I can’t thank you readers enough for the overwhelmingly positive response to this series! I reply to all your emails at [email protected].
The Highmark on Eyremount Dr.
Drew was in Winnipeg.
And he hated it, but loved his mom.
The texts started early and came in bursts, random, irritated, and totally Drew.
Drew: I’ve barely been here a day and I’ve seen 3 mosquitoes the size of Chihuahuas.
Drew: There is no SkyTrain. No Compass Card. The bus driver asked me if I knew what exact change was.
Drew: I am not built for this province. But my mom’s been great, except I have to meet her boyfriend on Sunday.
I didn’t reply right away. I was at Twin Falls, checking on the hack job that Parks Maintenance did in repairing the fence from the incident weeks ago, and trying to ignore the fact that it was Thursday, and I wouldn’t see Drew until the next weekend.
He sent a photo later that afternoon, a grainy and poorly lit image taken inside a mall food court.
Drew: This is what hell looks like.
The photo was mostly empty food court chairs, a faded Booster Juice, and a teenage boy playing League on a laptop beside a Dollarama.
I texted back.
Me: You're alive. That’s disappointing.
Drew: Barely. I miss sidewalks that go somewhere.
Drew: Also, you. A little.
Drew: Don’t let that go to your head.
It didn’t, at least not yet.
But I read the messages twice. Then again.
I may have tried to summon Saturday’s disappearing photo by force of memory alone.
It wasn’t able to.
Then the texts slowed.
By Monday, it was down to short replies. By Tuesday, he’d stopped initiating. Just liked the things I sent. Threw me a half-hearted meme. A late “lol.”
He messaged when he landed back at YVR on Wednesday afternoon:
Drew: Home. Alive. The party’s still on.
Drew: Gerry’s already bringing out the 2013 One Faith Cabernet from the wine cellar; your girlfriend better come thirsty.
That was it.
No, ’I missed you.’ No disappearing photos. Just the callback to our cover story and a half-joke.
Soraya lived in a split-level townhouse near Westview Drive, just above the Upper Levels. When I pulled up, she was already outside, pacing her little front walk with a clutch bag under one arm and her phone in the other.
She spotted the truck and waved me in, as if I were ten minutes late, even though I was five minutes early.
She wore a deep teal wrap dress that somehow looked both casual and expensive, her dark curls pinned back just enough to keep the humidity from winning. Gold hoops. Sandals that made her half a head taller. Her eyeliner was sharper than the municipal budget for park trails.
I got out and opened the passenger door for her.
“Chivalry?” she said, sliding in. “Cute. You must be scared.”
“Terrified,” I said, running back to my seat.
We crossed the Upper Levels Highway in silence for a while, the usual summer traffic crawling past the Capilano turnoff. She didn’t have to ask where we were going. She already knew we were taking the next exit into the exclusive British Properties.
As we climbed toward Eyremount Dr., the houses grew steeper, stranger, and more obviously engineered for display. One had Roman columns. Another had lion statues out front. The third had a water feature so large it needed traffic cones.
Then we saw it.
The Highmark.
A private gated drive off the main road. Flagstone pillars. An engraved metal plate that said simply: Highmark…853 Eyremount Dr..
“It has a name,” Soraya whispered, delighted. “It’s giving divorce lawyer meets Bond villain.”
I didn’t reply. Mostly because I was still trying to figure out where we were supposed to park.
Turns out, we weren’t.
At the end of the drive, two hired valets in black polos were standing beside a portable podium. A third was jogging back from parking what looked like a Jaguar F-PACE on the hill.
As I slowed to a stop, the shorter valet stepped up to the window and glanced inside.
“Uh, deliveries go around the side,” he said.
Soraya burst out laughing.
I rolled down the window. “We’re not a delivery.”
The valet flushed. “Sorry. I just. You’re in a truck.”
“I’m aware of that.”
He blinked, eyes flicking over my shirt collar, then to Soraya, who was grinning like Christmas had come early.
A fourth valet stepped in, older, clipboard in hand.
“Name?” he asked.
“Charles Deyton. And guest.”
He scanned the list, nodded. “Go ahead. We’ll take it from here.”
I climbed out and handed over the keys.
Soraya leaned in. “I told you they’d judge the truck. But you didn’t believe me.”
“They mistook me for catering.”
“They wished you were catering.”
We followed the stone path past the front hedges, through a pair of open French doors, and into the backyard.
Calling it a backyard was an understatement. It was a private botanical exhibition. Split-level patios, manicured hedges, string lights overhead, even though it wasn’t dark yet. Two white catering tents framed a long row of tables stacked with white wine, oysters, and seafood towers shaped like architectural models.
And lawyers. Everywhere. Blazers off, sleeves rolled, wine glasses in hand, Bluetooth earpieces still in. Everyone was talking like they were still at the office, just drunker.
I barely had time to scan the crowd before a short guy in a tan suit, no older than thirty, marched up and pointed at me like I was holding a clipboard.
“You with Apex Events?”
I blinked. “No?”
He sighed, already annoyed. “The propane tanks are empty. The caterers can’t heat the shrimp skewers. This is a nightmare.”
“I’m not…”
“Look, I don’t care if you’re with catering, rentals, or security,” he said, already done with me. “Just swap them out before Sloan comes down and sees the grill’s cold.”
Before I could open my mouth again, another voice cut in, smooth, calm, and just loud enough.
“Mr. Deyton isn’t with the rental company.”
The junior lawyer froze. Turned. And there he was.
Gerald Sloan.
Open-collar shirt straight from Harry Rosen. Tan that looked permanent. A glass of red wine that had never seen a smudge. He had the kind of practiced stillness that made other people instinctively shut up.
Phillip Pierce was a half-step behind, silent, sharp, the kind of man who could ruin you without lifting a finger.
Sloan smiled, first at me, then at the junior.
“Charles is here as a guest,” he said. “He’s reminded my godson there’s a world beyond his screen and skateboard.” Didn't he, Phillip?”
Phillip gave a single, short nod. “So I hear.”
The junior lawyer’s face went pale. “I…I’m so sorry. I didn’t….”
“It’s fine,” Sloan said, still smiling, but now it felt like a knife with a napkin over it. “Easy mistake. Just don’t make it again.”
The guy turned and vanished into the crowd without another word.
Sloan turned back to me, eyes crinkling.
“Always good to have someone practical around, Mr. Deyton. We don’t see much of that in our line of work.”
Then he reached into his blazer and pulled out a card.
Gerald Sloan, K.C.
Founding Partner, Sloan Pierce Carr Family Law LLP
High Net Worth Services • Estate Strategy • Reputation Protection
Vancouver, West Vancouver, Richmond, South Surrey, Victoria, Kelowna
The K.C. was embossed in silver: King’s Counsel. Even as an undergrad in an unrelated major, I knew what that meant. Sloan wasn’t just powerful: he was respected. And for now, apparently, on my side.
“Show them this if anyone else gives you trouble,” he said.
I looked at the card, then up at him. “Thanks… Sloan.”
He walked off without waiting for a reply, already shaking hands with someone else by name.
Soraya leaned in once he was gone. “That was very Succession: West Van Edition.”
“I’m going to frame this,” I muttered, slipping the card into my shirt pocket.
“Do it,” she said. “But you still look like the guy who delivers the propane.”
We edged further into the party. Soraya peeled off toward the cocktail bar while I tried not to look like I was scanning the crowd for someone specific.
But then I saw him.
Drew, standing beneath the catering canopy, laughing with someone I didn’t recognize, a summer intern or a junior lawyer, maybe. His shirt was crisp, sleeves rolled, no sign of the skater kid in a Banff tee. He looked rested. Like Winnipeg hadn’t touched him at all.
I took a step forward.
But then I heard a familiar voice:
“Ranger Charlie.”
I turned, and there she was again.
Siena.
Wearing a coral dress and that same mildly amused expression, like she was already three steps into reading your personality flaws for sport.
“Hey,” I said. “Didn’t see you.”
“Clearly,” she replied. Her eyes slid past me to Soraya, who was now returning, a gin fizz in hand. “You brought someone.”
Soraya, unfazed, offered a hand. “Soraya Gul.”
Siena shook it, curious. “Siena Carr. Michael Carr’s daughter.”
Soraya nodded. “Nice to meet you. You in law too?”
Siena laughed lightly. “God, no. I’m just here for the seafood. And because my dad expects me to network with people twice my age.”
“Where do you study?”
“UBC. Second-year. Anthropology.”
“Ah,” Soraya said. “Explains the people-watching energy.”
“It’s that obvious?”
“Only to fellow people-watchers.”
They exchanged that subtle, mutual nod women give when they’ve just placed each other on the social threat matrix. Not hostile. Just… data.
From across the lawn, Drew finally spotted me.
There was no smile, not at first. Just that half-second pause, a silent calibration, before he started walking over.
Siena noticed him first. Her shoulders shifted in that instinctive way people do when someone they know is approaching.
“Drewby,” she said, a little smirk already forming.
“Siena,” he returned. “You still putting glitter stickers on Uncle Gerry’s photos?”
“You still scratching his banisters with your Tech Deck toys?” Siena slapped back.
They exchanged cheek kisses like they’d done it a hundred times, which, knowing this crowd, they probably had.
Then Drew turned to Soraya.
“I don’t think we’ve met. Drew. I’m Soraya. I work with CJ.” She didn’t offer a hand, just lifted her glass in a half-toast. Drew didn’t flinch, he understood.
“Okay, those earrings?” Drew said, looking at Soraya. “You look like you’re about to fire your interior designer in Italian.”
Soraya blinked, then smiled. “Careful. I’m easily flattered and harder to impress.”
He laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Finally, he looked at me. Just me.
“Hey,” he said. A little quieter.
“Hey.”
There was a pause, not awkward, just… overfull.
Then: “You want to see the garage?” he asked, shifting his weight slightly. “And the wine room?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Is that a euphemism?”
“It’s Uncle Gerry,” he said. “Everything’s a flex. Even the climate-controlled Merlot dungeon.”
Soraya was already waving me off. “Go. I’ll be fine. Someone’s about to offer me tuna tartare and unsolicited legal career advice.”
Siena crossed her arms. “Tell Uncle Gerald to stop showing around that Aston Martin; it smells like cat pee.”
“I make no promises,” Drew said, already walking.
I followed.
Not because I was curious about the wine.
But because I hadn’t seen him in fifteen days, there were things I didn’t know how to say in front of anyone else.
The garage was tucked behind a cedar gate that looked more like an art installation than anything functional. Drew keyed in a code, the door hissed open, and cool, filtered air hit my face.
Four vehicles.
All black. All spotless.
A vintage Jaguar. A G-Wagon. A classic Bronco with saddle-leather seats. And parked like a moody celebrity in the corner, the infamous Aston Martin DB11.
It looked expensive and vaguely angry. Like a Bond car that had been sent to HR.
Drew nodded toward it. “Uncle Gerry’s favorite until it started smelling like cat pee. No one knows why. He won’t admit it’s the leather.”
“He’s still showing it off?” I asked.
“Of course. It's not about driving it. It’s about people seeing it in the background of a conversation.”
I glanced at the Jaguar. “That one is his too?”
“Used to be my mom’s. Back when she still lived in BC. Uncle Gerry bought it from her for a steal because it probably wouldn’t last one winter in Manitoba.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Do you ever drive any of them?”
“Once or twice. Carefully. With supervision. Phillip would vaporize if I scuffed the tires.”
I laughed. “You? Careful?”
He leaned back against the rear of the G-Wagon. “Believe it or not, I’m better behaved around six-figure toys.”
“Except your dad’s Porsche.” I stepped beside him. The garage felt insulated from the party, cooler, quieter, the air still and echoing with a kind of luxury I’d never grown up around.
“So... you really brought your girlfriend?” he asked, without looking at me.
“I kinda got lonely without you in town,” I countered.
That got a chuckle, short, unforced.
There was a beat of silence.
“You could’ve texted more,” I said.
“You could’ve said you missed me,” he shrugged.
I didn’t answer.
He looked down at his shoes. "Thanks for coming."
"You asked. I wouldn't miss seeing you."
"I know. Still." He glanced up. "You being here? It makes it feel less like a performance."
The air between us thickened, carrying the faint scent of leather wax and chilled metal. The garage, with its epoxy flooring and silent cars, suddenly felt too tiny.
I took another step closer. Drew didn't move away.
He was too close. The kind of closeness that made you forget who you were pretending to be.
Then…
His hand found my wrist, thumb brushing the pulse point. A question.
I answered by closing the distance, kissing him hard enough to taste the cabernet on his lips and the wintergreen gum hiding underneath. Drew exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers knotting in my shirt like he was afraid I'd vanish, his heartbeat thudding against my ribs in double-time.
I noticed a motion-activated camera on the wall blinking just as we broke apart.
We didn't go far. My forehead bumped against his, sharing the same air, the same stupid risk. Drew's laugh came out uneven. "That was dumb."
"Yeah." My grip tightened on his hip where his shirt had come untucked. Outside, a mic popped and squealed, someone announcing door prizes. The words "Gotham Steakhouse gift card" carried through the window, absurd and far away.
Drew's eyelashes flickered as he looked at my mouth one last time before attempting to straighten my collar with exaggerated care. "We should…."
"Probably."
Neither of us moved for another breath. Two.
We stepped back into the backyard just as someone clinked a dessert fork against a wine glass near the mic.
“Alright, folks, if I could have your attention, time for the door prize draw. Your numbers are on the back of your name tags. We’ll be quick, I promise. Caterers have crème brûlée and espresso cups coming.”
The crowd shifted like it was trained for this. Lawyers stepped closer. Plus-ones leaned in. Summer interns fumbled for their tags.
Drew and I split, casually, orbiting back toward our respective sides like nothing had happened in the garage.
Soraya was waiting near the rosé. She read me with one look, and handed me my tag. “Try to keep your post-kiss glow under control. You’re not that subtle.”
Before I could reply, the mic popped again.
“To start things off, $250 Holt Renfrew gift card…”
There was a drumroll of polite laughter.
“Number 0247!”
A thin, overdressed associate raised his hand, swagger already half-loaded. Everyone clapped, not too hard.
He glanced around, then made a point of clocking me, still in my Kirkland collared shirt, still standing slightly apart from Soraya, and grinned like we were friends.
“Brother,” he said, voice just loud enough. “You could’ve used that one.”
The people around him laughed. Not cruel. Just enough to sting.
I kept quiet. Just smiled like someone who didn’t need Holt Renfrew because he knew how to put an outfit together on a budget.
“Next draw, Meridian Meats summer basket, number 0263.”
Soraya looked at her tag, groaned. “Of course.”
The basket, oversized, ridiculous, arrived in her hands two minutes later. Wrapped in cellophane, stuffed with enough cured sausages to feed a block party.
She looked at it like it had personally insulted her.
“I can’t even eat half of this,” she muttered, then turned to Siena. “You cook?”
Siena perked up. “My roommate does.”
“Perfect,” Soraya said. “Consider it a hostile donation.”
Siena laughed, took the basket, and immediately removed a long summer sausage. “I’ll name him Gerald.”
That got a real smile out of Soraya.
The draw wrapped with a bottle of wine, a cycling jersey, and the grand prize of a $500 gift card to Gotham.
People started to drift toward the dessert tables.
I moved to the punch, poured a cup, and leaned against the edge of a stone planter. Cold glass, warm buzz. My heart still hadn’t leveled out.
Siena cornered me a few minutes later, holding a plate of crème brûlée like it was armor against anyone trying to start a conversation.
She didn’t speak at first. Just stood beside me, spooning through the sugar crust.
Then: “You two might want to dial it back.”
I blinked. “What?”
She looked at me over the spoon. “You and Drew. You’re not as stealthy as you think.”
I opened my mouth, then shut it.
“I don’t care,” she said quickly. “Truly. He’s happier at these things when you’re around. You don’t have to explain anything to me.”
I exhaled through my nose. “Thanks.”
“But this party?” She nodded subtly toward the wine tents. “It’s not private. And people like Sloan and Drew’s dad? They’re never really off.”
I stared into my cup.
She nudged me with her shoulder. “I’m saying this as someone who’s watched both of you. I’m not warning you out of judgment. I’m warning you because people around here can ruin lives with one phone call.”
She tossed her spoon into a nearby bin. “Also, your collar’s still crooked.”
And just like that, she walked away.
I found Soraya near the dessert bar, balancing a spoon in one hand and a cocktail in the other.
“You’re sulking,” she said, eyeing my untouched crème brûlée. “Which is very off-brand for a man who just got validated by a business card from one of the Top 40 lawyers in the country.”
I smirked, but didn’t answer.
She leaned in closer. “Okay, not to derail your romantic self-immolation, but I might’ve met someone.”
I blinked. “Wait. What?”
Soraya tilted her head toward the other side of the tent, where a slim Middle Eastern guy in a navy dress shirt and no tie was laughing with one of the catering staff. Hair neatly styled. Watch understated. Shoes, too stylish for West Van.
“Amrit,” she said. “He’s a paralegal out of the South Surrey office. Told me my earrings were ‘consciously chosen.’”
“Damn,” I said, impressed. “That’s almost flirting in legal speak.”
“He also drinks his coffee black and calls his boss ‘over-reliant on rhetorical flourish,’ so I might be in love.”
I laughed, real and natural. “You deserve that. Just… make sure he’s not secretly billing you for emotional labor.”
“Oh, he’s billing. But it’s hourly. Transparent.” She popped a piece of brûlée crust in her mouth. “Anyway. You surviving?”
I started to nod.
Then I saw them together.
Across the lawn, Drew and Sloan, deep in conversation. Sloan holding court with a glass of white wine, gesturing toward the mansion with the casual ease of someone who owned not just property, but people’s attention. Drew was smiling, nodding, trying not to fidget, but his hand kept drifting to his pocket, like he needed something to anchor him.
“I’m fine,” I said, even though my gut was knotted.
Soraya followed my gaze. “Ah.”
“He looks like he’s being interviewed for his own adoption,” I muttered.
“Or brokered for trade,” she said, deadpan.
I took a breath. Tried not to look like I wanted to pull him out of it.
Soraya nudged me. “You’re thinking about him again.”
I looked down. “He’s standing twenty feet away.”
“You know what I mean.”
I didn’t say anything.
She didn’t press .
Instead, she passed me a fresh spoon. “Eat something. Your face is doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The ‘you’re the only one here without a prenup’ thing.”
As the late afternoon sun started to stretch across the lawn. People had started to loosen up, ties disappeared, blazers slung over chairs, heels traded for flats by the patio stairs.
From where I stood near the catering tent, I could see Sloan finally wrapping up his conversation with Drew.
Drew looked polished. Controlled. Almost not himself.
Someone behind me said something about setting up bocce, and a few of the younger associates started unzipping a canvas bag of sand-scuffed balls like they were about to solve a custody dispute with Italian lawn sports.
I wandered toward the edge of the lawn where Soraya had taken over a patio chair like it was a throne, a fizzing spritz in one hand, her phone in the other.
“Bet you’re wishing we’d Ubered,” she said, not looking up from her phone.
“Not yet.”
“You will be.” She tilted her glass, ice shifting.
She nodded toward the bocce game starting near the back hedge. “Your boyfriend’s about to destroy a junior associate with zero spatial awareness.”
Sure enough, Drew was walking across the grass, rolling up his sleeves, and dropping one of the red bocce balls with a casual confidence that made it clear this wasn’t his first athletic flex in an Oxford shirt.
I stayed at the edge, letting the crowd muffle the pressure. For a second, it felt as if I was back in my neighborhood, watching the Guidos strut for the old ladies like it was some kind of sacred sport.
Then Sloan stepped up to a portable mic stand someone had set by the catering tent. Just his presence quieted the party. That courtroom silence followed him everywhere.
“If I can just borrow a moment of your well-fed attention,” Sloan began. “We have someone to recognize tonight.”
Drew moved closer to Siena, who was balancing a canapé plate in one hand and gesturing with a bocce ball in the other.
I stepped a little deeper into the crowd.
Sloan motioned toward a tall, wiry man with salt-and-pepper hair and a face like he'd forgotten how to smile for anything other than press photos.
“Clayton Muhl,” Sloan said, “has led our Victoria office for the past fifteen years, and before that, helped launch our entire estate planning division with integrity, precision, and frankly, a patience most of us never developed.”
A light ripple of applause.
“I’m told he’s finally retiring. Not because he’s tired, but because his daughter reminded him his camper van hasn’t moved since 2017.”
Laughter. Light and performative.
Sloan raised a glass. “To Clayton. Who’s too humble to give a speech, and too smart to decline this wine.”
Glasses lifted. Toasts murmured.
I lifted my glass late. Delayed, but present.
When the clinking faded and the lawn games resumed, Drew found me again.
He wasn’t smiling, exactly. But the corners of his mouth had that twitch of mischief I’d learned to read in flickers, like a lightbulb that only turned on when no one else was looking.
He stepped beside me. Close, but not touching. His voice was quiet.
“There’s something else I want to show you.”
I didn’t move right away. Just watched him beckoning me.
Drew turned and retreated toward the house, not with urgency, not like he was hiding, but with a deliberate ease, as if he’d left an invisible thread between us, tugging me forward. The kind of exit that wasn’t a question, but an expectation.
I took half a step after him before a fleck of movement caught my eye. Near the pergola, half-shrouded in the late afternoon shadows, Sloan stood listening to some linen-clad guy monologuing about waterfront zoning. His posture was relaxed, wine glass loose in his fingers, but his sharp and unerring gaze tracked Drew’s retreating figure.
Then, as if sensing the weight of my stare, Sloan’s attention slid to me.
Just for a breath. Just long enough to feel like a door clicking shut.
I turned back toward Soraya, heart knocking like it had something to say.
“Kiss me,” I said.
She blinked once. “Excuse me?”
“Sloan’s watching.”
Without missing a beat, she set her drink on the stone wall behind us. “You owe me lunch for a week. Good thing Amrit is over there, not looking.”
“Done.”
She leaned in and kissed me, nothing performative, nothing sloppy. Just long enough to convince anyone who needed convincing.
When we pulled apart, I didn’t check to see if Sloan was still watching. I just assumed so.
Then I followed the path Drew left behind him.
Inside, the house was quieter, not silent, but insulated. The kind of calm you only get when square footage absorbs sound. Just the low hum of the caterers through the kitchen, the occasional laugh echoing from the wine patio, someone shaking a cocktail too close to a priceless vase.
Drew didn’t look back to see if I was still there.
I followed him through a formal dining room that looked like it had been set for a meal that never happened. Glossy walnut table, centerpiece like it was stolen from a luxury hotel. Then, through a hallway lined with abstract art, minimalist, expensive, and unconnected.
He stopped at a set of double doors tucked between a recessed bar and a wall-mounted thermostat that probably had its own login.
“Uncle Gerry’s library,” he said as I approached, half under his breath.
He pushed open the door.
Inside was all dark paneling, soft amber light, floor-to-ceiling shelves interrupted only by one enormous arched window and a glass cigar humidor the size of a wine fridge. Mahogany desk. Persian rug. Globe bar. The works.
It looked like it had been built for declarations and never once used for one. The office on Burrard Street was for that.
Drew crossed to the far corner, beside the bookshelf. “This,” he said, “is why rich people are terrifying.”
He pressed his fingers to a section of shelving. I thought he was grabbing a book until I realized the book didn’t give.
There was a faint click, and the whole panel gave way an inch, just enough for him to pull it open with two fingers.
Behind it: a narrow, dark entrance. No lights. Carpeted stairs heading down.
“Not on the floor plan,” he said.
I just stared down the stairs.
“You don’t have to,” Drew said. “We can just go back and pretend I wanted to show you the humidor.”
I looked at him, the hint of nerves under the half-smirk, the faint sheen of sweat at his hairline.
“I’m not scared of basements,” I said. “I’m scared of whatever you call a basement when it costs this much.”
Drew laughed once, quietly. Then he stepped inside.
I followed.
The carpeted stairs weren’t long, maybe ten steps, but they muted everything: the party, the laughter, even the weight in my chest. It was like stepping into someone else’s version of quiet.
At the bottom, the lights came on: warm, low, designed to show off, not illuminate.
Not a panic room. Not exactly.
It looked like a whiskey lounge in a luxury bunker.
The same dark paneling. Built-in shelving. Another smaller humidor. A full-wall liquor cabinet with backlighting and brushed steel hardware. And in the center of it all, a low, dark leather couch, wide enough for three but clearly designed for two.
No windows. No noise.
Drew let the door click shut behind us. It didn’t lock, but it sealed.
He stood there for a moment. Watching me.
I moved toward the couch, ran my fingers along the back, and it was soft, worn in that expensive way. The kind of leather that’s been treated better than most people.
“This is where you come to count the inheritance?” I asked.
He snorted once, then stepped forward, slowly.
“Used to come down here during Christmas parties. Back when I had braces and a sad haircut.”
“Better than a sad personality.”
“Jury’s still out.”
He sat next to me. Not touching. Just close. I could feel the warmth of him, familiar now, but still something I wasn’t allowed to want too loudly.
“You know why I brought you down here?”
I looked at him. His knees were barely an inch from mine. The fabric of his shirt had that crisp crease down the forearm, like he still wanted to be good for someone.
“Because you hate parties,” I said.
He didn’t laugh.
“Because I wanted you here,” he said. “Where no one else could see. Where no one else could hear.”
He didn’t move like he was nervous.
He moved like he knew exactly what this room was for, like he’d spent too many nights in this house learning how to vanish in plain sight.
I was still sitting on the leather couch, then he got up and stood in front of me, close, the low light catching the sharp edge of his jaw and the slight rise and fall of his chest.
He stepped between my knees.
“Gerry’s the only one who ever uses this room,” he said. “And me, sometimes. No cameras. No sound. No interruptions.”
I looked up at him. “You sure?”
He leaned in. His hands found my shoulders, firm and steady. The kiss was deeper than the garage. Slower. Hungrier.
His mouth was warm and deliberate. No pause this time. No pretending.
I kissed him back, one hand sliding to the small of his back, the other gripping the front of his shirt. He tasted like wine and something else, the gum again, maybe. His fingers curled against my neck, just enough to tell me he wasn’t holding anything back now.
We shifted, mouths never parting, as he straddled my thighs and pushed me into the couch as we both shucked off our shoes.
His weight landed easily.
We kissed like we’d been building to this for weeks.
And we had.
When he pulled back, just barely, his forehead rested against mine. His breath was uneven.
“You wore them, didn’t you?”
It took me a second to catch up.
“The Batman underwear?”
He smiled. “I knew you would.”
“I knew you’d wear yours,” I said.
He climbed off me just enough to reach for his belt.
Then his dress pants slipped down without drama.
There they were. Green Rick and Morty PSDs.
Stupid, bright, and hotter than I’d remembered in the Instagram disappearing picture.
I sat up and undid my own belt. Slow, deliberate my pants came down. Just far enough to reveal gray and blue character, the bold yellow bat signal on my thigh.
He laughed quietly and was amazed.
“Of course you did.”
“You helped me pick them,” I said.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “But I didn’t think you’d fill them out this well.”
I grinned. “That’s on you.”
We didn’t say a word after that.
He leaned down again, pressed his mouth to mine, slower now. Then to my throat. My collarbone.
The couch creaked as I pulled him closer by the waistband.
Everything else, the party, the cover story, the pressure, melted under the heat of it.
He didn't need any further encouragement. Drew unbuttoned my shirt and shifted to the floor. He took in a deep breath as he reached forward to slide my waistband down, pulled my pants off, and then dove back in, his lips and tongue working together in perfect harmony.
As he worked his mouth and tongue over me, I felt my senses heighten. The warmth of his breath on my skin, the gentle suction of his lips, the soft flicks of his tongue... it all combined to create a sense of ecstasy that threatened to consume me.
I closed my eyes, letting myself get lost in the sensations. My body began to tremble with pleasure, and I felt my hips lift off the couch as Drew's mouth worked its magic.
Nearing my climax, I felt a surge of emotion swell up inside me. It wasn't just physical pleasure that I was experiencing; it was also a deep connection to Drew, a sense of vulnerability and trust that I'd never felt with anyone this deeply before. I felt myself getting closer and closer to the edge. It had been building up inside me for days, ever since he'd left for Winnipeg, and now that we were finally together again, it was all coming out.
I held my breath as Drew's lips wrapped around me once more, and then suddenly, I was consumed by an explosion of pleasure that seemed to rip through every cell in my body. My hips arched off the couch, my back bowed, and I let out a raw, primal groan as the orgasm overwhelmed me.
The sensation was so intense that it felt like my entire being was being ripped apart, only to be reassembled into something new and exhilarating. And in that moment, I felt myself slip out of Drew's mouth, releasing a torrent of semen onto his face.
He didn't flinch or pull away, but instead, seemed to lean into the sensation, as if he were savoring every last drop. His eyes locked on mine, burning with a fierce intensity that left me breathless and wishing that wasn’t the end.
Or maybe it was the way he ran his tongue across my seed, tasting it and savoring it like it was something precious and delicious.
"Wow," he said, his voice gravelly with emotion. "You're so sexy when you cum."
I couldn't resist laughing at that, feeling a sense of relief and pleasure wash over me as I processed what had just happened.
"Thanks," I said, trying to sound nonchalant even though my body was still trembling with aftershocks. "I guess you liked it."
Drew grinned, his eyes filled with amusement. "Liked it?" he repeated. "I think I'm in love with it." He ran his hand across his face and licked my seed off it.
I wanted to return every second of what he just gave me. So I pressed his pants to the floor with my foot and held them there until he stepped out. Then I guided him gently beside me on the couch, back against the armrest, where I could see all of him.
He unbuttoned his dress shirt and tossed it aside. Then there he was, just the ridiculous Rick and Morty PSDs, plain black dress socks, and every ounce of trust he had, laid bare in Gerry’s secret retreat.
I crawled closer to him, my hand instantly reaching for the erection in his briefs. He gasped as I pushed it to one side, then started to rub him through the stretchy material of the underwear. Drew started to lift his hips in response, tilting his head back in another sign of approval. Every so often, I’d stop and pull away, just to watch his cock pulse and twitch through the spandex without even me touching it.
When a wet spot started to form at the tip of his dick, I knew he couldn’t take much more of what I was doing, so I finally pulled back the green waistband and put my lips to it personally.
I didn’t slip him in fully at first, just found the rest of his pre-cum in his slit and tasted the saltiness mixed with the sweetness of the desert. That elicited a huge groan from him and a wrap of both hands around my head. Taking that as the signal, I enveloped him fully into my warm mouth.
Drew's hips began to rock in time with my mouth, his grip on my hair tightening as I worked him with increasing enthusiasm. I could feel his thighs tense and his breathing become ragged, signaling that he was getting closer to the edge. His cock grew even harder against my tongue, and I could taste more salty precum building.
I took him deeper, eager to feel his release, my arousal gaining strength again as I watched his face contort with pleasure. His eyes squeezed shut and his jaw clenched, and suddenly he was coming, his body shuddering as he emptied himself into my mouth.
I swallowed eagerly, savoring the taste of him, feeling a powerful sense of satisfaction as he let out a deep, guttural moan of release. His hands relaxed in my hair, and he slumped back into the couch cushions, panting and sweaty, a look of utter bliss on his face.
We stayed like that, skin on skin, our breath slowly evening out. Drew's fingers moved lazily along my stomach, just above the waistband, like he wasn’t done memorizing me.
He leaned in again, even slower this time, his mouth brushing mine in a way that felt less like a kiss and more like a promise.
“Next time,” he whispered, “You have to say you missed me.”
I pulled him back in, just to prove I wasn’t going anywhere.
The party, the names, the walls above us, they could all wait.
Right now, it was just him and me. Everything else could burn.
After what felt like an eternity, we cleaned up fast. Straightened collars. Smoothed hair. No one needed to know what happened behind that wood-paneled door, not even the Cognac bottles guarding it.
Back on the patio, the sun was fading but the party wasn’t. Laughter spilled from the bocce court. Someone was trying to start a second toast. Sloan stood near the pool with a fresh glass of white, looking like a man who missed nothing and minded even less.
I spotted Soraya exactly where I left her, posted near the cocktail table with a new drink and an expression that said, “I saw that.”
She didn’t say anything, just handed me a skewer of grilled prawns and raised her eyebrows.
“Things back to normal?” she asked.
“More than that,” I said.
She sipped her spritz. “You’re glowing.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“Uh-huh.” A pause. Then: “I expect details. And brunch.”
“Done.”
But we both knew she wouldn’t need either.
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