CLICKING SEND on the proposal to Mrs. Bradley, Trick leaned back in his desk chair and inhaled, enjoying the feeling of his lungs expanding. The timestamp on the document said 3:59—exactly one minute before deadline—just under the wire.
When he looked up, Leif was standing over him, a snide little smirk on his thin lips.
“I need you to get me a phone,” he said, his voice as slimy as rotting kelp.
“What happened to your phone?”
“I dropped it and the corner is dented. I need a new one before tonight.”
“It still works, though?”
“That doesn’t matter—I’m not using a subpar phone. I need a new one.”
“Okay,” Trick said, dreading the task already. There was no way he was going to be able to find a phone, get it set up for Leif, pick up Jasper’s cheesesteak, and make it back to the office to finish up the last of his work before five o’clock rolled around. There was no point in arguing with Leif on this, though. Nothing would be accomplished other than wasting Trick’s already dwindling time.
“Good. And make sure you get me the one I want. It’s limited edition. Just because you’re okay using a piece of shit doesn’t mean I am.”
Leif handed Trick a printout of the details and stalked away. Trick suppressed the angry scream that threatened to escape as he pulled his jacket on and headed for the elevator.
He pushed the button and waited. The thing was slower than molasses, given their building had about three thousand floors and a single elevator to service them. That’s what happened when you chose a building for your business based on aesthetics rather than amenities or functionality.
The doors slid open, catching Trick cursing Leif out under his breath. The man in the elevator looked up and caught Trick mid–“douche nozzle.”
“Uh, hi… hello… uh… sorry,” Trick stuttered. It was Preston Ward, president and CEO of Theory’s Edge, one of the leading marketing companies in the country.
Preston stared at him, a look of mild amusement on his face, as Trick stumbled into the elevator and turned around, straightening his posture and holding his hands behind his back. The guy always turned him into a bumbling mess. He’d never met someone more put together, sophisticated, and insanely good-looking as Preston Ward.
They’d met a few times, working in the same building and attending parties Redden had thrown, and every time, Trick got that tingly feeling in the pit of his stomach like he wanted to throw up in the best way possible. Preston was irresistible but so beyond Trick’s league he barely entertained the fantasy of what it would be like to be with him. It wasn’t fair how perfect he was. Handsome, not to mention wildly successful, and charming as fuck. Not that Trick had ever said more than a handful of words to him. But he had to be. No one who looked like Preston Ward was socially stunted.
The elevator doors whooshed shut, and Trick wore his humiliation all the way down the eight floors to the lobby before he managed one more hopelessly awkward good-bye, and Preston was gone.
It took not one but four different stores to find the phone Leif wanted. Apparently he wasn’t the only one who was after it, but after begging one of the sympathetic employees at the store over on Ninth and West 48th, he managed to walk out with a brand-new phone.
Trudging back to the office, he tried not to let his mood dip any more than it already had. There was a light at the end of the tunnel. Probably. He just had to keep going to find it.
After stopping off for Jasper’s calorically impressive cheesesteak, Trick arrived back at the office and made his way past his desk to the smaller office behind it that belonged to Leif.
“I’m back,” Trick said, stepping through the doorway. He didn’t afford Leif the same courtesy he did his father. While Leif was technically Trick’s superior, he was a shitty architect, and Trick knew the only reason he was employed there was because he shared genetics with the boss.
“What the fuck took you so long?” Leif demanded.
“I had to go to four stores before I found the one you wanted.”
“My God, you’re useless.” Leif tore the box from Trick’s hand and ripped open the plastic. He pulled the phone out and studied it a moment with narrowed eyes before shoving it back into Trick’s hand. “Turn it on and download all my contacts to it. And while you’re at it, install a couple of dating apps, but make sure there’s an option so you can block the fat chicks.”
Trick stared at him, mouth agape. He’d heard a lot of bullshit spew from the Redden twins’ mouths, and he had no idea why he was ever surprised anymore, but they just kept stepping up their skeezeball game. It was impressive how effectively they outdid themselves. They must really work at it.
Trick left the office and returned to his desk without saying a word, setting Jasper’s greasy bag onto the surface with a grimace. This firm was in his blood, and he wasn’t going to abandon his dream because of a handful of assholes who did their best to stand in his way. Besides, he wasn’t about to throw away all the years he’d already put in.
IT WAS nearly nine o’clock by the time Trick made it out of the building. He’d missed dinner, but after Leif had forced him to take shirtless photos for his dating profile, Trick wasn’t sure his appetite would ever return.
He made his way out into the cold and down the street toward the subway station. A cab would be faster—and warmer—but Trick had to save money where he could, and a taxi was an exorbitant luxury he just couldn’t afford.
As it was, he was barely scraping by. Despite the million-dollar price tags that went along with many of their homes, the Reddens were not known for their generosity with employees, and Trick’s salary was somewhere on par with the woman who scrubbed the bathrooms in the subway station. He needed to scrimp and save every penny if he was ever going to be able to afford the buy-in for partner. Not that he’d have enough experience to do that for a very long time. He had his eye on the prize, though, and nothing was going to stop him from achieving that goal.
Weariness settled into him, penetrating right to his bones. The prospect of schlepping a thousand blocks to his shithole apartment made him want to cry. The weeks he spent at Redden and Sons seemed to be getting longer and longer.
His phone chirped in his pocket. Pulling it out, he saw he had received a text message from Jasper.
Need you in tomorrow. 7 a.m.
That was it.
“Fuck me,” Trick muttered, shoving his phone back into his pocket as he dodged a dozen gray puddles on his way down Seventh Avenue.
It happened in an instant, but the scene played out in slow motion as Trick saw the man next to him step into the street. He was looking up at something, an expression of awe lighting up his face, and he was obviously unaware of the taxi barreling toward him. Trick barely had time to process what was happening, and without thinking, he leapt forward, wrapping both arms around the man’s waist and pulling him back as hard as he could.
They both toppled to the ground, the man landing on top of him, knocking the air from Trick’s lungs. His head fell back, smacking against the cold pavement of the sidewalk as the man rolled off him. Dazed, Trick took a moment to orient himself, and he realized the man was standing over him, wide blue eyes looking down at him.
“Are you all right?” the man asked, his eyebrows knit together in heavy concern. He held his hand out to help Trick to his feet.
“What the fuck were you thinking, stepping out into the street like that?” Trick spat, grabbing the man’s hand and hoisting himself up. Everything felt fuzzy, and there was a distinct throbbing in Trick’s elbow, not to mention the sudden splitting headache.
The man didn’t say a word, just looked at him, an unreadable expression on his face. It was as though he was looking through Trick. It made him uneasy.
“Fucking tourists,” Trick muttered and pulled his hand away. “Be more careful. You could have been killed.”
The man nodded, and Trick turned and walked away, more miserable than ever.
His pants were soaked from the dirty rainwater he’d fallen in, and glancing down, he noticed his jacket had been torn as well. Fan-fucking-tastic. November in New York City without a jacket would be an absolute picnic. There was no way he could afford a new one—not if he wanted to eat, anyway.
Shivering against the cold and contemplating spending the rest of the season perpetually freezing, he made his way down the litter-strewn steps to the platform of the B train and waited. That guy had been such a weirdo. Trick was ordinarily used to the strange people in the city. Most days he couldn’t get to work without walking past someone who seemed more than a little… off… but the way he’d looked at Trick was unsettling.
He couldn’t shake the strange feeling as he stepped onto the train and lowered himself into a hard, plastic orange seat, sandwiched between a woman wearing a rainbow Santa hat and a man in what appeared to be a very expensive suit.
After he’d changed trains at Columbus Circle, Trick leaned back, closing his eyes while the train sped through the tunnel, stopping every few minutes. For sixty blocks, he relaxed, relatively safe and mostly warm.
THE APARTMENT where Trick slept—because all his waking hours were spent at the office or out in the city—was little more than a closet, tucked away in one of the oldest buildings in the neighborhood. Old, in this instance, did not equate with a level of charm or character. In the case of Trick’s residence, old translated to falling apart and fit to be condemned.
But it was what Trick could afford, and at least it was a roof over his head. The walls were peeling, the radiator did not work, and it was impossible to shut the bathroom door and use the toilet at the same time without sitting sideways. Only one burner on the stove was functional. The ceiling had more water spots than actual paint, and Trick was certain the sketchy electrical system was likely to catch fire at any moment.
He closed the door behind him and locked it—three dead bolts and one reasonably sturdy-looking chain—then leaned against it as he toed off his boots, careful to keep the water contained on the tiny doormat.
What a fucking day.
But every day was like this. One shitpile after another was dumped on him. Every night when he arrived home from work, he thought about quitting. Hell, he thought about quitting almost every moment he was there. But then he thought of his father, of the business he’d built, and how he’d worked so hard to give Trick everything he ever wanted. He thought about how disappointed he would be if Trick gave up. It gave him pause, and in the end, Trick just couldn’t bring himself to do it.
His efforts and sacrifice would pay off eventually. They had to. The world wasn’t that cruel. Karma was a thing, right? People talked about it often enough. Trick had to believe that somehow the universe would even things out. Someday.
He pushed off the door and crossed the small space to the bed that was tucked in the corner. It was little more than a mattress and box spring on the floor, but it was soft, and the flannel sheets Trick had splurged on the month before had been worth it. It was a small slice of heaven in his otherwise dreary existence.
The walls were thin, and he could hear the couple next door fighting, angry words flung at one another in a language Trick had never been able to pinpoint. It was the same every night, and he often wondered why they stayed together. He mentally calculated his wages. Adding it to the total he already had, Trick determined that if he kept going, kept squirreling away what he could, one day he would have enough to buy in as partner. That was worth everything.