The Gift (12 page)

He scanned the room, confused. "No, I don't think so."

"Okay, well, it's on its way. Just sit tight."

"What is it?"

"I have to apologize, August. I knew about the gala before you left and I should have said something to you before you packed. So I've sent something down for you to wear. You probably didn't have anything decent, did you?"

He looked at himself in the mirror, tight leather still stretched over his legs and hips ludicrously, and his shoulders slumped that much further. "Not really. But it doesn't matter. I'm not going."

Diana laughed. "Sure you are, love. Just wait, you'll see. August? Has Doren already left? Are you by yourself then?"

He nodded, as if Diana could see him from miles away. "Yeah. He left."

"It's all right," Diana said firmly. "I'll have a car come for you in half an hour. Wait in the lobby, okay?"

"I don't think so, Diana. I don't want to go. I don't belong there."

Diana's voice softened but became serious. "Listen, August, I need you there.
Doren
needs you there. Trust me. He needs you there more than he even knows he does. Get your chin up, straighten your spine, and if I'm right on my timing, I think your package will be there any second now. Can you do that for me, August? Can you tough it up and get out there?" As if on cue there was a knock at the door. "Call me if you have any trouble. I'm here. Any time, okay? But please hang in there, August. Trust me when I tell you that I knew you were the one for the job."

The package was in the hallway, a simple cardboard box, note-less and unimposing. But when he opened it, the tux inside of it had August lifting his eyebrows and digging for price tags. He didn't recognize the name in the lapel—it was very Italian and multi-syllabic—but the tux itself was midnight blue, with a sheen that, in the right light, would draw the eye of everyone that saw it. The lapels and thin strip of fabric that ran down the leg shone like satin and that, right there, August decided, was the right way for a man to wear shine. A white tuxedo shirt with faux-sapphire buttons was tucked into the jacket, along with a black bowtie and shoes, both very simple and yet, somehow, very stylish.

He almost felt foolish with how different he felt in the tux. But the moment the jacket fell over his shoulders and he tugged the fabric into place, August felt like a superstar. He left the leather on the floor and didn't look back, opting for the stairs like Doren would have done, taking them two at a time when he got to the last level.

"Now just look at you," August heard, and he turned towards the voice of the desk clerk that had helped him locate Doren the previous night. "A right proper gentleman in search of a right proper ride, I assume. How are you this evening, sir?"

August faked a bow. "Very well, my friend. And yourself?"

"Better now," the desk clerk smiled.

"Oh?"

August's question was waved off. "Nothing, nothing. Everything is back on track and the evening is going well." He patted the computer monitor in front of him. "Things go offline, times get tense, but we work through it until they come back again." He smiled and nodded. "They always come back again."

August parted his lips to reply but was stopped by a point at the glass doors at the front of the lobby. He turned to look at the white limo humming at the curb. "Your chariot has arrived. Hurry on, now. You don't want to miss it again."

A driver stepped out of the front seat, opened an umbrella, and stepped around the car to open the back door. August turned back to the desk, the "thank you" dying on his lips. The desk was empty, the clerk gone, and the phone began ringing to itself. As the line was caught by the answering service August shook his head for what seemed like the hundredth time that day and walked out the door to meet the driver.

*~*~*

The gala was being held at the most beautiful estate August had ever seen. The driveway was lit with hundreds of lights and trimmed with thousands of flowers. The door was manned by the best-dressed and most well-mannered staff he had ever had the pleasure to meet. They took over for the driver to open the door of the limo for him, requested his name, and just seemed to know that he was supposed to be there. A good thing, really, because Doren had left with the invitation and August had strong doubts Doren would have told anyone to expect him.

The foyer was immense and immaculate, the stairs teeming with guests, and after a few quick directions from the smiling waiters, August walked into the hall set up as ballroom. Tables were draped in rich red velvet, lighting was soft but adequate, and the air was rich with the scent of fantastic food and exotic cologne. He was just about to press his phone into life to try and locate Doren when August spied him. Surprisingly enough, though enveloped by a crowd of people who were there just to see him, Doren sat alone at a table by the bar, nursing a short glass with ice. He found a chair across from Doren's line of sight and waited for Doren to notice him. Why he even thought Doren would in the sea of linen, silk and perfumed fur August couldn't say. But he could hope.

He didn't wait long. Within seconds August saw him lift his head to the ceiling, close his eyes, and take a deep breath. And then, as always, Doren's eyes just seemed to find him. August smiled, more embarrassed than amused, as Doren rose in surprise. He stepped through the crowd, moving quickly, dragging a chair way too close before sitting down, wrong side forward, and exclaiming, "You came!"

August nodded. "I'm sorry. You were right. I was acting like an idiot."

"No!" Doren's eyes widened. "I'm sorry. And you were right." He pulled back and whistled through his teeth. "And what the hell happened? You look like a million bucks."

He grinned at August's eye roll. "Well, don't let that head get too swollen now. Inflation being what it is, Aug, a million isn't really worth what it used to be."

August snorted and ran a hand down the slippery lapel. "Yeah, well, you can thank Diana for this when you get back."

"Ah, of course." Doren leaned forward, tilting the chair dangerously and peering down at August's shoes before drawing his gaze all the way back up to August's eyes again. "Diana. The Queen of Administration. I should have known."

Doren stood and shoved his hand out. "Walk with me to the bar?"

"They have servers …" August said pointlessly, his wrist already snagged, his body being pulled out of the chair.

As they stood at the bar, shoulders comfortably close to one another, Doren cleared his throat and mumbled, "I'm sorry I took off and left. I seem to have a bad habit of doing that around you."

August shrugged as Doren handed him a glass of champagne, his eyes resting on Doren's glass of whiskey, grinning when Doren laughed. "You seemed like more of a champagne kind of guy. I can get you something else?"

"It's perfect," August told him. "As for the taking off thing, please don't even mention it. You shouldn't have to coddle me. I'm your assistant, not the other way around. And you had to be here. I didn't really leave you much choice."

Doren's expression turned hard and August followed his glare to where Anton sat, the king of his table, surrounded by his assistants and a dark-skinned woman that August hadn't met yet. "I know that bastard had something to do with that god-awful outfit," Doren snarled.

"Don't say anything," August warned. "I'm sure they were just trying to help. And if they weren't, don't give them the satisfaction of letting them know it got under our skin." His face twisted into a smirk. "But we should, at the very least, go over and say hello."

"You're damn right we should," Doren nodded, finishing his drink in one quick draw and ordering another. "Let 'em see just how fine we look, yes?"

Doren looped his arm comically and August denied the gesture with a tsk. He should have known better. Doren merely reached out, secured August's hand, and held it on his arm. "Doren," August hissed. "Stop making us look like a couple of fair—"

"Doren!" Anton boomed. "Our man of the hour!" He waved at August. "And with the assistant in tow like a good little servant, too." He turned his attention to Glenda, obvious disappointment, if not outright anger, flashing in his eyes.

"Oh, August," Glenda pouted. "You didn't wear my outfit!"

August smiled coldly. "No, I'm sorry. The look just wasn't working for me."

Anton flicked his fingers at Glenda, silently insisting she move chairs, tapping it when she'd vacated it. "Doren, sit with us. Have a drink. We have so much to talk about. What do you think of this crazy weather?"

Doren raised an eyebrow: rakishly handsome in his simple clothes, the most brilliant genius in the entire room, and for that one night at least, that moment anyway, his attention was all August's. "We've actually started a conversation already. Very important. Lots of …" he wiggled his fingers at August, struggling for a prompt.

"Details," August provided. "Lots of details. Nothing you'd be interested in, Anton, I'm sure." Where the smug attitude was coming from, August had no idea. But he liked it. He felt strong. He felt … safe. Doren's arm muscles rippled underneath August's fingertips as Doren turned and looked at him. The smile August found there was worth any repercussion Anton would care to throw his way.

"Exactly," Doren nodded. "Lots and lots of details. We should get back to it." Doren saluted Anton, bowed to the ladies, and August kept his eyes off the lot of them as they said their goodbyes.

Within an hour August knew he would never remember a fraction of the names he was told, nor even recognize half of the faces that smiled into his own. He did know, however, as Doren leaned close enough to smell, as August drew that smile again and again to Doren's face, and every time their fingers, hands or shoulders touched, that he would never, ever forget the night.

He lay on the mattress in silence, smiling. He'd talked August into his room and tossed August a pillow and blanket for the couch, not even broaching the idea that August crawl into bed beside him. Just so they didn't have to be alone, Doren had said, keeping the "just so the night doesn't have to end yet" to himself. But as August slept, Doren could not.

He wished he knew that if he crawled over to the couch and slid in beside August again that he'd be well received. As sweet as the thought was, with the afternoon's activities fresh in his mind, Doren knew he'd never try anything like that again. To sneak August's attention was nothing in comparison to having August want him. To have August respond, pant, groan for him … that was unfathomable. Nothing else would ever be enough again. He flipped on to his back and searched for August's sound; and there in the web-thick, confusing distance of one who slept, Doren caught the pulse, the charge of August's dream. He followed August's symphony, the chords of awkward chaos to the stumbling tempo of entertained interest, until it became a crescendo that was slick with excitement, hot with promise, and Doren barely needed to touch himself to find completion.

The sound of August's mind did it for him.

Odd, August thought, how quiet the night could be when one found themselves awake smack dab in the middle of it.

Something had found him, and nudged him out of the sumptuous depths of his subconscious. Which was a damn shame; his dreams had been filled with sparkling dance floors, deep blue eyes, and lips that felt like magic. August sought out the bed from his perch on the couch and saw it was empty—crumpled blankets tossed to one side, pillow lying in the middle of the mattress. He waited for his eyes to adjust and scanned the rest of the room, only noticing the flicking drapes in front of the balcony window when he'd confirmed with an edge of panic that the room was, indeed, quite void of Doren's body.

With a groan and a stretch, August sat up and grabbed a hoodie from the back of a dining room chair, slipping it over the tuxedo shirt he still wore. The room was cool—damp, dreary air billowing through the drapery. He shivered, but pulled the cloth aside to peer out at the night beyond. Doren leaned against the railing, one foot tucked between the rods, the other planted firmly and stretched out. It gave Doren a long and lean look, his muscles like cut marble underneath smooth skin that seemed oblivious to the cold. Streetlights cast dark shadows behind him, and the blackened shape had an almost demonic look: his low-slung shoulders sharpened into points and hooks; his lowered head, hair tousled from sleep, morphed into horns within his shadowed self. August's smile pulled into a frown, wisps of dreams meandering out from the depths of his psyche to try and paint incomprehensible messages with invisible ink. Something in August's belly told him to back up, to refuse to see. "Better yet," it whispered anxiously. "Run. Run away and never look back."

Just a play of the light, he thought, stupid mind games in a half-awake brain. As if on cue, as if it had waited for August to come to that conclusion, there was a break in the clouds—a small quick relief from the rain—and the moon drew out of the black to have a look at the Earth. In the time it took for the light to find the balcony, Doren's shadow shifted. From the horned demon rose a vision of wings that unfurled with the light, an opposing figure to its predecessor: angelic, powerful, and beautiful. Doren turned; illumination caught his face and the brilliance was almost breathtaking.

The sound that left August's throat was part shock, part awe, and the moment August uttered it, the moon fled, taking the vision with it.

"I woke you," Doren said, his voice all but lost to the sudden increase in rain. "I'm sorry."

August couldn't stop watching him.

Doren's brow creased in concern. "Are you all right?"

He nodded. Swallowed. "Just half asleep still, I guess."

Their gazes locked. "Ah, fuck, August." There was pain in Doren's tone and August was too out of it to figure out where it came from. "You're doing it again."

Another breath. Another swallow. "What am I do—"

Doren didn't answer. He leaned in and met August's mouth with his own.