Chapter Eleven
Simon
It wasn’t often that Simon absolutely had to meet with clients in person, but when it happened, the day before the meeting was always spent attempting to distract himself so he wouldn’t extend the period of torment longer than necessary.
Yesterday, he’d distracted himself by kissing Jack until he felt the bigger man shaking beneath him, every muscle tensed, mouth hot and hungry. Then he’d distracted himself by shoving his hand down Jack’s pants and bringing him off with hard strokes to his magnificent cock, swallowing the sounds of Jack’s groans in his mouth like he could grow stronger by consuming them.
Now he was sitting in his car outside an aggressively busy Starbucks trying to ignore the sensation of his lungs shriveling to the size of raisins. He sang to himself to help regulate his breathing. The phrasing of most songs wouldn’t let you hyperventilate and still keep to rhythm. But the second he stopped singing and got out of the car, it was there. The weight on his chest, the tongue that felt swollen enough to choke him. The shuddery stutter of blood not getting where it needed to be.
You are so fucking tough. You’re gonna be fine. You’ve done this before and you survived, and you can do it again.
Then, sneaking in for the first time, a tiny, flickering joy: After this, you can go see Jack. Jack would let you hide and it would be okay.
But although he tried to hold on to the joy of You can, Simon didn’t want to run to Jack. Didn’t want to make this Jack’s burden or make Jack too necessary to his survival. Because what if? What if it didn’t last?
Still, Simon put his hand on the back of his neck where Jack’s hand always seemed to land when they kissed. He squeezed gently the way Jack squeezed.
It didn’t feel the same.
The meeting did not go well. Though Simon made it a practice to tell clients and potential clients that he preferred to communicate via email or text and that meeting with him in person was not indicative of the experience of working with him; and though the interactive designs Simon had prepared and walked this potential client through were, he thought, excellent, it didn’t matter.
Mason Holeyfield, CEO of Holey Cow Steakhouse, was impatient with Simon’s stuttering, interrupting him to ask the questions that Simon was trying to answer and attempting to finish his sentences. He liked the designs, Simon could tell, but in the end Simon could read the calculus Mason was doing on his face. It was an old arithmetic. Mason could find another good ole boy like himself—hearty, loud, direct, and confident—to do his website, so why would he bother making himself uncomfortable and awkward with Simon?
Simon slunk out of the bathroom where he’d fled the second the meeting was over and trudged to his car.
“Hey,” a voice yelled behind him. He stared straight ahead and unlocked the car. “Hey!”
Simon glanced over his shoulder to find a young man loping toward him, holding out his scarf.
“You dropped this.”
Simon reached out a shaking hand to claim the scarf. His attempt at Thank you came out a garbled mumble and the guy’s expression turned sharp. Simon recognized him suddenly as the barista from inside.
“Okaaaay,” the guy said. It was a universal comment on the ingratitude of customers casually offered up to the gods of the food service industry, Simon knew it was, but as he threw himself into the car and slammed the door behind him, tears flooded his eyes.
Those were the worst ones. When someone else felt disrespected or insulted by his failure and there was nothing he could do to allay it.
* * *
Simon was late getting to Jack’s for the pack’s evening walk. He’d gone home after the disastrous meeting and fallen into bed, exhausted and shaky, and only just woken up. He hadn’t eaten all day, too anxious before his meeting and too nauseated afterward, and now his head throbbed with a hunger headache.
As he navigated the winding path to Jack’s house, his heart beat harder and harder. His whole body ached to be held. To be pet. Comforted. But the shame he felt at the day’s failure made it impossible to ask for what he wanted. He didn’t even feel like he deserved it. He wasn’t a child anymore.
But as it happened, Jack burst out the front door before Simon even dragged himself all the way out of the car.
“Guess what?” he said. He was grinning and his hair looked combed for once.
Simon attempted to arrange his face in an expression of enthusiastic curiosity.
“What?” he choked out.
His stomach roiled as the word rattled in his throat. He just had time to see the smile slide off Jack’s handsome face before he retched.
Since he hadn’t eaten, it was just a sick upchuck of water, coffee, and bile, and it burned in his throat and through his sinuses, leaving him coughing and sputtering on his knees in the dirt. His head spun.