live on the other side of the shore. And there’s this little cove, next to the house. I go there when I want to escape”

He frowned “Escape what?”

She shrugged “My father, my stepmom. My life”

He took her arm and rubbed it with the tip of his fingers “Why, Lexie?”

“My family is very strict, very religious. My father would kill me if he knew I’m here. He thinks I’m with a friend”

“I’m sorry”

She shook her head but didn’t answer anything else.

They stargazed for a few minutes, their silence only interrupted by Drake showing her a star or teaching her the name of a constellation. Alexis was fascinated.

“How do you know all this?”

“My father was a bodyguard, but he loved nature and was an amateur astronomer. He learned by himself and taught me everything he could”

“He was?”

There was a short silence.  “He died when I was twelve”

She took his hand and squeezed it. He smiled feeling strangely comforted.

Drake turned to look at her “You have a stepmom”

“My mom passed when I was ten. I had to go live with my father and his new wife in New Jersey, in America. We moved to Cordonia five years ago because he got job here in an American company” She paused “I miss her”

He cupped her face with his hand and gently turned her to him. “I’m sorry, Lexie”

She shrugged “It’s okay, I’m used to it” He looked at her mesmerized. Under the light of the stars, her skin was almost glowing, and her eyes seemed intensely bright.

He was still cupping her face so he left his thumb softly brush her lips, the air rapidly becoming heavy between them. She closed her eyes enjoying the touch of his fingers on her mouth. She had never felt such an intense desire to be kissed before, he made her excited and incredibly aflutter. Drake pulled himself up and leaned towards her, inhaling her delicious cherry scent.

He growled “Fuck, I’m dying to kiss you Lexie”

She managed to mutter “Me too, Drake”

As much as he was dying to ravage her lips, he sensed her nervousness, so he peppered her face with soft kisses first. He kissed her cheeks, her nose and the corners of her lips, as he stroked her neck with his thumbs, and she put her arms around his own neck.  It was soft and deeply tender, but also extremely charged and Alexis felt a warmth sensation pooling between her legs. Finally, he moved to her full lips, and kissed her pouring all the desire and the passion he was feeling. He crashed his mouth with hers again and again softly biting her lips, and letting his tongue explore hers. Alexis had never been kissed like that before. With such passion and tenderness mixed in the same kiss. She knew right there that she wanted to spend the rest of her life being kissed like that. Drake had never felt a kiss so intensely before either, he had never felt his heart beating hard as he kissed someone. He wanted to spend his life kissing her.

Finally, the need for air became urgent so they parted panting. Drake smiled seeing her pink lips swollen and the blush coloring her cheeks.

She looked at her phone “Shit! I have to go back to my house now or my dad is going to kill me”

“Don’t worry, Lexie, I’ll drive you fast enough” He stood up and help her to stand up too, pulling her against him. He kissed her forehead “When can I see you again?”

She bit her lip grinning “If you manage to take me to my house in less than twenty minutes, I’ll put my phone number in your phone”

He smirked “Deal”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

2019  (NOW)

Alexis chose a red dress and nude heels for her engagement party. The last few weeks had been hectic at work and she hadn’t had time to shop for a new outfit, but it didn’t matter, Liam loved that dress. It was tight, mid-length and left her shoulders bare, perfect for the party.

She finished dressing and placed in her neck a few drops of the same perfume she had been wearing since high school, the same Drake loved. The cherry scented one. It didn’t matter how many times Liam teased her about it, or how many expensive bottles of French perfume he gave her, she couldn’t bear the thought of smelling like anything else.

“Hi, love” Liam’s voice startled her. She had given him her key three months ago and was still getting used to his presence in her apartment

“Hi, Li” She turned to him as she put a pair of golden hoops on her ears.

He smiled at her “You look gorgeous” He rubbed her cheek with the back of his hand before kissing her “Are you ready, darling?”

“Yes, let me just grab my purse”

They had chosen to host their engagement party in a cozy but exclusive Italian restaurant. Their wedding was going to be similar, elegant yet small with only their closest friends. It wasn’t the first wedding for either of them, so they preferred to keep it simple.

They arrived with a slight retard, Liam knew his fiancé had trouble being on time, he shook his head trying to forget about old times, about someone else teasing her incessantly about it.

Everyone was already there. Liam squeezed Alexis’s hand knowing that she would be feeling anxious, she gave him a grateful smile in return and gripped his hand.

“Alexis, darling, you look stunning” Olivia smiled “A glass of champagne?”

“You too, Liv, Red is definitely our color” They both laughed “And Yes some champagne would be nice”

Liam looked at her with a concerned expression on his face “Are you sure you want to drink today, love?”

Alexis glared at him “Yes, I’m sure. Please pour me a glass, Liv. If you’ll excuse me, I need some fresh air. I’ll be back in a minute”

“Why are you offering her a drink, Olivia?” Liam’s voice had the cold tone he used when he was angry.

“I don’t see the fucking problem, Liam. She’s doing so much better, and I’ve seen her drink wine with you plenty of times” She looked at him questioningly “Didn’t you went to visit the vineyards near Bordeaux together?”

“That’s not the point, Olivia. Her anxiety peaks in events like this. And you know that around this time of the year it always gets worse” He looked to one of the balconies of the restaurant where Alexis was standing. He smiled thinking how beautiful she was and how much he loved her and wanted to protect her.

“Li, if you’re going to marry her, you’ll have to learn how to trust her. If you continue to coddle her like this, you’ll both get tired very fast. She’s a strong woman, she has been through hell since he died, but she needs to find herself again”

“I just don’t want her to relapse” Liam sighed

“So, stop smothering her”

Liam gave her a surprised look “Well, Jin has really changed you, Olivia Nevrakis. Thank you” He smiled at her mockingly “Now, I know who to ask when I need some romantic advice”

“Don’t you dare, Rhys”

Alexis needed a moment alone. Everything was happening so fast that sometimes she had trouble dealing with it. She looked at her diamond ring. It was beautiful, elegant and expensive but non-ostentatious. Much like Liam himself.  However, no matter how perfect the ring was, she would always prefer the simple ring Drake had given her ten years ago. The one she had lost. She took a deep breath and tried to think of something else. She couldn’t go back to those memories.  

Liam walked to the balcony where his fiancé was standing.  “My love, it’s our engagement party. I want you to have anything you want” he encircled her waist and placed a kiss on her bare shoulder “you deserve the world and I want to give it to you”

She smiled “I know you get worried about me, and I understand, I do, but please don’t try to control me. You don’t need to. I’m doing better” She turned around to face him “I promise”

“I believe you, my darling” He caressed her face “I love you, Alexis. You mean the world to me”

She smiled at him, at the man she owed everything to “I love you too, Liam”

[ansgar-martinsson]

The Best Intentions - Part 6

Ansgar clicked the button on the car-shaped keyfob, and his cherry red car chirped and the boot schussed open in response.

“Ooh, a Tesla,” Joline intoned. “Nice car.”

“I know,” Ansgar quipped. “Ever been in one?”

She shook her head. “Nuh uh. Heard a lot about them, though.”

He strode to the rear of the car, and bent over the boot. He took out his helmet, a matte-carbon and mirrored AGV, and laid that on the tarmac beside him. “Well,” he said, smiling to himself, “maybe after we take your ride for a spin, we can take mine.” He straightened up, and dangled the fob in front of her, just as she did him. “You can even drive it.”

Her eyes blew wide and she clasped her hands together close to her heart, like a child waiting for a bag of candy from her grandmama. She fist pumped, her face squinching with unabashed glee. “Yes!”

The sight of her, earnest as she was, lifted Ansgar’s spirit, just that little bit.

He laughed and turned his attention back to the boot of his car. He retrieved and shook out a black leather motorcycle jacket - a Switchback jacket, emblazoned with “Harley Davidson” in shades of grey across the back. Various patches decorated the sleeves and the breast – a Swedish flag, an American flag, a massive roaring lion’s head, a Sturgis patch with crossed pistols, an ascending eagle, and a straight razor that read simply, “Revenge”.

“Where’d you get that?” Jo stepped forward and reached her hand toward the jacket. “May I? Is this yours?”

“Of course it’s mine.” He chucked it to her, and she caught it deftly. “I bought it in Sturgis, South Dakota. In America.”

“I know where Sturgis is. What were you doing there?”

He chuckled as he continued to rummage through the trunk. “I went there for the rally, of course.”

“You… you ride?” she blinked and clutched the jacket to her breast.

“Why do you think I keep my gear in my car? I didn’t just pack this up this morning, you know.” He winked.

“I… I can’t believe you ride.”

“What’s so hard to believe?” He laughed as he toed off his loafers and stepped into a low slung pair of black Ariat boots, talking as he set his shoes in the trunk, as he took his jacket back from her and shimmied into it, as he fitted a pair of black leather gloves over his hands. “I have a Triumph of my own. A 1972 TR6. Not to mention I spent quite a bit of time on the back of a 2015 Harley Softail in the US a while ago.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to Sturgis,” she whispered.

“Perhaps some day you can.” He bent and picked up his helmet, tucking it under his arm. “It’s that dream thing again, Joline. You can do whatever you set your mind to.” He smiled and held up his hand. “And don’t worry. I’m not going to go lecturing you or flapping my gums again.”

She cringed. “Er…maybe I shouldn’t have said –”

“No! I’m glad you did,” he smiled, gesturing for her to walk before him. “Few people would dare speak to me like that. I don’t believe I’ve had anyone tell me that I’m flapping my gums, with the distinct exceptions of my twin brother and my wi–” He stopped and swallowed hard. He looked away, feigning a check of the crossing traffic as he brought his facial features back under control. “Well, just know that I appreciate your candor, and I expect more of it from you from here on out.”

He shifted his helmet from one arm to the other as they approached the bike. He narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the piece of machinery before him from top to tail. He rest his gloved hand on the gas tank and glided it back over the seat. He whistled appreciatively. “She’s a beauty, Joline,” he said. “Great condition. Absolutely cherry. You must take meticulous care of her.” He crouched down and set his hand on the rear tire. “She has Marchesini wheels as well. Impressive.” Looking up at her, he asked, “Did you put those on yourself?”

“Joline?”

The portrait of a man in leather beside her bike was nearly her undoing. When she offered Ansgar her ride, she assumed a quick spin around the city center. But the man, as he proved from the first moment they met, didn’t do anything by half. Go big, go strong or fuck right off. The smell of leather, male pheromone and wheat rolled off him in a steady current making her lightheaded and woozy with attraction.

Ansgar tried again when she didn’t respond, “Joline?”

“Hmm…” she hummed, her head in a cloud of lust.

“The Marchesini wheels? Did you put those on?”

Joline snapped to, rejoining the conversation, “Oh, I-I-I did,” she bragged over her most prized possession. Looking chuffed to bits that he noticed, she pressed on, “My… uh, my, my dad was a J&P man- all the way, but those were rough as fuck. The handling felt as smooth as rocks in a blender. Riding from Stockholm to Vaxholm was an exercise in masochism. I swiped ‘em out, replaced the spring forks,” she pointed to the part near the front wheel, “and the rear shock absorber. Now Nightingale, she flies.”

He didn’t fully commit to a grin, but admired her work. He picked up on the nickname for her ride. “Nightingale?”

Jo beamed, affectionately patting the leather seat with a flat slap. “Nightingale. Dad named her, and it stuck.”

“Matches your art,” he nodded at the inside of her arm where he spotted her tattoo.

She dropped her gaze to the sidewalk, a lump of sadness forming in her throat. She swallowed it, pushed it aside for the sake of conversation. She took a breath and shed her leather jacket off her left shoulder. “I got it on the one year anniversary of dad’s death.”

A small blue outline of a nightingale bird sat on the inside of her arm, under the bend of her elbow, wings in flight, no more than three inches long. Underneath a Florence Nightingale quote graced her flesh: Live life when you have it.

“Dad used to tell me that all the time.” She nodded at the text. “I honored him that way, I missed his reminders.” Tears filled her eyes, but she managed to blink them away. A weak smile broke the moment and she recovered smoothly with a shrug. “Still raw from it, I guess.”

Ansgar softened his gaze and gave a sympathetic apology, “A touching tribute. I’m sure he’d be proud.”

“Thank you. Now… uh…” she threw her jacket back on her shoulder, “let’s ride!” She replied with a bit more gusto than completely genuine.

He seated his helmet it place upon his head, adjusting the visor in place and nodded for her to do the same. One long leg swung over the top of her bike, and his hips settled into the seat, hand poised on the clutch.

Jo’s eyes went a little wonky witnessing his mount, but she reeled in the hormone show before he noticed. She watched in further appreciation as he righted the bike and started it like the expert rider he claimed to be.

“Get on! Hold onto me!” he ordered through the helmet.

She jumped perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, her waist in line with his, her legs outlining his, her hands gripping the leather of his belt. He was solid and firm and so warm, she felt another rush of blood to her head.

Ansgar eased into traffic fully in control of the bike beneath him, and possibly the woman clutching at his waist. Her grip tightened at intervals depending on the speed they traveled or how close other vehicles got to them. But there was underlying trust in the hold on him, she didn’t fear for her safety, it was more a show of confidence in his skill.

He drove out onto Strombron, past the ships on the water on Skeppsbron, passing by Fotografiska, another Martinsson Construction account. He navigated his way through traffic, the odometer pushing the legal limit just enough for the thrill of riding, but under the traffic camera radar. He signaled where appropriate, but also maintained this air of wild freedom, a flirt of recklessness, but never too much.

Jo didn’t know where he was headed, but she couldn’t find it in her to care.  

*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Did you… did you say twin brother?” Joline wasn’t sure she’d heard right. Her blood soared and her ears rang on the riding high. It had also been the better part of an hour ago. Ansgar pulled off and parked in one of the famed observatory parks that he’d had his hand in at the beginning. He sat in a bench along the edge watching with little interest as joggers, parents and tourists go about their way. But he lorded over the place as if he owned it. His legs sprawled to the width of his elbows hiked upon the wooden slats of the bench back. Joline restrained herself from hopping in the middle of those impressively muscled legs by forcing herself to sit on her own hands.  She hadn’t the first inkling how she’d held onto to him while they rode without embarrassing herself. She’d the opportunity to take advantage and yet, somehow, maintained her dignity. Ansgar only seemed to be testing the boundaries of her restraint. You can’t have him, Jo. Pull yourself together! Ansgar laughed at her very delayed question, turning an eye to her. “Yes. Twin. I have a twin.” There are two of you sexy motherfuckers walking around?! “Congrats!” She said outloud. “For what?” She suddenly blurted a tiny snippet of some of the cleaner ideas running about her head at the speed of light. “The genes… impressive fucking genes in your family.” And that was the clean version. “Your family’s been blessed, with not one, but two sexy men.” He delighted in the freedom of her tongue and the way she said it, without a trace of embarrassment or terror; she owned it. “Do you find me sexy, Joline?” She propped her elbow on the park bench’s back, rotated in his direction and stared at him. “You don’t need me to stroke your ego. You know that everyone finds you sexy. Even that guy,” she jutted her chin at the runner that gave Ansgar a full model survey… three times on his way past.

[misterewrites]

The Detective and the Crook (Sherlock AU)

Hello everyone, Mr.E here and kinda back from my retirement! I hope you’re all doing good!

Sorry for disappearing like that, I had a lot of things come up and some more personal responsibilities i have to take care of but hopefully I can get back into steadily writing again. Also I apologize if this is a little off because I am rusty but hopefully you still enjoy it.

So this is a birthday gift I owe someone and I really hope they like it. They asked me for a sherlock au and I decided to go with the guy Ritchie movie series the one where Robery Downey Jr. is Sherlock. I really enjoy those movies and I feel it is a great balance mystery and action.  

In this AU, set in the 1800s like the movie and the books, Marco is naturally Sherlock with his Waston being Janna because that felt like a fun dynamic I wanted to explore. They’re called in to investigate a crime scene and Marco suspects there’s more to it than meets the eye. Yes Star is Irene Alder because I could not resist.

Warnings! There is a crime scene, suspected suicide. Very tame scene, not graphic but still giving a warning just in case. There is cussing because they’re all in their mid-20s but I think that’s about it.

Well I hope my friend enjoys this gift. I am so sorry it took so long and I hope you had a great birthday. Thank you all for reading it, please let me know what you think if you enjoyed it and I hope you all have a great week! See you all soon with another story!

A thin misty veil of fog blanketed the city of Echo Creek as the frosty winter air kept most of its residents within the cozy confines of their homes. Only the unfortunate and determined would dare to brave such a chilly morning.

“What kind mad loon commits crimes during the winter?” Janna asked with a hint of annoyance, tucking her uncovered fingers within her gloved palms “And in the morning no less! It’s been scientifically proven that the winter mornings are psychologically bull.”

“And I suppose your source for this scientific research is the University Of Janna says?” Marco replied sarcastically.

“We both know I’m not going to answer that.”

“You know when I told you the Yard called that they had found a body this morning and that they requested my...”

“Our” Janna corrected, rubbing her hands for warmth.

“...our services, it was greatly implied they meant right away. Hence the whole walking towards the crime scene now. Why on earth did you cut off the tips of your gloves if you knew it was going to be cold out?”

Janna scratched her chin thoughtfully for a moment “I like being fashionable and let me tell you fingerless gloves are going to be huge. Wait and see.”

“I’ll take being warm over being fashionable”

Janna scoffed with a roll of her eyes “And that’s why you’re boring safe kid.”

The pair’s footsteps echoed dully against the thick foggy air with towering, massive warehouses on one side and the murky ocean on the other.

Marco was sensibly dressed for the weather: A large thick travel coat hung over his frame with his finely pressed black dress pants and slightly muddied loafers scraping across the ground with his white collared shirt tucked underneath the layers.

Janna was not as prepared as her partner: Though a green scarf was wrapped snugly around her neck to keep it warm, her dark blue dress jacket, green blouse and knee length yellow skirt did not help. The black ‘fingerless’ gloves were equally ineffective for warmth and her dirtied, frayed riding boots thudded loudly against the cobbled streets. And in true Janna fashion, the cap she had stole from an unsuspecting paper boy sat unevenly on her head.

“So what are we looking today?” Janna asked quizzically, unable to handle the silence for another moment.

“Someone jumped from their office building.” Marco answered matter of fact.

“Uggggggggh then why are we here?!”

“We both know the police have less than an unbiased eye for these types of matters. I simply wanted to confirm their claims.”

“And you couldn’t do it by yourself? I could be wrapped up nice and snug as bug in my bed right now.’

“Shouldn’t you be studying for your final exam?”

Janna fidgeted nervously “I...well it’s on the 5th so I have time.”

Marco’s stare was completely deadpanned “Today’s the 3rd Janna”

“Ah shit.”

Marco shook his head tiredly as the pair reached their destination.

It was a secluded building surrounded by thick, lofty brick walls clearly meant to keep people out, the floor was muddy from the moist ocean air with the squish of dozens of police boots bustling this way and that filling the air. In the center, surrounded by cracked wood and shattered glass was a man, arms outstretched and unmoving, the earth underneath soaked a dark red.

“I suppose that’s our bloke huh?” Janna chimed “Rather peaceful scene. Was expecting more gore, more grisly. Nice change of pace speaking honestly.”’

“I just cleaned these loafers” Marco whined quietly, trying to shake the mud from his feet.

“Oi!” a nearby police officer shouted “Show some respect for the dead!”

“I do!” Janna shot back “Especially more so than you fine folks. Messed up any more crime scenes McNab?”

The officer shifted uneasily before quickly making his escape.

“Mhm, that’s what I thought”

“Janna, stop picking on the police.”

“I will if you don’t.”

The two chuckled softly as a familiar person approached.

“Marco!” Detective Ferguson yelled with unrestrained glee “JANNA BANANA!”

“Don’t call me that” Janna murmured.

“I’m glad ya’ll had the time to come down here though I’m afraid it might be for nothing.”

“Always happy to help you Ferg.” Marco shook his best friend’s hand “More so than the other yard’s detectives.”

“I’ll count myself lucky and show you to the vic.”

The trio trudged through the thick mud over to the lifeless corpse laid across the random debris.

“What happened?”

“Well” Ferguson scratched his neck “Some random bloke on the street saw the guy laying here and figured he was drunk. Called us right away. His name is Andrew Willingham. Accountant that works for building we are currently standing in front of. We don’t have much to go on given that we haven’t been here long. So far we gathered he tossed himself out the 5th story window. Must’ve been stress or something.”

Marco pursed his lips, his instincts screaming at him that there was more here than seemed.

“Mind if I check the body?” Janna piped up.

“Got your medical license yet?” Ferguson cheekily responded.

“My test is in two days….” Janna mumbled darkly.

“Then officially you know I’m not allowed. Now if you excuse me, I’m going to go for a walk. A loooooong walk.” and with a wink, Ferguson strolled away, whistling unusually loud.

Janna and Marco sighed in unison.

“Could he be any more obvious?”

“Of course he could, he’s Ferguson.”

“What do you think?” Janna muttered softly as she began to circle the corpse carefully.

Marco stretched his arms towards the sky, mumbling under his breath “I suspect foul play. I’ve been investigating this company. There’s been some known associates of various crime lords visiting this location lately.”

“Fuuuuuuuuun and already proven correct. Ugh, it’s so annoying.”

Marco watched the scattered police cautiously “What is it?”

“Bruises on the knuckles.” Janna cracked her neck “So unless he’s a bare knuckle boxer….”

“Impossible. With his build, he’d lose. Consistently” 

Janna rolled her eyes “Obviously captain. Probably was assaulted before thrown out the window. Fought back but lost.” Janna frowned at the body “Well clearly.”

Marco opened his mouth to respond when another, unfriendly voice cut in

“What are you two doing?”

A random officer approached the two, eyes narrowed in suspicious irritation.

“Hello officer!” Marco gave a cheerful wave “I am sure you know who we are. I am Mr. Diaz and this is….”

“Like you said, I know.” The officer gritted his teeth “And I am afraid civilians aren’t allowed in crime scenes.”

“Detective Ferguson...”

“Is not here” The officer crossed his arm threateningly “And when he comes back, I’ll be happy to let him know where you’ve gone.”

“Oi! What’s going on here?”

The trio’s attention snapped towards Ferguson madly rushing their way.

“What seems to be the..” Ferguson huffed, his breathing heavy as he doubled over “Oh boy. That….mud...very hard to walk across….”

“Detective” The officer started “I know Mr. Diaz is a friend but regulations...”

Marco gave a loud sneeze, causing the two officers to jump in surprise.

“I am very sorry I...” Marco let loose another sneeze “Oh, I guess I’m allergic to something here.”

“You have allergies?” Ferguson asked quizzically.

Marco nodded before sneezing once more “I...I think I should go.”

“Okaaaaay” Ferguson nodded slowly “I hope you feel better? I’ll let you know if we find anything else out.”

Marco wiped at his nose with his coat sleeve “Thank you Ferg. Janna?”

Janna snapped to attention mockingly “Coming boss man!”

Marco ignored the glare of the peeved officer as he and Janna made their way out of the murky courtyard.

_____________________________________________________________

The pair walked in a careful silence until they were sure the police were out of earshot.

“What did you find?” Marco asked nonchalantly.

Janna reached into her pocket and brought out an elegant pin: It was a beautiful, well crafted butterfly shaped pin inlaid with varying shades of blue gems.

“A blue butterfly pin. Fine piece of jewelry, worth a pretty pound.” Janna answered with a hint of boredom “It was tucked inside his jacket pocket. Good call on checking his clothing. Should we tell the bobbies?”

Marco shook his head “No. I’m afraid this is beyond their reach. I think the man that called it in was involved somehow though I doubt he was the murderer.”

A brief tense silence.

“Do you think she’s involved? It’s not really her cup of tea offing random, supposed criminal accountants.”

Marco bit his cheek anxiously “No. I don’t think she murdered him but I believe he knew her. I suspect he’s part of the same organization as Star. The pin is most likely a subtle way for the members to reveal their identities to one another in public. I’ve seen this pin on her person and its general shape and color seems to indicate it was custom made.”

Janna let out a sigh of relief “Oh thank the queen. Not going lie, I was going to be very disappointed in her if she started offing random blokes.” Janna paused “I mean innocent blokes. Well...presumably innocent blokes. Seriously, can you figure out if he’s a crook or not? I don’t like feeling conflicted. Morality is annoying.”

“We need to find her.”

“Because you want to see her ooooor she’s a target?”

Marco coughed, tugging at his collar nervously.

Janna snickered “You could’ve just said both. Both is good. I miss her too.”

“I do not miss her” Marco firmly growled.

“And how bout those pictures of her you have hanging on the wall? Oh I’m sorry, your case board.”  

“You never know when the police...might want to reexamine her case and….I just wanted to be prepared. She is a rather tricky criminal.”

“Mhm” Janna smirked mischievously “You know where she is, don’t you?”

Marco flushed a bright red, coughing coolly “No….but I know where she will be.”

“Awesome!” Jana beamed cheerfully.

_______________________________________________________________

“Oh bloody hell” Janna pouted, openly glaring at the rundown state of pub that towered before them “You couldn’t have told me we were coming to this shitehole? I lost money here. Repeatedly.”

Marco ignored his partner’s whining “Perhaps you should stop gambling on games of chance.”

“Perhaps you should mind your own business.” Janna huffed “Ugh, are you sure she’s here? Maybe she’s round at the nice corner store. I should go check it...”

Janna frowned as Marco held the back of her coat tightly.

“Fine fine safe kid but I want the record to show I protest this whole adventure.”

“Mhm”

“I mean it Marco. I want a voucher” Janna gestured threateningly as the duo began making their way towards the building “One adventure where I get to stay home and do nothing.”

“Let’s get this over with Janna. You have a test to study for.”

“Oh shut up” Janna snarled, angrily pulling the bar door open.

The detectives flinched as the silence of night was broken: Cheers of triumphant joy and sorrowful cries filled the air. The smell of cheap alcohol and thick smoke wafted all around them as an unbearable heat engulfed the pair.

“Open a damn window!” Janna shouted into the crowd, waving the smoke away from her face.

“Go outside if you don’t like it.” A cigar smoking patron answered from a nearby table.

Janna shook her head “That’s going kill you. Painfully.”

The patron made an obscene gesture before returning to his drink.

Janna growled furiously, clenching her fist in righteous fury.  

“Janna” Marco stepped between his friend and her victim “Janna, he’s drunk. He’s not worth it.”

She gritted her teeth “Just once. Just once and I’ll be good.”

“Janna, we’re here on a mission.”

“You suck” Janna grumbled, adjusting the cap on her head “I need a drink….”

And with a sudden turn, Janna stomped her way over to a waiting bartender.

“Don’t forget why we’re here!” Marco yelled after only to have his partner respond with a lazy wave.

Marco sighed tiredly, his gaze searching for the elusive trickster Star among the drunken patrons.

No, not Star. Don’t use her name. If he uses her name, that humanizes her and he was here on a case. He was not here to see her. He was here to question a suspect and nothing more. Not at all. Nothing beyond that. Why was his heart racing? There was no need to be nervous. None whatsoever. It was just….Star. Her.

Marco jumped at the soft tap of his shoulder. He whirled around with his fist closed, his stance guarded from the interruption of his thoughts.

He was expecting some sort of muscular goon or drunk trying to stir up trouble. What he found was a barmaid with a tray in one hand and a smug knowing grin on her lips.

“Looking for a fight darling?” She teased.

Marco flushed, dropping his hands to his sides “N-no. Sorry, I was..distracted. “

“I bet” she gave a flirty wink “Can I get you anything?”

Marco narrowed his eyes “No though I suspect you have for me.”

The barmaid’s grin widened as her voice dropped to a whisper “She’s waiting for you. Upstairs in the office. It’s the room just above the bar love.”

Before Marco could ask any further questions, the barmaid gave a cheeky grin and giggled joyfully before vanishing into a thick crowd of customers.

“Of course….”

________________________________________________________________

Marco took a deep breath, his nerves further frayed and on edge as he stood on the second floor landing. The rowdy shouts and cries of the bar below could be scarcely heard over the thundering of his footsteps in his ears, each step he took brought him closer to the office door across the way. Marco noticed Janna giving a hearty laugh at the counter, playfully nudging a sailor before making her way towards card game in the back.

Marco felt oddly exposed making his way across the second floor. He told himself it was due to being in such a vulnerable location: Everyone below had an excellent unobstructed line of sight to the detective with little to no cover if someone decided to take a shot at him even though none had any reason to suspect who he was.

Of course that’s only what he thought. With each step his heart raced more, the idea of seeing Star tugged at his heartstrings and morals.

Marco gulped anxiously, gently running his fingers across the weathered, ancient door that separated the outlaw and himself.

He took a deep breath, gripping the doorknob firmly for a moment….two….three before he steeled his nerves and quietly pushed open the door in hopes of catching Star unaware.

“My heart is pierced by cupid”

Marco flushed, pausing as Star’s voice caught him off guard instead. It was sweet and soft with a gentleness she hardly spoke with.

“I disdain all glittering gold”

The floor creaked under her steps, back and forth in time almost as if she was dancing with someone but he could hear no other person in the room and Star never sang while there was an audience.

“There is nothing can console me but my jolly sailor bold.”

Marco knew there was no point in waiting. Either she had taken a moment to relax before his arrival or, more likely, knew he was listening. He entered the room, eyes downcast as to avoid Star’s Cheshire gaze. He closed the door behind him with a subdued thud.

“Okay” Marco thought to himself “Let’s get this over with”

Marco’s cheeks burned a bright red as he slowly took in the sight of Star.

She was as beautiful as the last time she escaped from him: Her long blonde hair tied in a braid slung over her shoulder with various colored flowers weaved within. She wore a brown long sleeved blouse with matching fingerless gloves holding tightly onto some invisible partner. Her skirt was not the current bell shaped dresses most woman preferred nowadays but rather a slim, knee length skirt that seemed rather practical. And of course, in true Star fashion, weathered yet well kept riding boots completed the outfit.

Her blue irises were hidden behind her closed eyes, her body swaying back and forth to some unheard music. She hummed softly, a melodic sound Marco could’ve listened all day if he were a weaker willed man.

He coughed hesitantly.

Star’s eyes slowly opened, blue meeting brown as a soft warm smile danced on her lips.

“Good evening my sailor bold.” She spoke sweetly “Which storm are you chasing today?”

Marco stayed still, ignoring Star gestures to sit.

“This isn’t a social visit Star.” Marco struggled to keep his voice neutral.

“It never is” Star responded sarcastically “Always business with you. Why can’t you ever come just to see me?”

“If you found a permanent residence I’d visit more often. I think the local jail is very lovely. Perfect for you.”

Star chuckled, an intoxicating sound to his ears.

“How’s our Janna? I heard she’s been going on the straight and narrow now.”

“Good” Marco played with a random globe on Star’s desk “She’s almost a real doctor now. Her medical exam is in two days. I think she’ll pass with flying colors but don’t tell her that. Pride is quite the sin.”

Star beamed proudly “I am so happy for her. Please pass along my congratulations, will you sweetie?”

Marco answered by clearing his throat.

“Marco, Marco, Marco” Star sighed tiredly “Enough flirting. Why are you here?”

Marco strolled across the room, glancing at everything that wasn’t Star.

“Andrew Willingham. You know him.”

It wasn’t a question.

Star’s grin faltered for a moment “He’s dead isn’t he?”

“Jumped out of a building this morning.”

Star scoffed “Like you really believe that.”

“We both know I wouldn’t be here if I did.”

Marco made his way to the window, staring at the busy street below.

“And what?” Star put her hands on her hips “You think I killed him? For shaaaaame Marco. You know me better than that. Or at least I thought you did.”

Marco rolled his eyes “I don’t think you killed him but I believe the murderer is coming for you next.”

Star looked unconvinced “I run with a very secretive and, frankly, shadowy organization love. I haven’t done anything...” Star pursed her lips “Lately to anyone. Who would want to kill me?”

“How many of you are in town?”

Star scratched her chin thoughtfully “If Andy’s dead, then just me but that hardly seems like any sort of proof that I’m in.….”

Creak.

The roof groaned unhappily as bits of dust fell from the ceiling, the building shudder slightly while the wind howled outside.

Marco and Star stared at one another in understanding.

Star moaned unhappily “That’s not the building settling, is it?”

Marco shook his head.

Star glared openly at the detective “I hate it when you’re right.”

Silence.

CRACK!

The window shattered, glass scattering everywhere as a dark robed figure sailed into the room, knife drawn. He lunged directly at Star, his blade glimmering in the soft light of the room.

But his attack struck air as Marco pulled Star closer, wrapping her in a protective embrace.

“Woooow, we are bold today aren’t we Mr. Diaz?” Star teased.

“Not now Star!” Marco shot back, cheeks tinged pink.

The assassin skidded the across the floor, gracefully raising to his feet before pivoting on and charging at his targets.

Star slipped her hand into Marco’s, trying to ignore her skipping heartbeat when Marco firmly held her waist.

The assassin slashed wildly, striking with a finesse only a master of their craft could muster.

The assailant’s single minded pursuit was mired with confusion as the two did not assume any defensive stances to fight off his assault but rather began swaying back and forth, their feet gliding effortlessly across the aged wooden floor as if in a dance.

He thrust forward, tumbling forward when Marco spun Star, gracefully twirling the thief out of harms way. The assassin whirled around, attempting to slash the detective but Marco dipped his partner and as Star fell backwards in Marco’s arms, her leg shot up and caught the assassin in the stomach, sending him stumbling backwards.

“This reminds of Paris.” Star grinned slyly as Marco brought her back to her feet

“You and I remember Paris quite differently Star.” Marco shot back, spinning her away from their foe’s lunge.

The assassin roared with a savage fury and plunged his blade towards the couple but with a gentle shove, Star broke away from Marco, dropping into a respectful bow before glancing upwards towards the detective.

“Could you…?” Star gestured towards the assassin.

“Right.” Marco awkwardly nodded in agreement before giving Star a steely glare “Don’t go anywhere.”

Star gives a cheeky grin “Would’ve dream of it love.”

Marco rushes forward, grabbing the assassin’s shoulder but before he could react, the assassin lashed out, elbowing the unprepared Marco.

Marco staggers to the side, narrowly avoiding the blade as it scrapes across the wall. Marco jabs at the assassin, his fist connecting with his chin.

The assassin staggers back, weapon and hand wildly flailing to keep Marco at a distance.

“Who do you work for?” Marco yelled, not really expecting an answer.

“Death” The assassin mumbles darkly.

“Such a bloody edgelord” Marco clicked his tongue in disappointment.

The assassin lunges at Marco, hand reaching for his throat. Marco grabs at the man’s wrist but the assassin throws his weight forward, knocking Marco off balance. Marco stumbles uneasily as the assassin goes in for the kill.

Marco tackles into his opponent, slamming him into the bookcase. The assassin winces in pain, kneeing Marco in the stomach before shoving him away.

The two caught their breath for a moment, the falling books thudding loudly onto the floor.

The assassin yells with a hope of startling Marco. He swings with crazed fervor: Left right, thrusting forward.

Marco dodges and weaves the blade, hopping side to side to avoid the weapon. The assassin rushes at him, trying to drive the blade into his chest.

Marco flails for a moment, not used to facing such a skilled opponent.

The assassin smashes into Marco and sends him sprawling onto the desk. With a confident grin, he raises the blade high before bringing it down with all his might.

Marco reaches for the closest thing he could find and uses it as a desperate shield. The blade sinks into a leather bound book he grabbed. Marco winces at the force of the blow, sweat beads forming on his neck as he struggles to fight off the assassin.

“Soooo love.”

Marco frowns, glancing towards to door, not at all surprised to see Star giving him a cheery wave.

“You got this right?” Star asked hopefully.

“Don’t go anywhere STAR!” Marco shouted, wildly kicking at the befuddled assassin.

“Right! I’ll get Janna”

“STAR!”

But it was too late. She vanished beyond the doorframe.

“Ugh” Marco growled, shifting his focus back onto the problem at hand.

The assassin snarled furiously: He yanks back with all his might, pulling the book free from Marco’s grasp. Marco sits up but the assassin is ready for him. He strikes at Marco’s stomach with an open palm, knocking all the air out of his lungs.

Marco gasps in a panic but the assassin doesn’t go for the kill. Instead he rips his blade from the book and races for the door.

There’s a loud thud that no one hears as the assassin kicks open the door. His eyes narrow at the sight of the fleeing Star. He grins to himself, gingerly holding the edge of his blade. His arm pulls back, his gaze focused solely on his target’s back. He takes a deep, calming breath and….

“Shit!” The assassin howls as his blade his knocked out of his hand by a book. He turns around in time to see a charging Marco.

He pulls his fist back but its too late: Marco slams into him, pressing him against the second floor railing and holding him place.

The assassin grabs at Marco but Marco lays into him, driving his fist into the assassin’s side over and over again.

The sounds of the bar are overwhelming though it doesn’t seem like anyone has noticed the two combatant fighting directly above them.

“Janna!” Marco shouts, flinching as the assassin knees his side but still managing to keep his hold on him “JANNA!”

Janna chuckles, swaying drunkenly as she yells in victory, hastily collecting her winnings from the disgruntled losers.

“JANNA!” Marco tries again.

The assassin jabs at Marco’s side, nearly getting free but Marco slams him against the railing again.

“DAMNIT JANNA YOU SUCK!”

Janna’s head snaps towards the source of the insult, her dull eyes slowly growing in realization.

“Ah shit!” she exclaims, raising to her feet “Da hell going on brav?”

“Janna, Star!” Marco gestured with his head towards the fleeing Star.

“Right” Janna gave an intoxicated salute.

“Oi” One of the players stood up “Sit back down. I wanna win my cash back.”

“Srroy.” Janna slurred “But I gotta go. Duty calls.”

“You ain’t going nowhere till I win back my money. Now sit.”

“No man” Janna glared “You sit”

Before anyone could react, Janna grabbed her winnings and tossed them into the air. There was a pause for a moment as the bills rained down across the bar.

“MINE!” A cry called out from nowhere, breaking the spellbound customers of their stupor and sending them frantically towards the fallen cash.

Janna shook her head disappointingly “So weak willed….right Star? Star….gotta stop Star...” Janna scratched her chin, glancing left and right in search of the elusive criminal.

Meanwhile, the assassin strikes furiously at Marco, each blow attempting to break his grip on him but Marco holds fast, blocking where he could and simply taking the less painful attacks.

“Tell me who you work for!” Marco shouted, pulling the assassin closer by his collar

“I’m a professional!” The assassin screeched before headbutting Marco.

Marco winced, stumbling backwards and loosening his grip on the assassin.

The assassin reached into his pocket, drawing another dagger as he straightened up.

“Ugh, of course you would have another one.” Marco gritted his teeth through the pain.

“Professionalism.” The assassin sneered as he moved his blade back and forth.

“Okay” Marco thought to himself “This is bad. Close range, nowhere to move with my opponent has a dagger, about 4 inches. Maybe if I retreated back into the room and get more space, I could fight him off. He’ll lunge at me and it’ll be the only shot I have to dodge him. Okay, I got this. Just wait for an opening and….”

The assassin took a step forward, prepping himself for his attack when….

A sharp whistle cut through the brawling symphony below, causing the assassin to flinch in surprise.

He turned in time to catch a frying pan directly to the face. He flailed uncontrollably, backing up against the wooden railing for support.

“What the…?” He growled, noticing a grinning Star waving at him with the kitchen utensil before pointing to the left.

Confused, the assassin followed the direction and found Marco racing at him full speed. He rose his arms to protect himself but it was too late: Marco tackled into him, cracking the railing behind him and sent him plunging to the room below. There was a thud and the sound of wood crunching as the assassin broke through a table.

“Nice of you to come back” Marco huffed, leaning on his knees for support.

“What? I needed a weapon.” Star motioned the pan in her hand.

“Star….I...”

Screams and the breaking of glass caught Marco’s attention. The two glanced downward only to find the assassin nowhere in sight.

Marco and Star shared a concerned glance before sighing tiredly.

________________________________________________________________

“3 minutes to boarding! 3 minutes to boarding!”

Marco shifted uneasily alongside the train car, conflicting emotions tugging at his resolve.

Since the unknown assassin had escaped into the night, Star felt it best to leave Echo Creek until the threat died down.

The trio stood outside the waiting train, the star twinkling over head. The train platform was nearly deserted though Marco kept a careful eye out in case their assailant decided to trail them from the bar.

“It was nice seeing you again Star.” Janna hiccuped, rubbing at the splitting headache she was nursing.

“Aww, it was great to see you too Janna Banana. You’re going do great on the test and you are finally going to be a real doctor.”

“Legal doctor” Janna corrected, smiling brightly at the blonde before tightly embracing her in a hug “Be safe.”

“Only for you.”

The two broke apart, Janna standing awkwardly between the detective and the outlaw.

She coughed uncomfortably “Right, I’m just gonna go….not be here.”

And with a cheery wave, Janna walked towards the station entrance.

“So...” Marco began

“Thank you” Star said with a loving softness “You still owe me two.”

“Two?” Marco scoffed “You owe me for Paris.”

“You owe me for Washington.”

“No, you caused Washington. I helped clean that up so really you owe me two.”

Star smiled playfully at him “Fine. I owe you two my sailor bold.”

“Are you sure you can’t stay?” Marco whispered, unable to keep the plea out of his voice.

Star cupped and caressed his cheek fondly “Marco, I know you’ll keep me safe but it’ll be easier if I go away for awhile. Besides, you’ll know where I am. You always do.”

“Yeah….”

Star leaned forward, kissing Marco with softly Marco wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer and deepening the kiss.

“Train leaving the station! All aboard!”

The two parted slowly, gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes.

“Goodbye my sailor bold.” Star grinned mischievously.

“Goodbye princess.” Marco smiled sorrowfully.

Marco stood there in silence, watching the train shrink into the distance.

“So...” Janna cleared her throat “You ready to go home?”

Marco gave a simple nod before following Janna back onto the street.

“It’s too bad Star didn’t give you any leads to anyone who might want her dead. Would’ve been helpful”

“Right. Helpful.” Marco reached into his coat pocket, unsurprised to find a certain item missing from within and instead finding a small folded up piece of paper Star had placed there. He unfolded it, eyes narrowing at the word that she scrawled across its surface.

Toffee.

A lead but a dangerous one.

________________________________________________________________

“Excuse me miss, may I see your identification please?” The usher asked politely.

“Of course!” Star beamed, passing both her ticket and the false identity card she swiped from Marco’s pocket “I’m sorry, I was just deep in thought. I’m about to spend some time away from my husband and I already miss him.”

“Oh” The usher shifted uncomfortably “I’m sorry to hear that...” He squints at the card “…. Mrs. Diaz. I hope you see him soon.”

Star’s cheek flushed as she took back the card, her heart skipping at the sight of Star Diaz written on the paper.

“Me too.”

She sighed longingly, reaching into her pocket and pulling out the item Marco had snuck in. She smiles gently at the simple sliver wedding band with a note that said “For your disguise.”

She slipped the ring onto her finger, playing with it absentmindedly as she stare out the window, Echo Creek shrinking in the distance.

“Me too.”

[sympathetichorror]

OKAY i got a couple of responses so here’s the first chapter of my WIP tentatively titled “little stranger!”

i’d love comment/critiques but please be kind

[word count: 3,034]

Dad bought Mikey the Rickenbacker for his tenth birthday, back in ‘64. The Beatles had hit it big and Mikey had decided that he wanted to be a rockstar too, so without hesitation or any real kind of money in his pockets, Dad went down to a music shop in Austin and picked up the same kind of guitar that George Harrison wielded. At the time, Dad had given up hope on making Mikey into a sports star, so he decided to try to make him a rockstar. Rock music was masculine in Dad’s eyes, and if Mikey was a big man rock star who could pull in girls like those English boys did, even with their floppy hair, then the rumors about Mikey being light in the loafers couldn’t be true.

But Mikey, being Mikey, was over the rockstar dream by the time he unwrapped the guitar on his birthday, much to Dad’s ire and disappointment. The guitar got hung on the wall of abandoned dreams in the basement, alongside Mikey’s old baseball glove, football helmet, and cleats. I was only six at the time, but I used to sneak down in the basement all the time to steal glances at the mystical instrument, which hung just high enough to be out of my little reach, not that my fingers were big enough to do anything with it. By the time I grew tall enough to be able to take it off the wall, Dad gave in and let me have it.

He didn’t want me to have it at first because he didn’t see the guitar as a “ladylike” instrument, but once he realized that Mikey was never going to be the guy in the letterman with a beauty queen on his arm, he didn’t care anymore. An unladylike daughter was bad, but significantly less bad than a queer son. He already had a queer son, so what was the harm in letting me, the often ignored second child, be a little unladylike?

That guitar was the only thing I took with me when I went to New York to try to find Mikey. Well, I took some clothes and all the money I’d saved up babysitting, but nothing else besides those necessities and the guitar. I didn’t want anything else. I wanted to leave everything behind in Lampasas to die in the Texas heat - the bullying, the rumors, the cruelty, Mom’s bruises, Dad’s growing pile of empty beer cans, all of it.

Mom might not have been able to gather the guts to save herself, but I was determined not to let myself have the same fate as her. So at seventeen, fresh out of high school and full of teen angst, I took a bus up to New York City to try to find my brother, who’d disappeared into the concrete jungle four years ago, just after he got out of school.

It took a while, but I did manage to find Mikey, though he now went by the name Oscar and was nearly completely unrecognizable from the brother I’d once known. At the same time, he never looked more like himself, even if himself looked rather ridiculous in leather and feathers and unkempt hair. He was an artist now. He’d been fronting a band for the past couple of years, a band that was the even poorer man’s version of the New York Dolls, but he was having a ball nonetheless.

That was two years ago. Now, Oscar was deep in a heroin addiction, unable to do anything but turn tricks and shoot up. I was the breadwinner of our little fucked up household, bringing in the money for everything other than drugs. I was the artist now, though I wouldn’t know if I’d call myself that necessarily. I fronted my own little punk group and I did my own shit my own way, and that was all I’d say about myself.

“I’m heading out!” I called to Oscar through the bathroom door. “You good?”

“I’m good!” Oscar yelled back throatily.

There was no doubt that he was in there slumped over the toilet, either from being too doped up or not doped up enough. I didn’t know which it was and I didn’t really care. So long as he wasn’t dead as I was leaving, I didn’t care. I probably should care more about my brother and his current state of absolute drug addiction, but at this point, I couldn’t. I’d cared too much for too long, and I’d learned that if he didn’t care, I couldn’t care either.

With that, I threw my guitar over my back and headed out of our little shithole apartment. For a New York apartment on the budget we had, the place really wasn’t that bad - but rats and mold and pushers still filled the place. If only Ma knew where we were living...she’d probably keel over just hearing a description of it.

But Ma wasn’t here. She was back in Lampasas with her bruises and probably more broken bones at this point. I called her once in awhile to let her know that I was doing okay and that Mikey had yet to die. I didn’t bother to tell her that he’d changed his name and become nearly totally unrecognizable from the son she’d last seen almost four years ago now. She’d had enough heartbreak in her life thus far. I didn’t need to add to it. Besides, that was Oscar’s story to tell her, if he ever got the guts and decency to call home sometime. He never had, not even once, since moving to New York.

“Hey, what took you so long?” Lenny asked.

I glanced down at my watch, then looked up to my bandmate and said, “I’m five minutes late. It’s only five past eight; that’s hardly late at all.”

“Yeah, but you’re hardly ever late,” he reminded me, keeping up with my strides as we hit the Manhattan streets.

We were too broke to afford cabs unless we were buddies with the drivers, so we walked the city for the most part.

“Well maybe you should find something to do to occupy your time other than hanging out around my building waiting for me,” I suggested with a wink.

Lenny rolled his eyes, but laughed. “Hey, things have been rough since I got kicked out of Marcia’s place.”

“I can’t be sorry for you for that,” I said, tucking my hands into the pockets of my beat up leather jacket. “You’re the one who decided to fuck her best friend on the floor at her place...you kinda deserved that one.”

“Yeah, but I mean, I never told her that we were like, a thing,” he told me, trying to justify his actions. Seeing the serious side-eye I was giving him, he sighed and relented, “Still, I guess I coulda told her that we weren’t.”

“Exactly,” I said.

We walked in silence for a bit, only the sounds of the ever-rowdy city filling our ears.

“You still think I’m a piece of shit for that, don’t you?” Lenny pressed.

His expression was serious - he was genuinely concerned that he’d permanently tainted my opinion of him. Lenny was the one of the closest things I had to a best friend. That position used to be occupied by my brother, until he went and fucked himself all up. He was definitely my best guy friend and my favorite guy out of the three of them who played in my little “band” with me. We both had similar stupid senses of humor and not-so-secretly harbored major loves for David Bowie. Lenny said he was the only guy he’d go gay for, and I couldn’t fault him for that.

We’d went and seen Bowie with Iggy Pop and Blondie a couple of weeks ago at the Palladium, and Lenny had nearly shit himself out of excitement and arousal. I was just as excited, of course, but I had a much better poker face than he did.

“I don’t think you’re a piece of shit, I think you did a really shitty thing,” I clarified. I gave him a small smile, seeing as he was still desperately waiting for my approval. “But that can be remedied...you can always learn from your actions. Just no more treating women like shit, right?”

“Right,” he nodded eagerly. “I won’t sleep around and I’ll--”

“You can sleep around,” I interjected. Seeing his surprised expression, I added, “As long as you’re being safe about it and you’re telling girls that they shouldn’t get their hopes up, that is.”

“Right,” Lenny said again. “Will do, Kathy.”

“Good,” I said. “The last thing the city needs is another misogynistic asshole in a band.”

That got him to laugh, which I was glad. I laughed alongside him as we rounded the corner to go into the back entrance of CBGB’s, the one reserved for the ‘artists’ that would grace their stage. We were one of those groups that got to use the door, though we weren’t big names like the people we opened for. Then again, in the grand scheme of things, we weren’t even that big.

“Jesus Christ, Kathy, don’t you have better clothes to wear than those in the middle of winter?” questioned Terry G., one of the bouncers/security guys. He was far beefier than he was brainy - I doubted he even had the brains to play ‘Blitzkrieg Bop’ - but he was a nice guy nonetheless.

“Naw, I’m fine,” I told him with a polite smile.

“Your lips are turning blue,” he informed me. “And your cheeks are all chapped.”

He was right, but I brushed him off, repeating myself, “I’m fine, really. A little cold never bothered me.”

Lie. That was a big fat lie. The thing I hated the most about New York was the cold. I loved the cool autumns, the mild springs, and even the sticky city summers, but the frigid winters were the one thing that made me miss Texas.

“Well, either way, you guys should get inside,” Terry G. said. “The other two Black Eyes are in there waiting for you.”

“Thanks,” Lenny said, speaking for the two of us as we hopped the couple of stairs into the building.

By the other two Black Eyes, Terry G. meant the other two guys that played in our little band, Phil and Keith. Phil was on the bass, Keith was on second guitar, Lenny was on the drums, and I was on guitar and vocal duties. We were quite an odd foursome, having come together after our stints in other bands didn’t work out. Phil was hanging onto the New York Dolls look with his platforms, scarves, and eyeliner, while Keith dressed more like an accountant, in button downs and ill-fitting blazers. Lenny was the one who went the most wild with his punk style, loving the safety pin and spikes look, enjoying sticking up his hair with loads of Aquanet, and always working on bettering his impression of Johnny Thunders with that lip curl thing.

I, the lone female in the band, was also the most boring looking, except for my Kool Aid red hair. I’d cut it all off when I moved to New York, and now that it was long enough to graze my shoulders again, I’d decided to go a little crazy with the dye. I didn’t love it, but I didn’t hate it either, so we were working with it. Lenny and the guys were insistent that I keep it for a while - they said it was good for our image, that it made me stick out, which was exactly the reason that I kind of, sort of hated it.

“I always thought it’d be a cold day in hell when the two of you showed up after the two of us,” Phil joked as we entered the green room. He had a cigarette dangling from his teeth and bright blue glitter accentuating his eyes.

“It is like negative ten out,” I informed him dryly. “So that might have something to do with it.”

It was March, almost April. It shouldn’t have been this fucking cold still, but it was, and I hated the cold more and more each day.

“Haha,” Phil deadpanned. “Funny.”

“Are my drums all set up already?” Lenny asked. He helped himself to one of the beers in the cooler in the corner of the room, downing half of it in on impressive swig.

“Yeah, Keith and I took care of ‘em,” Phil nodded. We kept our spare equipment at Phil and Keith’s place, since they were the only ones with any space to put all of it. “We’re just waiting for someone to tell us it’s time to go out there and do the damn thing...unless you wanna do a quick soundcheck?”

The question was rhetorical, and he knew that. I shook my head to verify, though. I wasn’t one for soundchecks. That was too much effort, and unnecessary effort when playing at a place like CBGB’s. The louder and fuzzier, the better, or so I’d found.

“Hello hello, shiners,” came an all too familiar voice.

Before I knew it, I was being squashed in a hug by Ray. Every time I saw him I was shocked by how tall he was, more than a foot taller than me, to be specific. I should’ve been used to it by now, after everything, but I wasn’t. I lingered in his arms for a moment, taking note of his old familiar scent that I still loved - Camels, Pabst, and a dash of that cologne I couldn’t remember the name of.

“Hey, thanks again for asking us to open for you,” I said as he released me from the hug.

He pressed a light kiss to the top of my head before completely separating himself from me, something he still did everytime we saw each other, despite having been broken up for four months and some odd days. I’d been keeping track of the days for some time without really meaning to, but I quit when Lenny told me I should forget about it and try to move on to a new dick.

“Of course,” Ray said. He grinned down at me, his dark eyes glassy. He must’ve shot up not too long ago. “If I can’t have you playing with me, I’ll have you open for me, anytime, gladly.”

“Thanks,” I said. Glancing to Phil and Lenny, I said, “We all really appreciate it.”

That was true. Ray’s band, Raymond Garbage and the Trash Junkies, always pulled a big crowd. Their crowds were the good kind too - the people who really loved the punk scene for what it was, not the posers who crept it to check out what the whole ‘punk’ thing was all about. Ray and the guys were good, but their sound wasn’t the kind of sound the punk inspectors came to see, nor were we. Those curious spectators came for the Ramones or Blondie, not the Trash Junkies and the Black Eyes.

“‘Course,” Ray assured us, but mostly me. “Someday I’ll be opening for you guys.”

“I doubt it,” I said. “But that’s a nice sentiment.”

“It’ll happen,” Ray said. He flashed me that charming smile of his that’d won me over, rubbing at his eye. “Excuse me, shiners, I’ve gotta hit the little boys’ room before you go on.”

With that, he made his exit, much to my disappointment. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wish that Ray and I were still together. I didn’t know if I loved him anymore in a romantic kind of sense, but I missed him. Sure, I saw him all the time and in reality we were closer than ever, albeit in a platonic way, but I still missed what we had. I missed waking up in his bed with my head on his chest and his fingers in my hair, and how we stayed up all night talking about Nietzsche or reading Vonnegut novels to each other.

“We need to get you fucked by someone,” Phil said, breaking the silence left in Ray’s wake.

“I’ve been getting fucked by plenty of people,” I said.

That was true. Since breaking up with Ray, I’d become just as promiscuous as anyone out here on the Bowery. Well, maybe not just as promiscuous. I refused anyone who refused a condom, which ended half of my encounters before they could ever happen. Still, I’d shared a bed with more people - mostly men, a couple of women - than I bothered to keep track of. A few weeks ago, I truly realized that the promiscuity thing just wasn’t for me. I was a monogamist at heart, and I’d learned that the hard way. I hadn’t stopped sleeping around, though. Once you got in the cycle, it was hard to get out of it.

“Clearly it hasn’t been good, though,” Phil replied. “Or else you wouldn’t keep on staring at Ray like he’s some sort of messiah.”

“She doesn’t wanna get fucked, she wants a nice guy to settle down with,” Keith chimed in, emerging into the room. His gray tartan blazer was so oversized that it was bordering on ridiculous. He stopped and thought about it for a moment, and said, “No, maybe you don’t want to settle down now, but you get what I mean.”

“What I need is to not date for a while,” I sighed. I flipped my guitar so it hung around me the right way, absentmindedly fingering out my arpeggios.

“Amen to that, babe,” Phil said, holding his bottle of gin up to me in praise.

He, Keith, and Lenny all took long gulps of their drinks. Lenny finished his entire beer, slamming the can into the wall. I was the only one not drinking, per usual. I was damn near being a teetotaler, something I got a lot of loving shit for around here.

“Black Eyes, you’re up,” said one of the CBGB employees, ducking their head into the room. “And just a heads up - you’ve got a bit of an unruly crowd out there tonight.”

[thinkaboutnetwork-blog]

‘Hot Dudes Reading’ Books On Trains Is The Hottest Instagram Right Now

‘Hot Dudes Reading’ Books On Trains Is The Hottest Instagram Right Now

Capitalizing on the fact that hot dudes look way hotter when they read, the “Hot Dudes Reading” Instagram is prowling the streets and subways of New York in search of hunks unwittingly showing off their more intellectual and tender sides. I mean, you know when a fella’s got the looks, but are you sure he’s got the books?

The Instagram has more than 110,000 followers but only 13 posts as of this…

[underachievers-please-try-harder]

Interview // Jimothy Lacoste

I interviewed Jimothy for Issue 129 of Loud and Quiet. Photography by Sonny McCartney. 

Read online.

At Burberry’s New Bond Street store, the stairs leading to the menswear department are lined with immaculate, heavy pile carpet in a fantastically impractical shade of cream. Sleek, Art Deco-style banisters guide the way to tastefully-lit chambers on the lower ground floor, its walls sparsely lined with clothing rails and covered in staff-sanctioned customer graffiti. Shop assistants glide around the space silently, smoothing shirts and straightening rows of signature trench coats, which currently retail at £1,495 apiece.

Jimothy Lacoste is stood examining the shoes. In his hands is a fawn-coloured loafer, decorated in Burberry’s trademark tartan, edged with navy blue, calf leather piping and embellished with a buffed gold chain. “Classic. The more simple, the better,” he nods approvingly, turning it over to inspect the sole. “£450. The perfect price.”

As we prepare to exit, Jimothy chooses a black marker pen from a selection on a ledge, crouches and carefully adds “Jimothy” to the lower regions of the wall in capital letters, the tail of the Y spiralling inwards like the shell of a cartoon snail.

As predicted on 2017’s breakout track ‘Getting Busy’, life has suddenly gotten quite exciting for Jimothy, real name Timothy Gonzales. Following a steady string of standalone tracks with enjoyably low-budget music videos, the Camden-raised rapper is now signed to Black Butter Records, the home of Rudimental, J Hus and Octavian.

His first release for the label was September’s single ‘Fashion’, the premise of which provides an amusingly literal framework for today’s interview. As he explains in the intro to the song in his leisurely drawl, “You know, I love to dress… Clothes is there – you might as well take advantage of it. It’s just fun, bro.” To ram the latter point home, props in the accompanying video include a real life zebra and a white Rolls Royce. Meanwhile, Jimothy lolls on a leather sofa in a cobalt fur jacket and crystal-covered Gucci shades, steals a bottle of champagne from a Sainsbury Local, and does his trademark hip wiggle in a succession of primary-coloured slacks.

It’s this vague whiff of the ludicrous that has made Jimothy a divisive figure. His deadpan delivery is less fire in the booth than easy-going Sprechgesang, the well-to-do North London accent and clear diction jarring with the use of street slang. Lyrics are literal and rhymes often ridiculous (“I’m gonna have to dip, I’ll see you soon / Baby, don’t get sad, when I’m rich I’ll take you to the moon”). So far, all the subjects covered have been simplistic, including his love of London transport (‘Subway System’), bilingualism (‘I Can Speak Spanish’) and plans for romance (‘Future Bae’).

Mirroring the minimal production of his iPad-pop, his homemade videos have an endearing DIY quality, and through them he’s established his own visual language. For example, by now we know to expect sporadic subtitles, rotating £20 note graphics, and Jimothy in smart-casual dress, showcasing his extremely gif-able dance moves in an array of urban locations, including on top of high rise buildings and bus stops. In a genre that prides gritty authenticity, Jimothy’s benign playfulness stands out, earmarking him as either endearingly naive or wilfully provocative. After our afternoon together, I decide he’s probably both.

Certainly, he seems to benefit from an enviable lack of self-consciousness. In the opulent Gucci store on Old Bond Street he breezily dismisses their trainers as “horrible”, within easy earshot of staff. In the walnut-panelled rooms of Ralph Lauren, Jimothy tells me that, unlike most people, he much prefers the Polo Bear motif to the iconic Polo player logo. “It’s cute,” he explains. “Shows you’re not insecure. Shows you don’t take life too seriously.”

Though still probably only in his late teens (his exact age is being withheld to preserve mystery), Jimothy is a seasoned aesthete, with a precisely defined personal style. He aspires to the preppy look preferred by “posh, old people”, boarding school kids and city workers, citing his staple pieces as cable knit sweaters, gilets, cords, pinstriped silk shirts and heritage labels. He’s not precious about seeming androgynous: the Gucci glasses from the ‘Fashion’ video were from the ladies department, and he intends to start wearing handbags as necklaces. He loves primary colours, happily philosophises on his favourite shade combinations (red with blue, and green with black) and proudly offers an itemised rundown of today’s outfit. It is as follows: navy and white Prada sneakers (£460), scarlet Ralph Lauren cords (£50 from eBay), white Oxford shirt from Uniqlo (£24.90), Gucci belt (£265), Prada shades and Coach messenger bag (gifted), cream fur jacket (on loan from his older sister), Slazenger socks (£2), and briefs from a Spanish supermarket (around €1 for 3 pairs).

Jimothy will happily concede to being materialistic, but he retains a sense of perspective about his expensive purchases: “I love brands. But if [something I buy] breaks the next day, I’ve got no right to be upset about it. No right. Because as soon as I buy something, it’s already money down the drain.” If he seems surprisingly sanguine at the idea of squandering cash, it’s a position he’s only had the luxury of indulging in recent months.

“The first time I actually went shopping by myself and bought something was literally six months ago,” he recalls later, reclined on a sofa in a quiet nook of Soho House. “That was Lacoste. Basically, I got money from merch, and that was the very first time I had any money ever in life, despite what people think. Lots of people think I’m a rich kid and I’m really not. My mum would only give me £10 maybe every three weeks and every time she did that she was so upset that I would just spend it on spray cans.

“It’s weird because I’ve never had money, but I’ve always dressed really smart. And that’s because my older sister worked in retail and she was really into fashion. She would be onto me, like, ‘Do you want me to get anything for you?’

“But I don’t shop in these shops regularly. I had guilt when I first went to the Gucci store the other day. I felt really weird. I felt a bit depressed, even. But I need to remind myself that I left this much money in my savings account, and I’ve left this much money to spend on food and clothes. And that I’m here because I am becoming a little successful in life.” He describes designer clothing as “a medal” in that “it reminds me that I’m doing well, and it motivates me more and more each day to carry on and chase my dreams.”

Aside from the influence of his sister, it was graffiti culture that first sparked Jimothy’s interest in fashion, when he was hanging out around Gospel Oak from the age of 11. “I was always just in a typical tracksuit with quick [Nike] Air Forces. I had no style,” he laughs. “Because that’s just how everyone dressed, and you’ve got to look the same and what not.

“There were these older graffiti writers in London that I looked up to. I thought they’d be dressed exactly like me but then I met some of them and they were all extremely classic and smart. They just dressed like they had money: slim trousers, tucked-in shirt. I looked at that and then I looked at my situation and I thought it would be so cool to do the same, first of all because I love this style, but second because dressing like a rich guy even though you’ve got no money is fun. Even though your mum’s been on the dole for over 25 years and your dad’s never worked a single day of his life. Because no-one in my family has money. But when I was dressed like a rich guy, I just felt amazing. I felt amazing. So ever since then I was just dressed really smart.

“And then later I watched this documentary on kids in New York in the ’70s. And they all dressed how I dress now: colourful trousers, [Adidas] Sambas or any slim trainers, tucked in shirt, sweater, a nice old-man-looking jacket, flat caps. I was like, ‘This is where he got it from. This whole time I’ve been dressing like these kids without knowing.’ And after that I really, really stuck with my style.”

We exit Burberry and head towards Prada on Old Bond Street, past a gaggle of wealthy teenagers and two immaculately coiffured ladies being helped into a car by their chauffeur. It’s an uncharacteristically mild October day, and businessmen are visibly flushed in their bespoke suits as they plough past us. A chrome Lamborghini cruises past, driven by a man in his 50s. While my default response is to roll my eyes, Jimothy is delighted. “He looked so happy,” he smiles, as it vanishes around the corner, “I love it!”

Jimothy’s parents split when he was barely one, and he, his sister and brother were raised by their mother. They lived in Primrose Hill, a notoriously well-heeled enclave of Camden, at the top of Regent’s Park. “The council gave us the flat in Primrose Hill thirty years ago, so it’s all a blessing,” he says, gauging my surprise. “See, this is the funny thing: the way I talk, the way I walk, the way I dress, where I live – people are convinced I’m rich. But I talk like this because I’ve been around lots of posh kids, and because it’s a better way of talking.

“And of course, my mum’s from Spain so she has class. So she’ll be poor but she’ll also be dressed like a rich woman, and the house will look well designed even though it’s a council house. A lot of people have money but they have no class. A lot of people have money but they don’t know how to dress. Do you know what I mean? Money doesn’t mean anything.”

He mixed with affluent kids at the local park from a young age, only to be separated when they went to private school. When they hit their teens, Jimothy invited himself along to their house parties, and his socialising then snowballed to the point where he was hanging out almost exclusively with rich people. “Literally, I don’t have a single friend in my situation, living in a council house,” he says, shaking his head. “It makes me sad sometimes. But if it wasn’t for those friends I wouldn’t be the person I am now.”

I wonder if Jimothy ever felt intimidated by his friends’ wealth. “Definitely,” he nods. “At first I was very insecure about it. But that was when I was 13 and dressed in a certain way, and all the other kids would be dressed really smart. They would make me feel really bad. The funny thing is, now I’m the one dressed really smart, and they’re dressed like they’re from a council house. They go to private school, and they’re trying to dress like a roadman, trying to dress like a hood kid.”

While there was once an element of Jimothy dressing to deliberately confound people’s preconceptions, he now feels conflicted about being mistaken for a rich kid. “The reason why it hurts my feelings so much – and no offence, because I love rich kids – is they all know how to play the piano. Their parents could afford to lend them a decent amount of money or a car for their music videos. They could start a career easier than someone with not much money. Me, I literally started with nothing. It was all me, me, me, me, me. So when people think [I’m a rich kid] it implies I didn’t work for anything; that it was given to me. And that really, really disrespects me, my family, everything.”

If Jimothy was initially a fish out of water in his friendship group, he felt even more out of place at the special school he attended from the age of 13, due to his dyslexia and dyscalculia. The way he tells it, he knew he didn’t belong there but stayed because the work was easy. Had he left, he might never have pursued music.

“At the special school there are no kids with insecurities,” he explains. “So I wasn’t shy to write a song and put it out there. I wasn’t shy to make a music video. That school made me do music, basically. And the work was easy but that was freeing. That school gave me a free-thinking mentality and a higher consciousness.”

In some respects, he believes the school protected him. “It did get to a point where it was then scary to go to a mainstream school. Because I thought to myself, actually, if I go to a mainstream school and someone laughs at me for dyslexia, or for my parents having always been living off benefits, or for not having a father figure, I don’t know how I would react to that. [I don’t know] whether I would fight them, whether I would then not go to school and end up on the streets selling drugs. If I went to a mainstream school – and it sounds really harsh and kind of depressing, but it’s true – but if I went to a mainstream school I’d either be dead or I’d be prison. And that’s why I always say with my songs that Jimothy is blessed.”

The floors of the Gucci store are covered in geometric patterns, in tiles of purple, red, grey and white. There are mirrored walls and staircases lined with plush velvet in a vivid shade of oxblood. In the womenswear section, we’re admiring the craftsmanship of a collection of luxe satin bombers in jewel colours, each intricately embroidered and painstakingly stitched with sequins. Jimothy’s eyes are drawn away from the glitz to a monochrome coat in the iconic interlinking GG pattern. “I’d buy that for my future bae,” he nods.

There wasn’t money for piano lessons growing up, but Jimothy believes he inherited a “gene of rhythm” from his dad, and a fascination with melody from his mum, who was always playing R&B at home. Grime was a formative influence, as was UK garage, which he was exposed to via the older graffiti writers. “I’d listen to anything,” he remembers. “If it sounded good in my ears, I’d put it on, whether that was Somali pop or classic house.”

Playboi Carti, Lil Uzi Vert, Octavian and Sheck Wes are all mentioned when I ask Jimothy about who he sees as his peers. “Basically, it’s music that you can dance to but music you can sit down in your room to by yourself,” he explains. “Tomorrow, I could come out with a house tune, I could come out with a rock tune, I could come out with a bedroom pop tune. Nothing is ever intended. You’ve got to come to [my music] with no expectations.

“A lot of people think I don’t take music seriously,” he continues, “and that’s super disrespectful. I will not put out anything I don’t like. So many producers send me so many instrumentals, and I am super particular. It offends me when people come up to me like, ‘Oh mate, I love your stuff – it’s funny.’ I wanna hear, ‘I love your stuff, I love your instrumentals, I love your lyrics.’”

And yet, I counter, surely he must concede that there’s a vein of humour running through his work? “Oh yeah, definitely,” he smiles. “And I love to shock people. I’ve always been a bit of an attention-seeker. But I think it depends. If people only find it funny and they don’t appreciate anything else about it, it offends me. Like, I find my own stuff funny, but when I’m doing the instrumental, I have so much passion and love.”

Considering the rigour he applies to every other area of his life, I don’t doubt Jimothy’s discipline in the studio. Today he’s fasting, which he does two consecutive days a week, the rationale for which is apparently to “repair DNA”. “When your digestion isn’t going your body then focuses on cell replenishment,” he elaborates. Then there’s the cold showers he takes every morning, and the nights spent sleeping on a hard floor.

I wonder at the rationale behind his asceticism. What tangible benefits does he actually take away from such restrictive rituals? “The main benefit I see from it is mental strength. So when someone says to me, ‘Can you do this?’ it’s easy for me to do it because my brain is so strong. You know, I’ve had no father figure whatsoever. I’ve never had someone to say, ‘Good job. Focus on your goals.’ I had to find that in myself.”

En route to Soho House for our sit-down chat, there’s a pretty uncanny coincidence. We’re discussing fame and the loss of anonymity. “I’d love paparazzi following me,” Jimothy insists. “I’d love it.” Suddenly, a young man steps into Jimothy’s path. “Can I just interrupt, man?” he asks, clearly attempting to play it cool. “I think your shit’s dope.” They take a selfie together, the fan departs and we continue our journey, Jimothy wearing a contented grin.

As our conversation draws to a close, the subject turns to aspiration. For Jimothy, is success ultimately measured in luxury clothing, or is there something loftier he’s aiming for? “A good income,” he replies without any hesitation, “to the point where I’ve got my own house and I can treat myself, and I can have kids and I can have a wife.” So in essence, he’s seeking security? “Definitely. It’s something I’ve never had. It would just be amazing to have it. Something that seems a little bit impossible.”

What else? “Having a fan base that loves me and I love them. I love being a role model. I want all my fans to be happy to express themselves and to have fun at my shows and to just go crazy. To let their emotions out and to let go of stress, and to not be insecure and not be those kids that judge other people. I want my fans to just be nice people. Like me. Don’t judge people, don’t call other people names, treat everyone with equality. Simple things really.”

While it’s heartening to hear the connection Jimothy feels to his fans, I wonder if his increasingly lavish lifestyle might eventually create resentment. “It should be the opposite,” he insists. “They should look at me and think. ‘1. I’m happy for Jimothy – he’s doing well. And 2. that’s motivation for me.’

“When I now see someone with a sports car it makes me happy, like, that could be me one day. That motivates me. I’m not gonna hate on them; that’s how unsuccessful people think. You’ve got to be happy for that person and aspire to those levels.” The way Jimothy reacted to the owner of the Lamborghini earlier, I ask? “Yeah exactly. Stuff like that makes me happy. You’ve got to use it as motivation. You can be like that one day if you just follow your dreams and you’re smart.”