Rich Man

I was haunted, haunted by the simple revelation that maybe I did have an existing conscience and it was tired of hiding somewhere in the back of my head. It was tired of being excluded from all of my words and actions. Now it was beginning to show through at the worst possible time.

That could have jeopardized my entire plan.

“Damn,” I cursed under my breath and wrote another few lines in my client journal. Ever since the previous night there had been about three pages in addition to what five I already had, setting this assignment for a record. Usually I’d have about twenty pages by the time everything was all said and done, but that would be over the course of months. It had been what, maybe three weeks since this all started and already I had eight, boarder lining nine.

New plan. God, I was stupid. I should have never did any of that… The look on his face of mystified shock as I pressed my fingers to his forehead made me want to punch myself in the stomach. Why, why was I stupid enough to do that? Okay, so he smells good, big whoop. But I knew all too well the answer to that question. He reminded me of the days when I didn’t have to worry about tomorrow. The way his skin felt on mine made me feel like I was on perpetual high. It was an anomaly I never thought I’d experience because my conscience was pretty much nonexistent. Now that the previous night had happened, I knew I had a conscience. Of that, I was terrified because now my heart had a say in this whole thing.

Trust me, manipulating people and morals don’t go hand in hand.

At least I was right and now they’re going to be closer, I thought to myself and put down my pen. I gazed thoughtfully at the wall in front of me, so plain and simple. I wish that was my life: Boring and easy to keep track of.

“Knock knock.”

Fuckin' eh, man.

As relaxed as possible, I shut the journal and locked the thing, throwing it into my Gucci tote. “Come in!”

Avery then pranced in, all giggly and whatnot, with this knowing smile and comical wideness to her eyes. “Guess who had to take a cold shower last night after he walked out of you room?” she practically screamed.

I fell out of my chair.

“Wow, are you okay? I was kidding, I swear!”

“What do you need?” My voice was rather quiet, probably from lack of speech thus far in the day. It was noon already and I hadn’t spoken to a soul besides whispering to myself under the protection of my music.

“There’s a charity thing going on that all of the guys and their girlfriendfriends have to attend. There happens to be four dudes in this group and two regular girls. Thought you should come and help out? Please?” Avery asked this hopefully.

I simply grinned. “Yeah, sure.”

-

“So exactly what are we doing?” I inquired as we approached a bustling sports bar.

Meanwhile Avery beside me was pulling on a black long sleeve t-shirt with a massive forty-eight on the back in gold numbering. On the front was the simple Bruins “B”. I noticed Lex pull on one of her own with Blake’s number present in the same style. That, of course, got me thinking. Of course, they beat me to the punch. I was handed a shirt with a thirty seven on the back that was a tight fit, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.

Well, shit. I think Milan has a seven in his number, so I should be alright. Just… Keep cool and act like everything is freakin’ fine. And if Bergeron tries anything… I guess act like the other night never happened and be civil as possible if you have to talk to him… I guess.

How’s that for a strong state of mind?

To be honest, walking into that bar in a mass of women was not my idea of a really fun afternoon. The vicinity was nice, I’ll hand it to ‘em, but it was still a bar and nothing more. We waltzed into the place and were immediately handed gold half aprons with the bruins logo on them and Bruins shot glasses to match. Apparently each shot glass was complete with a raffle ticket for a new car and the promise of alcohol that we’d be pouring. Lovely.

We would of course be waiting on the table that was home to the boy that matched the number on the back of our shirts. I didn’t see a big complication in this. Until I saw a girl with a seventeen on the back of her shirt handing Milan his beer.

Oh god, please tell me this belongs to Ryder or Begin.

The longer I stood with my single shot glass, watching women find their men at a table, the more I came to realize that I was, indeed, wearing his number. And that realization brought about a tinge of fear in me that I nearly punched myself over feeling.

Do I look okay?

…

Oh my god.

It was bad enough that for the first time in maybe a two years I was feeling self conscious, but it was because of him. He made me feel like a god damned highschooler. He made my heart wake up and have an effect on my thoughts. It was because of that man that I was uncharacteristically scared.

The worst part of all was that it was, in a sick way, nervous excitement.

It was almost as if I was setting eyes on him for the first time again as I approached his table. A man in a very nice designer t-shirt and jeans was seated across from him, sipping his beer with a bruins baseball cap on his messy head. Bergeron sat across from him with an identical smile, genuine interest overtaking his relaxed, lazy features. There was something unbelievably refreshed about him, yet mysterious as though even if he did tell you his whole life story, you would still feel like there was more to know. He could tell you anything and you would fall to putty in his hands, believing everything he said just because of that crooked smile of his.

I set my sights on my goals and forced out every ounce of emotion that I could possibly squeeze from my mind. It didn’t take a lot of effort. After all, I had lived for years without really displaying what was in my head. There was no reason to start now, even if I was a little scared. I just continuously told myself that this odd feeling would pass, that I was just making myself more vulnerable to defeat by succumbing to those deep, dark eyes of his and the perfectly subtle way his mouth curved into a twisted smile.

“Hey, boys,” I greeted with a sickeningly pleasant smile, avoiding eye contact with the boy whose number currently smothered my back. “Can I get you anything?”

“Wow, Bergeron, this is your friend? You definitely didn’t do her justice,” the other man blurted out upon seeing me. His hand jutted out impulsively for a shake. “You have that really unique name. Roark, right?”

“You can call me Ray,” I replied in an unusually shy tone and shook his hand. He was a handsome slightly older fellow, maybe in his late twenties at most. His piercing bright nearly gold eyes scanned my face in approval.

Bergeron cleared his throat.

I nearly laughed at loud.

If he’s seriously jealous right now, I’m going to have a laughing fit. We’re not even like clear with each other. Seriously.

“I’m just getting a house burger,” interjected Patrice. I eyed him hesitantly, finding it difficult to formulate a single word for a response. His eyes were flaming right about now with every possible question and urgent emotion I could think of. It was almost too much for me to take him if I wanted to read him.

-

“He kis-“

“Shut up!”

Lex lowered her voice, hand muffling her mouth to hold back a guffaw of what appeared to be glee. “He fucking kissed you?! Oh my god! Are you guys like together now?!”

I frantically shook my head at this. “No, no… He did that out of… Anger. It was all sexual aggression.”

She snorted. “Well why don’t you bang him? You said it yourself: You kissed back.”

Fuck, she actually takes the romantic affairs of her close friend this lightly? Well shit, what am I doing here in the first place if she doesn’t even care? “To be fair, I didn’t say I kissed back. I just said I sort of went with it without being obvious.”

“Yeah, without being obvious that you want on him. Face it, Roark, no matter how much you hate it, you’re attracted to him. I don’t get why you can’t just go with it for awhile.”

“Yeah, actually, you can. Think about it Lex. He becomes a direct tie to the group. He makes me leaving extremely difficult when all of this is said and done.”

“Well why do you have to leave if you guys are all happily ever after?” she asked this almost with a childish sense of hope.

“I just know it won’t work, okay? There’s no such thing as happily ever after. Not for me and my job, anyway. I can’t have emotional baggage. It just doesn’t work.”

Her name was called to take an order, thankfully ending our discussion. She didn’t reply to me, either, and instead ran her hand over my back in small circles for a moment. Her eyes didn’t dare meet mine, fixated on the floor beneath us. “If you ever need to talk about anything… You know… Let off some bad memory steam. I’m always here for you. So is Avery and Milan and even Matt’s a good listener. You can talk to any of us, really…”

“Thanks,” I whispered with a neutral smile. “But I think I’ll stick to doing what I do best.”

-

We need to talk. My room. Now.

Those words are never good. Ever. In any possible context, they can’t mean something nice is going to happen that induces smiles. Oh, no, “we need to talk” always has to mean that something bad is either going to happen or already did, hence my hesitance in getting off the couch from my warm bed. The thing that got me was that the text was from Blake, so really I was kind of stunned he’d even need to talk to me. I mean, we weren’t even close.

Yet.

As I rounded the corner and opened his bedroom door, however, I realized that Blake’s phone was the only part of him that was even conscious something was going on. I didn’t dare take another step into the room. I simply closed the door softly at my back and leaned against it, cautiously eyeing Bergeron, who was standing on the opposite end of the room, directly across from me. Those eyes of his, intense and strong, fixed themselves on my face and refused to let me look any place else but there. I was helpless under his gaze.

And he knew it.

“So what, are we going to have another battle of word and wit?” I questioned calmly, struggling to keep the hairs on the back of my neck down as he replied.

“What the hell happened last night?”

“You tell me.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but closed his eyes and angled his head downward toward the floor. I took that time to relax myself as much as possible and study his posture, body language, key into his breathing pattern, and take in all that I could about him. However, my thoughts were obstructed by the current picture in front of me. A guilty man reduced to a guilty child, trying to apologize but unable to find the words.

His eyes flickered back up to mine. “I was jealous of him,” he whispered so quietly that I had a hard time hearing him.

I took a few steps closer out of a gravitational pull I could describe as nothing other than curiosity fused with genuine concern. My heartbeat had never been so prominent in what I thought was my hollow chest. My hands were shaking. My breath was getting shallow in my throat. This was wrong, this was all wrong, and yet no matter how hard I tried, I simply couldn’t look away from him.

The boy peered up at me now, unmoved by the fact that I was in the middle of the room now, standing tense and cautious. He moved from his spot, obviously antsy, and paced around the room a few times around me. “I mean, do I have to break my neck to impress you? It’s never been this hard… I… Goddamn, I don’t even know what to say to you,” he half shouted in his frustration and stopped just to my right.

I turned to face him now, expression as strong as I could get it. “It’s not about impressing me. This was never a game, either-“

“Then what is it? Why did you look at me like that last night after humiliating me?! Why did you dismiss me with,” he sputtered, “false hope?” He was struggling to get his words out now, fighting with himself to keep his frustration within his body and mind. However, Patrice Bergeron was not the type to bottle it up or to disregard his emotions. He had never had to before. This was all new to him and the feelings he was experiencing now were unlike any frustrations he had ever encountered before. How should he deal with me? How should he speak? What does he say to someone with the upper hand?

“So you are attracted to me,” I replied in a hushed voice, swallowing hard. My mind was practically gone now, mush in the wake of his questions and words.

“God, for someone so unbearably smart, you sure are an idiot,” he growled, and pulled me into him yet again. Only this time, the angry force was gone and replaced with aggression from the heart, not his brute strength. I wasn’t gathered in his arms, I was simply held in place, at the hips, staring up at him with dumb struck wide eyes, praying that maybe someone somewhere would have mercy on my confused, twisted soul.

It’s not supposed to happen this fast.

His mouth slowly shut, eyes dancing over my face, unsure and without regret.

It’s not supposed to happen like this.

He leaned down, forehead making contact with mine and just sitting there. My eyes shut on impact, squeezing together as if to wish me away to where none of this was happening; to where I didn’t want any of this to happen. But I knew my heart was taking over. I knew that this was a battle I wouldn’t be able to win.

I knew that I was breaking one of my sacred rules.

His scent completely hit me as my palms rested flat on his chest. His hand came up and pulled my view to his unrelenting eyes, overflowing with the frustration now radiating into my body. He hated that I couldn’t acknowledge that part of my heart, my soul, where I knew there was an attraction there. He hated the fact that I couldn’t just admit that I wanted him, even if it was just physical. He wouldn’t have cared. He wanted me to come out with it and now he was commandingly holding my gaze with the hopes that I would budge.

It’s so wrong that I can feel this way.

I couldn’t look away. For the life of me, I couldn’t escape his physically powerful arms or the width of his chest pushing, flexing against me. I didn’t even try to get away because I knew and so did he, that pushing away and leaving him then without a good reason would have been the end of both of us. It was undeniable, the chemistry we were experiencing.

I didn’t want it to stop.

However, I knew the consequences of my actions. Should I choose to let my guard down, to give him the power to hurt me and ruin this entire assignment, I would be left with nothing and in order to sustain my lifestyle, every single assignment and contract I signed meant everything. It could be weeks until I found another client. I couldn’t afford to screw this one up.

“I-I,” it was practically inaudible as my mindset switched. It finally switched on. That side of me when I needed it the most, my inner heartless businessman, perhaps, came out in one simple sentence as I pushed away from him and covered my mouth in a shock of my own. It wasn’t clear if I was telling him that I wanted him too, nor was it clear that I was turning him down. However, one thing was clear:

“You are my weakness.”