Dirty Dining (6 page)

By Sunday night he fell into bed exhausted, and he thought he was over the pull of the Dinner Club. As much as he would like to see Remy, he hated he had to do so through the repressive system of paying for favors. He didn’t want Remy to feel exploited, and as long as they interacted at the club, Brice would never know for sure whether Remy was with him for money or because he actually liked spending time with Brice.

Brice’s well-laid plans and hard-won victory over his baser desires blew up in his face Monday morning. Ron Templeton, an old college friend and now Brice’s boss at the venture capital investment firm of Christie, Parker, and Lane, rolled into his office, not bothering to knock on the half-shut door, and deposited himself in the same chair Watkins had used a week earlier.

“Hope you’re not busy tomorrow night. And if you are, cancel your plans.”

“Okay. Why?”

“Got an investor who’s looking to plant about fifty mil. I need your help to land him.”

“What can I do?”

“Cathcart runs a private equity fund in Missouri, and he’s pretty excited about visiting San Fran again. We lost out to Valley Ventures last time he was looking to invest. I need you to take him around and show him a good time.”

Brice sat back in his chair. This was Ron’s code that the prospect was gay, most likely closeted back in his red-state home life, and wanted to blow off more than steam while he was in town. The added implication was that if Brice showed him the right kind of fun, he’d toss them fifty million to invest.

“Cathcart? Did I sit in on meeting with him a while back?”

Ron nodded, a smile just starting to play around the edges of his mouth.

“So, what did you have in mind?” Brice asked, dreading the answer.

“Somehow he heard about the Dinner Club. Can’t wait to go. Make some reservations for tomorrow night, and you’ve got Wednesday off. Let him do or have whatever he wants. Money is no object here.”

Brice shook his head. The last thing he wanted was to see Remy again while a client watched. He’d been able to stay away from the place only by pushing his willpower to the limit. Now his boss had asked him to go back.

“Sorry, Ron, I can’t make it.” Best not to explain why.

“I don’t care what it is, cancel it or postpone it.”

“It’s not that…. Why not send Watkins? He loves the place.”

“What is it, then?” Ron paused. Brice could almost hear his brain whirring, trying to decide whether to mention outright Brice being gay or say anything remotely sexual, even though they’d known each other for years and Brice had never been in the closet. California and federal laws could be tricky on the issue of what might be considered inappropriate. And Brice was the firm’s attorney. “Cathcart doesn’t like Watkins. He likes you.”

“Do you mean ‘like’ as in the high-school-girl usage of the word, or just that he doesn’t care for Watkins’ personality.”

Ron chuckled. “Definitely the latter. I’m not sure about the former. But he won’t hit on you if you’re someplace with willing participants.” He paused and smiled mischievously. “Look, I don’t think he’s got the hots for you. But if he did, couldn’t you just smile at him? For fifty mil?”

“I can’t believe you just suggested that.” But Brice was more amused than annoyed. He could hold his own, but sometimes a little extra smile—from the right guy or woman—could grease the wheels on a business deal, even when nothing was expected to come of the flirtation. “I could sue your ass.”

“Well, I suppose that’s better than the alternative,” Ron said. It was only because they were friends Brice let him get away with the comment.

“You don’t know what you’re missing.” Brice gave as good as he got. He leaned back in his chair and considered his options. He really wanted to see Remy. And Brice admitted the blatant sexuality of the club was a lure. He didn’t feel entirely comfortable with being on display, but who was even looking at him? Watkins had had his mind—and his hands—on his own serving boy and hadn’t cared what Brice was doing. “Okay. I’ll do it this one time, for you. And the knowledge of how much of the fifty mil I’ll get.” As a junior partner, he got a tiny share of profits.

Ron stood up and leaned across the desk so he could slap Brice on the shoulder. “There you go. Take one for the team.” He straightened up and looked at Brice. “I’m not sure what’s not to like about the place. They have another club with women servers, and I’d love to go there. Marilyn wouldn’t like it, though. But you’re single, or so you’ve been saying. Is there someone who might be getting jealous?”

Brice shook his head. “Quite the opposite.”

“Hang in there. And thanks. I owe you one.”

“Yeah, one
million
dollars.” Brice delivered the line like Dr. Evil in an Austin Powers movie, and Ron laughed his way back down the hall to his own office.

Brice got up and shut his door. He needed to think about this. Did he really want to see Remy? He admitted he was physically attracted to the young man. Could his politeness and charm be just an act? Some of these pros got their clients hooked on their company, as long as they were spending money, but the affection and attraction wasn’t reciprocal. Remy had said he was new, but it could have been a lie too.

The best way to handle this would be to assume the attraction to Remy was nothing more than the normal sexual tension and desire the Dinner Club existed to provide. When Brice looked at it that way, he’d been the naïve one. No wonder they’d called him Mr. Green. Greenhorn, newbie, easily influenced. An evening with any of the other boys would be just as enjoyable. In fact, he
shouldn’t
have Remy again, to guard against the misplaced emotion.

He hadn’t walked into a real-life version of
Pretty Woman.
He wasn’t going to ride off with the hooker for a twisted fairy-tale happy ending. That wasn’t the kind of “happy ending” Remy represented.

Brice picked up the phone and buzzed Watkins. “Can you give me the reservation number at the Dinner Club? I need to bring a client.” Brice kept his request short and businesslike, with no room for Watkins to wrangle an invitation to come along.

“Sure. Let me find it.” He paused, and Brice expected to hear him tapping at keys, but there was silence. Watkins told him the number—apparently he had it memorized. “Have fun, Brice.” Watkins chuckled lasciviously, and Brice hung up without thanking him.

He picked up the phone again and took a deep breath before calling.

“Men’s Dinner Club,” a pleasant-sounding woman announced on the other end. Brice had expected a breathy-sounding man to be taking reservations, getting the clients worked up on the phone before they ever set foot in the place. “How can I serve you?”

Brice tried not to imagine how the phrase would sound uttered in a husky male voice. “Can I book two seats for tomorrow night?” He half hoped they were booked up.

“Your color, please?”

“Green.”

“Just green? Not forest green or Kelly green?”

“I don’t know. I’ve only been there once, and I was the only Green that night.” He gave the date. He’d wondered how he’d gotten such a common color.

“Oh, yes, sir. Green is a first visit basic color. Here you are in the database under a corporate account. From now on you’ll be Hunter Green for reservations. I’ll need to get some additional information and assign your personal membership number.”

He spent five minutes providing the details, and she verified his authorization to use the business account.

“Do you have a preferred serving boy?” she asked as if she were inquiring about whether he wanted sugar for his coffee. “You had Remy last time.”

“No, but…” He certainly
had
had Remy. He paused, not sure he was making the correct decision. “No preference. But I’d rather not have the same boy.”

“Weren’t you pleased with his service?”

He didn’t want to get Remy in trouble. Damn, he shouldn’t have said anything. “Oh, I was. Very pleased.” Fuck, that sounded perverted. “J-just I’d like to try someone different.”

“No problem, sir.” She tapped away at a keyboard. “Just as well, since Remy isn’t working tomorrow. I’ll put you down for two seats. Your companion will be Mr. Mauve. If he joins, he’ll get a permanent color.”

“Thank you.”

“Dinner is at eight. Would you mind having your guest arrive thirty minutes early for a new-visitor discussion?”

“Thanks.” He hung up. Good, Remy wouldn’t be there. No guilt over passing him up and no temptation to see him again. He’d get a completely different boy, one who he would avoid forming any connection with. Maybe he’d even go for something on the special menu. Why not?

J
EREMY
’
S
WEEK
was full of disappointments. Suddenly, finding instrument time was impossible, potentially putting his research behind schedule, and he didn’t get any tutoring appointments. His research was now stalled, mainly because he found going to the lab frustrating. He didn’t have the hours to do all the experiments he needed for his dissertation, which meant he might need to stay an extra semester or two. He needed to discuss these problems with his adviser, but Dr. Morrell had been scarce around the department, and he wasn’t returning e-mails or calls. He was probably speaking at a conference; he was one of the world’s foremost authorities on VLPs.

To make matters worse, Jeremy found himself thinking of Mr. Green. He was sexy in a sort of shy way, like he wasn’t aware of how hot he was and didn’t want anyone else to pay attention to his looks. But Jeremy could also tell he was smart. Smart enough to find the artifice of the Dinner Club a little overwhelming. The other boys poured on the sex appeal and compliments, and their gentlemen ate it up like it was foie gras.

Jeremy sensed Mr. Green wouldn’t want that kind of treatment, and it wasn’t Jeremy’s personality to lavish unearned praise on anyone. Even for money. Though it would certainly work better for tips at the Dinner Club than it did with PharmaTek—the biotech start-up was rumored to be planning to further cut funding to the grant covering Jeremy’s research. They blamed their venture capital investors. Too bad he couldn’t just fawn all over the start-up and VC guys and get his grant back.

Early Sunday Jeremy headed back to the lab. Plenty of other doctoral students were there, checking on experiments or prepping others. The faculty rarely came in on weekends, so the atmosphere was relaxed and fun. Someone had the radio on so they could listen to the Giants play in Atlanta.

Jeremy put on his protective gear and set his materials up at his workstation. He carefully rinsed the cells in the petri dish; he needed to change the cell media before adding the latest sets of antigens that he wanted to test. It wasn’t hard, just time consuming and somewhat tedious. Most grad students got their undergrad assistants to do this work for them, but Jeremy enjoyed the chance to let his mind wander. Once the new media was on the cells, he started adding the tiny amounts of antigen to each well of cells. They would need to incubate for several hours before he could analyze them on the flow cytometer.

He spent the rest of the day at the lab and finished two experiments. The results looked pretty good, and he was eager to analyze the data further and show them to his adviser. Another month of this kind of progress would mean he might get additional funding and have enough data to publish in one of the top journals. In this haze of semicelebration, Jeremy raced down the steps—all six floors, because the elevators were a little untrustworthy and the last thing he needed was to get stuck in one on a weekend—and out the front door of the lab building, realizing it had gotten dark while he was working.

He turned right and headed for the bike rack. There had been four other bikes when he’d arrived hours ago, and now there were two. But neither of the two were Jeremy’s.

“Fucking bike thieves!” He kicked at the metal rack and pain shot up his leg and continued to radiate through his foot. Stolen bikes were one of the major issues on campus. Last thing he needed right now. He dug in his pocket for his cell phone to open the app for campus shuttles. The last one had come by five minutes earlier, and the next wasn’t due for an hour. He’d just walk back home. He could use the fresh air and exercise after being cooped up in the lab all day.

He’d have to spend hours the next day with police reports, and he didn’t relish the waste of time. Especially because it was his morning at the tutoring center. With the probability he’d need to buy a new bike looming over him, he wondered if a police report was worth the time. Stolen bikes were rarely recovered, and it hadn’t been insured.

He wound his way through campus rather than walking along the perimeter. The paved paths were deserted, and the scent of pine trees and grass calmed his frazzled nerves. His stomach growled; he couldn’t remember the last meal he’d eaten. Breakfast probably. He’d make something when he got home rather than stop at one of the tempting restaurants. Ramen or pasta or salad. That’s what was in the kitchen. Not very appetizing.

By the time he arrived at his apartment—located on a quiet tree-lined street just three blocks off the northern perimeter of campus—he’d formulated a plan to get a new bike and at least one decent meal this week. He wanted to sleep on the idea before he committed himself.

By the next morning he’d decided. He called Thomas at the Dinner Club and asked if there were any open slots this week.

“Glad to hear from you, Jeremy,” Thomas said as if he meant it. “I have one on Sunday and… oh, hang on. Steve can’t do his shift tomorrow. Do you want to fill in for him?”

“Sure. I can make it tomorrow.” He hesitated for a second, wondering if he should ask whether Mr. Green might be there, then decided against it. “Thanks, Thomas.”

“No problem. Let me know if you want the Sunday shift too.”

“Yeah, I’ll take Sunday also. See you tomorrow.” He put the phone down.

It was done. He wouldn’t second-guess himself or his motives beyond needing cash. He wouldn’t spend the next twenty-four hours wondering if he’d see Mr. Green again or not. But if he did… well, best not to contemplate what he’d do—or how far he’d go—if Mr. Green was dining again the following night.