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At some point, Cherie, the hotel’s chef, popped in to drop off my first cup of coffee. An hour later, Diya, our sous chef, dropped off the second.

I was just about ready to shut down my computer and walk the hotel to visually inspect how everything was running, when the phone on my desk rang. My body instinctively tensed. The phone never rang to give me good news. Picking up the receiver, I braced myself for the worst. “Hello?”

“Hey, Emerson, it’s Anna.” Anna Abrams was our accountant. My stomach sank straight down to my toes. I heard her take a deep, slow breath. “I’m afraid we need to talk.”

When I was just a child, the class bully had stolen my crayon, sneered, and called me a virgin. I was a virgin, obviously, but neither of us even knew what the word meant at that age. He was simply repeating something he’d heard, but he’d said it like an insult, so I’d yelled “I am not!” I had then proceeded to punch him square in the nose, knocking the kid on his ass. I was escorted to the office and my father was called. That night when I got home from school, my father sat me down, and we had a long chat. First, he’d explained what a virgin was (I was both curious and horrified). Then, he congratulated me on standing up for myself. Lastly, he’d lectured me on the benefits of using words instead of fists. He’d said one should never act out of anger. That it was important to pause first, think things over, before deciding on a course of action. Yes, sometimes we might need to use our fists, but usually, there was a more logical, less violent option.

It was good advice, and it had served me well over the years.

I tried my best to follow that advice today, I swore I did. My blood pressure skyrocketed, my pulse throbbing in my temples, as I clenched my fists in my lap. I wanted nothing more than to punch someone—my father.

I paused…

I thought things over…

Then I picked up the phone and dialed.

My father picked up on the fourth ring. “What have you done this time?”

Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to remain calm. “Well, Father, I’m afraid that’s the question I must ask you. I just got off the phone with Anna Abrams, and she informed me that we’re behind in paying property taxes. Not only that, but the money that I had set aside to pay it seems to have been transferred to an outside account—by you. Care to explain? What have you done with my money?”

“It’s not your money,” he growled, not even attempting to deny it. “Just as the hotel is not yours. It’s mine. You can have it when I’m dead and gone.”

“Not at this rate, I won’t!” I snapped, pushing out of my chair to pace around the office. “I have worked my ass off to keep this business afloat, while you keep pissing away any profit right out from under—”

“Watch your mouth!” he shouted, and I instinctively shut up. I had always been a respectful son, a dutiful and obedient son, but my father had truly pushed me to the limit these last years. I felt like I was fighting a losing battle. No matter what I did, I was losing ground. My father’s voice got low and dangerous. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, trust me. If you only knew the half of what I’ve had to do.”

A memory fluttered to the surface, of a woman in a crisp business suit, telling me she would be in touch with my father, that it would be “business as usual,” whatever that meant. I didn’t want to ask, but I needed to know. “Does this have anything to do with the mayor?”

There was silence on the other end of the line, and I found myself dropping back into my chair, holding my breath.

Finally, he sighed. “Maybe it’s time you hear the whole story. Can we discuss this over dinner?”

“I’m working.” Because I was always working, always fighting to keep the hotel running.

“After dinner then. We’ll have a drink.” He sounded resigned, and I knew from experience that he wouldn’t budge once he’d made up his mind.

No matter how much I didn’t want to hear what he had to say, it was time to uncover buried secrets.

“Fine. Be here at ten.” I didn’t even bother saying goodbye before I disconnected the call and dropped my cell onto my desk, leaning back in my chair and pinching my nose against an impending headache. I honestly wasn’t sure why I even bothered anymore.

I glanced at my watch and saw that it was already late afternoon. I hadn’t eaten lunch yet, but I wasn’t even hungry. I’d lost my appetite—for everything but Roland. Roland would make me feel better, he always did, with his shy, lopsided smile. He would probably be waking up soon, to get ready for tonight’s shift. I wished I could be in bed beside him, curled around him, burying my nose against his neck and breathing in his warm scent. The mere thought of him calmed my frayed nerves, and my erratic pulse evened out to a steady thump-thump.

3

Roland

“Closer, Roland,” he whispered softly, his lips tickling my ear. My skin tingled, goosebumps raising. His arm snaked around my waist and dragged me across the mattress until we were flush, his warmth enveloping me. “No matter how close you are, it’s never enough…”

Even before I opened my eyes, I knew. The bed beneath me was my own, and I was alone. I tried to go back to sleep since the alarm hadn’t gone off yet. I could stay with Emerson just a few minutes longer… but it was no use. The spell was broken.

I knew it was too good to be true. It was always a dream, but that didn’t stop me from hoping that one day I might wake up to find Emerson lying beside me. With a reluctant sigh, I blinked open my eyes and stared resentfully at the empty spot beside me. One day…

My heart gave an aching squeeze. Gods, I was lonely—in my awake life, anyway—but that didn’t mean I was willing to accept just anyone into my life. I wasn’t so desperate that I couldn’t afford to hold on to hope.

With a groan, I threw back the blanket and rolled out of bed, the hardwood blissfully cool under my feet. The vestiges of the dream clung to me, beckoning me back, while reality tugged me in the opposite direction, toward the shower. I had to get ready for work, and that meant seeing Emerson for real. Either way, I had a boner to take care of.

This was part of my daily ritual—jacking off to the image of my boss. I imagined his lightly muscled body while the water cascaded over me. I’d never seen him naked, but I had a good imagination, and as I closed my eyes and leaned back against the tiled wall, my hand became his, tugging and stroking at my cock.

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