Chapter Text
Mike cursed under his breath as he locked up his bike. How had he slept through his alarm?
Feeling his neck sweat under his dark blue shirt and plaid tie, he straightened up and checked the time on his phone. Damn it. Already 7:57. He still needed to wade through the crowd and locate the right elevator. If he didn’t hurry, he’d be late on his first day, and Carla did not seem like a forgiving sort of boss.
He sprinted as much as he was able, given the press of bodies, weaving in and out of the moving mass of well-dressed humanity. He found himself in the wrong elevator bay, backtracked and skidded around a corner to spot an elevator just sliding shut. He lunged for the “up” button, pressing it frantically.
Slowly, the doors paused and then reopened, revealing a tightly packed car. He could almost smell the Gucci and Tom Ford and Louis Vuitton wafting out. On another day, he might have waited for the next elevator, but he really didn’t want to be late, so with muttered excuse me’s and a couple of well-placed elbows, he sandwiched himself into the car, ignoring the annoyed glares sent his way.
Of course, the way his morning was going, the elevator stopped on nearly every single floor on the way up to forty-seven. Gradually, the crowd thinned out, until he was alone except for one man. Lawyer, declared the immaculate suit and arrogant stance. Hot as fuck, proclaimed the man’s solidly trim physique and darkly sardonic expression.
Hot-as-fuck had been texting religiously the whole ride up, not that Mike had been staring or anything, and Mike gave a nervous start when the man suddenly spoke. “First day?”
Mike’s heart sped up stupidly. “Uh. Yeah. Billing department. New guy here.” Did he really look that green?
“Christ, kid. Even the clerks in the mailroom dress nicer than you. You really should invest in some better clothes.” He looked up from his phone and gave Mike a wicked half-smile. “Might make you look like less of a rookie.”
Mike knew he was blushing. By now, even the waistband of his brand new khakis was damp with flop sweat.
With a welcome, blessed ding, the elevator announced their arrival at forty-seven. Mike made a move toward the door, but was body-blocked by Hot-as fuck, who beat him to it. Mike stepped out into the carpeted lobby half a step behind the other man. “My name’s Mike, by the way,” he muttered, perhaps a shade sarcastically.
“Don’t care,” H-A-F dismissed him, and disappeared around a corner.
“Oh my god,” said a breathless voice at Mike’s shoulder. “You met him. And he spoke to you.”
He turned to find his friend Lisa, the one who had helped him get the job, staring in the direction where the H-A-F jerk had gone, with both worship and horror writ plainly on her face. “Met? That’s debatable. And can I just say – ho-lee shit. Are they all like that?”
“More or less. The degree of assholianism varies, but they definitely all have it. I think it’s a required class at Harvard. That was Harvey Specter, by the way. Asshole of assholes and top of the food chain. Well, except for Jessica Pearson, of course, who isn’t an asshole, so much as an ageless, morally ambiguous devourer of souls.” A cheerful smile lit her pretty face. “Come on, Carla’s waiting for you.”
A brief department meeting of the billing staff was the first order of the day. Carla, Lisa, and three other women scrutinized Mike while they all sat in a loose circle in the middle of a jumble of desks and dividers and metal filing cabinets.
“This is Mike Ross,” said Carla, by way of introduction. She was a thin, dour-faced woman, probably in her forties, with a mouse-brown mullet and an outfit straight out of the Sister Wives catalog. “Mike is Gayle’s replacement. I’ve taken all of your requests and suggestions into account, and I don’t want to hear any complaining – at least not until you’ve given it a fair chance. Without further ado, here is the new list of billing assignments.”
She passed out a two page stapled document to each of the billing specialists. In response, the women made varying noises of satisfaction or disappointment. Mike had no basis yet to judge the desirable versus the undesirable attorneys, but he did notice that he’d been assigned Harvey Specter. Since he assumed he was getting stuck with everyone else’s rejects, this did not bode well for his new job.
Mike looked up from the list as Carla addressed him directly. “Lisa will get you set up at your desk and deliver you to HR for orientation. Be prepared to fill out more forms than you ever knew existed. This afternoon, you’re with me in my office. We’ll go over all the grammar, punctuation and spelling guidelines, I’ll introduce you to the time and billing system, and then we'll see what you can do.”
By the end of the day, Mike had begun to question his decision to go straight. While dealing for Trevor the last two years, the money had been phenomenal, the hours minimal, and he’d had plenty of free time to both visit Grammy and happily party his ass off. Grammy was gone, though, and during their last visit four months ago, she had urged him to find a better path for his life.
Lisa had been a loyal customer on his route, and over time they had become friends as well. When he confessed his intention to stop delivering drugs for Trevor, she’d told him about the opening in the Pearson Specter billing department.
“All you need is great grammar, the ability to spell above a text message level, attention to detail, and skill with numbers.”
He knew he had all of that, but what he didn’t have was experience. He couldn’t exactly include “pot dealer” on his resume, and how was he supposed to explain the past two years to a prospective employer? Lisa went far out on a limb for him, singing his praises to Carla. Trevor, who was sorry to see him go, but understanding of his need, provided him with a fake reference. Mike disliked starting out his new life with a lie, and he swore to himself that this would be the last one.
Compared to bicycling around the city making his deliveries and meeting new people, sitting at a desk in a cramped, windowless room, proofreading attorney and paralegal time entries while complying with all of the rules set out by Carla was dull – mind-numbingly, soul-shrinkingly dull. Carla had given him a whole laundry list, in the form of an eight page reference sheet, of all the firm’s guidelines for grammar and spelling. She’d spent a shocking amount of time expounding on the hyphenated versus the non-hyphenated spelling of the word e-mail. Or email. He still wasn’t entirely clear.
“There are different schools of thought,” she explained. “Myself? I’m pro-hyphen. After all, the ‘e’ replaces the word ‘electronic,’ and you wouldn’t compound electronic and mail into one word, would you? Well, would you?”
Mike rushed to assure her that he would not. Never. No way. No how.
“The tragedy,” Carla continued, “is that nearly half the attorneys in this firm have come down as firmly anti-hyphen. This was the one issue upon which the billing guidelines committee could not reach a consensus. In the end, it was left up to the individual billing attorney. It might seem confusing at first, but the girls should be able to fill you in on the preferences of your assigned attorneys.”
“Oh. That’s…reassuring?”
By five o’clock, Mike felt as if his eyes were on the verge of turning to sand and trickling out of their sockets, along with what was left of his brain. He was pretty sure that even smoking pot hadn't killed as many brain cells as one day of editing attorney bills had.
“Time to head out.”
He looked up to find Lisa standing in front of his desk with her coat on and her purse slung over her shoulder.
“Gee, already?” His voice dripped with sarcasm.
“No overtime allowed unless Carla pre-approves it.”
“No argument here. What should I do with all of…this?” With a sweep of his arm he indicated the piles of green paper blanketing his desk. Green, he’d learned today, was the color of draft bills, which the attorneys edited and returned. He suspected that by the end of the week he would be suffering from nightmares about being smothered in reams of green paper.
“Just leave it,” Lisa said. “It will all still be there in the morning.”
“Want to stop for a beer or something?” Mike asked her while he shut down his computer and retrieved his jacket and messenger bag from a hook by the door.
They walked together toward the elevator, the last two people to leave the department.
“Can’t,” she replied, grinning. “I’ve got a date tonight.”
The elevator arrived, and Mike groaned. “Shit. I forgot my helmet. Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Try to be on time,” she laughed, and disappeared behind the closing doors.
It took only a moment to trot back to the billing department, grab his helmet from under his desk, and return to the lobby. While he waited for another elevator to show up, he caught a glimpse of Harvey Specter striding past, looking as if he was on his way to an important meeting. He glanced up briefly from his phone. For a second, Mike imagined that the other man had snapped a photo of him, but decided he must have imagined it. If he recognized Mike from that morning, or even registered his existence, Mike couldn't have said.
The second day passed quickly. Mike gained confidence with the billing system, and he made it through a good-sized stack of draft bills. In some cases, there were no corrections to be made and he could print final bills to be returned to the billing attorney, or mail them out himself, with or without a cover letter provided by the attorney.
He spent the afternoon working on the enormous stack of Louis Litt's draft bills. Most of Litt’s time entries consisted of long, rambling narratives, which made it slow going. A scrawly red pen had supplied even more verbiage for Mike to add.
"Hey Lisa," he said, interrupting her foray onto Facebook to update her status. "Litt. Is he pro or anti hyphen?"
"Um. I dunno. He was Heidi's last. Ask her."
Heidi, Mike had already deduced, did not care for him. Whether it was because she didn't like men in general, or that she had picked up on the fact that he was gay and had issues with that, or she simply carried a generic grudge against anybody new in the department, he hadn't yet figured out. He got up and walked to her desk, sidling up to her cautiously.
"Hey, Heidi," he began, attempting to infuse his voice with a warmth he didn't feel, "does Louis Litt prefer hyphens? Or not?" Somewhere deep inside his rational brain he was laughing hysterically about the fact that he was even forced to ask such a thing.
Heidi barely glanced his way. He couldn’t see her computer screen, but she was typing away so frenetically that he suspected she was not engaged in actual work. Lisa had hinted that Heidi ran a blog dedicated to some movie star or another, and updated it constantly.
"Litt? Er, he hates them," Heidi finally allowed. "If he spots a single hyphenated e-mail on his final bills, you'll wind up on his shit list, and there you will remain, probably until the end of time."
"Ah. Okay. Got it. Thanks."
Armed with that information, Mike returned to his desk and powered his way through Litt's bills, reducing every one of hundreds of e-mails to emails. At five o'clock, he left with a clear desk, and a growing belief that yes, he could actually do this.
Halfway through the following morning, an enraged attorney barreled its way into the department and scanned the room, murder glinting in its eyes.
"Which one of you is Mike Ross?" it hissed dangerously, even though Mike was clearly the only male in the room.
Mike looked around, hoping to find some clue as to how to avoid the man's wrath, but everywhere he looked, he found all eyes studiously lowered. He slowly raised one hand. "Here."
The man stalked his way. He held a huge stack of final bills. When he moved close enough, Mike recognized the bills as the one's he'd completed yesterday for....
"Louis Litt?" he surmised.
"I don't know you. Who are you?" Louis stepped back and pointed at Mike, not looking at him. "Who is this? Where did he come from?"
Not wanting to cause a scene that would pull Carla out of her office, Mike surged to his feet and then immediately crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm new. My name is Mike, which you already know, and those are your bills."
Litt's gaze found Mike once more, and its intensity suggested that he suspected Mike of doing something as dastardly as throwing kittens in a wood chipper or....crap. Mike turned his head slowly and found Heidi hunched over her desk, biting her lower lip as she convulsed in silent laughter.
"It was the hyphens, wasn't it?" Mike guessed.
Litt narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to one side. "Did Harvey put you up to it?"
"What? No. It was a mistake. Rookie mistake. I can get those fixed for you real quick."
Mike reached for the bills, but Litt snatched them away, his expression one of horror.
"You expect to get another chance? Mike, as I'm sure you noticed, I have the highest billables in the firm. In. The. Firm. My bills were immaculate and you butchered them. You're a butcher. A bill butcherer. A...whatever. I should take these straight to your supervisor."
Out of the corner of his eye, Mike saw the door to Carla's office swing quietly closed.
"That's not necessary, Mr. Litt. If you like, I can let her know myself that you'd prefer a different biller." He didn't dare make eye contact with any of his co-workers. He reached for the bills again, and actually got his hands on them, but Litt pulled back, until they were engaged in a brief little tug of war. Litt won, and hugged the bills to his chest.
"'Oh mill,'" Litt wailed, making Mike jump in alarm, "'what hast thou ground?' Why must I be forced to suffer these slings and arrows of...of...."
"Outrageous fortune?" Mike ventured, voice tentative.
"Yes! Precisely." He seemed to examine Mike more closely. "You know The Bard?"
"Sure. Uh, ‘He who steals my purse steals trash’?"
"Exactly." He gave Mike a wide, half-crazed grin. "Oh my god. You get me." He recited, without taking a breath, '"But he that filches from me my good name robs me of that which not enriches him, and makes me poor indeed.' And that's what you tried to do Mike. You tried to filch my good name by robbing my bills of their rightful hyphens."
Mike nodded, as if any of that had made sense. "I see that now," he said solemnly. "I was wrong, and I'd like the chance to make things right."
"Yes," Litt said, "I think I believe you." He thrust the bills into Mike's arms, causing him to stagger back a little. "Welcome to the firm, Michael Ross. Go forth and hyphenate." With that, he whirled around and swept out of the department.
Mike finally let a disbelieving laugh escape him. "What in the hell was that?"
Lisa had started giggling, and was joined by the three other women. "Oh shit, Mike," she said breathlessly, "you have just been Litt Up."
"No way." He dropped the bills on his desk and gave them a hostile glare. "He's got his own catch phrase?"
Kendra guffawed. "He got his own damn mugs. Now that you’re back on his good side, you’ll probably get one as an apology gift."
"Wow. Did any of you ever...."
All four of them pulled open a desk drawer and help up their "Litt Up" mugs to show Mike.
"Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, every one of you," he muttered, and then set about the tedious task of restoring Litt's bills to their former hyphenated glory. With the remaining 99.9% of his brain still available, he plotted the hellfire he would rain down upon Heidi one day soon.
September came to an end, and Mike somehow managed to get his final bills printed and out the door. The beginning of the next month fell on a Friday. Because nothing else could be accomplished while the time and billing system compiled the month-end information, the process couldn’t begin until after hours. Ruthie normally stayed late to run the draft bills and pile them up on the other biller’s desks for distribution. On this Friday, Ruthie’s high school age daughter had a significant part in her school play, and Ruthie wanted to be there for the premiere. She begged and pleaded and wheedled and finally, when everyone else had turned her down flat, Mike gave in, because he could actually use the overtime, and he didn’t have any plans for the night besides pizza, beer and Netflix.
As it turned out, it was actually kind of pleasant and peaceful in the department after five o’clock. He wished he’d brought a book to read, but in between moving stacks of green paper from the printer to his co-worker’s desks and refilling the copier, he managed to amuse himself by going online and reading the news, checking his bank balance, researching how to set a non-harmful explosive charge in a desk drawer, and browsing the PC Gamer website.
The janitor came and went, the hall outside the department went dark, and just after nine o’clock the final run of bills began sifting onto the paper tray. Mike yawned and stretched, leaned back with his feet on his desk, and then whipped his head around when he caught movement in his peripheral vision. His feet thudded to the carpet.
Standing just inside the glass doors was Harvey Specter, looking every bit as handsome and arrogant as Mike remembered.
“Shit,” Mike said, and immediately wondered if he was even allowed to swear in front of a partner. “You nearly gave me a stroke, dude.”
Harvey favored him with a half smirk in response. “Sorry, dude.”
Irritated at the mockery, Mike stood and moved to the side of his desk to face the other man, leaning against the edge with his arms crossed over his chest. “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Specter? I’ve got your draft bills ready to go if….”
A look of exaggerated distaste contorted the lawyer’s features. “God, no. Give them to Donna on Monday.” At Mike’s blank stare, he elaborated, “My assistant. Donna. And please call me Harvey.”
“Oh-kay….” If he didn’t want his bills, Mike couldn’t fathom what he was doing showing his face inside the billing department. “So….” He spread his hands to his sides, shaking his head slowly, hoping to convey his puzzlement.
Instead of answering the implied question, Harvey strolled further into the room and took a seat in Mike’s chair, blatantly scrutinizing his computer monitor. “PC Gamer,huh? Benjamin’s going to love you.”
“Benjamin?” Feeling off balance, Mike grabbed Lisa’s chair, rolled it over in front of his desk, and sat, bringing them back to the same level.
“Really? He's the head of IT. How long have you been here?”
“Three w – ”
“Rhetorical question. What I’d really like the answer to is how a well-known drug dealer like yourself managed to wrangle a job at my law firm.”
Mike went cold and stopped breathing for a second. He knew in his bones that he was about to be fired, but he still couldn’t prevent the defensive explanation that sprang to his lips. “Well-known?” he scoffed. “That’s not accurate. I’ve been out of the business for a couple of months, and I’m not going back.”
“But you lied on your resume and application?”
Mike shrugged. If he was out the door tonight anyway, he couldn’t see the harm in being honest. He leaned back in the chair and placed his interlaced hands on top of his head. “Wanting to go straight and actually doing it turned out to be a…quandary. I had dozens of doors slammed in my face because I couldn’t provide any professional references. I heard about this job, the pay and benefits are decent, and I knew I could do it with one eye closed and both hands tied behind my back, so…yeah. I lied my ass off.”
Harvey stared at him for half a minute without speaking, and then seemed to shake himself. “Sorry. I got hung up on the image of you with your hands tied behind your back. Compelling stuff.”
So…flirting? Maybe there was hope for his job after all. Mike searched frantically for something flirtatious and cheeky and slightly off-color to lob back, but before he could assemble the perfect response, Harvey spoke again.
“Do you like poker?”
The question came out of left field and halted Mike’s thoughts right in their tracks. “Do I…poker?”
“It’s a yes or no question. Let me guess, though. You're good at the numbers and figuring the odds, but your bluffing sucks big time.”
Mike felt himself reddening, completely confirming Harvey’s guess. “Well, yes. That’s about right. And I’m not overly fond of the game, since it’s partly to blame for my expulsion from Columbia.”
“Expelled, huh? I did wonder. I guess that explains why someone who had a perfect score on their SAT’s fell into crime like you did. You know, I think I read somewhere that pot is a gateway drug to low level accounting work.”
Mike didn’t know whether to laugh or be offended. Who was this guy? Then it clicked, what Harvey had just said. “Hey. How did you know about my SAT scores? Did you have me checked out?”
“Considering what I’m going to propose to you tonight, it seemed like a good idea.”
Mike’s pulse picked up at what he imagined Harvey meant by that. Later, he would laugh himself silly at how wrong he had gotten it. In that moment, he smiled slowly and lowered his voice to a sexier register to ask, “Just what did you have in mind?”
The smile Harvey directed at him was both enigmatic and decidedly wicked. “If you really want to find out, finish up whatever you’re working on and meet me in my office. Get there before ten or I’ll be forced to fire you.”
“Hold up, that’s – ” He’d been about to say that it was sexual harassment, but Harvey interrupted him.
“That’s what happens to people with phony references. If you get to my office before ten, you’ll find out exactly what is required of you to avoid termination. If you're not interested, or at least curious, pack your shit and get out.”
He stood up and left, not looking behind him. Mike looked plenty. He stared a hole in the door through which Harvey had disappeared, alarmed and anxious and…oh yeah. How about that? He was half-hard at what he felt certain that Harvey was going to offer.
Harvey sat relaxed on his couch, sipping scotch, when Mike stepped into his office at five minutes until ten.
“Look who made it,” Harvey drawled. He eyed Mike up and down. “I notice that you ignored my advice about your wardrobe.”
Mike tugged at his collar self-consciously. “Did you ask me in here just to critique my fashion choices?”
“You’re telling me that’s a deliberate choice?”
“Mr. – ”
“Ah ah.”
“Fine. Harvey. First of all, as I’m sure you’re aware, my salary doesn’t exactly cover designer labels. What I’m wearing is completely billing department appropriate. And secondly, if this…if you….” He’d intended to ask flat out if Harvey planned on leveraging sexual favors from him, but lost his nerve in the presence of the other man’s knowing smirk.
“I can guess what you’re thinking, kid,” he said, and Mike believed him. “However, it’s a bit more complicated than that. Come on. Let’s go for a walk.” Still holding his glass of scotch, he stood up, grabbed his jacket, and led the way to the elevators.
Mike thought rapidly, striving to figure out what Harvey had in mind, and what he’d meant by “complicated.” When Harvey pushed the “up” button, Mike was even more confused. He opened his mouth to say as much, but Harvey touched his back – making him shiver, god damn it – and ushered him into the empty car.
“Mike, you are about to be let in on a well-guarded secret. I'm counting on you not to abuse this privilege. I hope I'm not making a mistake. Louis certainly thinks I am.”
“Wait. Did you say Louis, as in Louis Litt?”
“Don’t interrupt.” He pressed the button for the fifty-second floor. “If you agree to participate, there’s a non-disclosure agreement all made up, ready for your signature. If you don’t agree, like I said earlier, you’re gone tonight. Should you later attempt to divulge our little secret, I can assure you that you’ll only end up looking like a fool. Plus, there would be other consequences you would not like. Questions so far?”
Only a million of them, Mike thought, but shook his head and did his best to digest what he’d just learned. So far, it sounded hinky as hell, but he needed the job. When the elevator let them out on fifty-two, Mike looked around, even more perplexed. All he could see was a long hallway lined with closed doors. He followed Harvey down the hall and around a corner, stopping at a door labeled only with the number “5208.” Using a key he pulled from his pocket, Harvey unlocked the door and they went inside. The door clicked shut behind them.
A split second of disconcerting darkness gave way to bright light as the overhead fluorescent lighting came on automatically, illuminating a large space filled with rows of ceiling-high metal racks holding neatly labeled banker boxes. Harvey took off down one of the long, narrow rows, and after only a brief hesitation, Mike followed him, wondering if Harvey’s back, surrounded by dusty shelves, was the last view Mike would have before being murdered and ground up into the attorney equivalent of soylent green.
Nerve-wracking seconds followed with only the sound of their shoes scuffing against the cheap carpeting, and an occasional faint creaking, as if some years-old set of legal documents was shifting and settling. Finally, they reached the blank wall at the end of the row. Harvey took an immediate sharp left and walked past three more seemingly identical rows. He stopped moving so abruptly that Mike nearly plowed right into him. He peered around the older man to see that they had come to another wall, in which was set a metal door with no handle, and no lock that Mike could see. He was proved wrong when Harvey produced a key card and swiped it through a slot on the wall. The door slid open with a dramatic hiss, as if they were entering a pressurized space.
“Don’t freak out,” Harvey advised him, sounding amused. “Benjamin added that sound effect because, well, because he’s a little….”
“I’m a little what, Harvey?”
Mike jumped, startled, as he realized that they were no longer alone. The door slid closed behind him, this time emitting a sound he guessed was supposed to emulate a rapid burst of laser fire.
“That’s new,” observed Harvey.
“Paul complained about the demonic laughter,” said a small, dark-haired man -- presumably Benjamin -- seated at a round wooden table, along with (Mike did a rapid headcount) six other people.
Including Harvey, there were seven men and one woman, all staring back at Mike with interest – disconcertingly avid interest. A deck of cards sat in front of Louis Litt, and Mike remembered now that Harvey had mentioned something about poker earlier.
In stark contrast to the file room through which they had just passed, this space appeared well-maintained, luxurious even. A maple plank floor gleamed like honey underneath several richly decorated throw rugs. Wrought iron sconces spaced along the walls let out soft, low-wattage light. The primary light source for the poker table was an elegant stained glass chandelier which looked suspiciously like Tiffany. Eight decadently plush black leather chairs ringed the table, seven of them occupied at the moment.
Soft jazz played from invisible speakers. A corner at the back of the room held what looked like a kitchenette, complete with refrigerator, stove and microwave oven. In the opposite back corner, a small raised dais supported an ornate, upholstered armchair. Mike did the math in his head. Eight chairs at the table, plus one extra in the corner. Eight players, plus…him? Hinky, hinky, hinky, his mind chanted, but before he could articulate his concerns, Harvey spoke again.
“Don’t jump to too many conclusions, kid. First things first: introductions. I believe you’ve met Louis. And that is Benjamin.” He moved to the table, and as he introduced the remaining players, he walked Mike around the table, laying a hand on a shoulder here, and a chair back there.
“Vanessa Fletcher.”
A beautiful dark haired woman in a black tank top, mini skirt, and with legs up to her armpits, winked at Mike. “Actually, it’s Vanessa Wolfe this week.”
“My apologies,” Harvey said, with an amused eye roll. “I didn’t get the memo. Vanessa Wolfe, then, who prefers an alias.” He moved to stand behind the next chair. “Paul Porter, which is his real name, and which you may or may not recognize. Paul is a senior partner at the firm.”
Porter was a white-haired, bearded man in a tweed jacket, vest and bow tie, who looked as if he could be a college professor. He grunted, gave Mike a doubtful once-over, and sipped from a brandy snifter.
“Next, because every group needs its own resident a-hole, here is ours: Cameron Dennis.”
Mike kept his surprise to himself. He had heard the name, of course. Dennis was a former district attorney who had been forced to resign due to some scandal that Mike had never cared enough to pay attention to. It was on the tip of his tongue to comment that he thought Harvey was the resident a-hole, but managed to keep his stupid, blabbering mouth shut for once.
“Hello, Mike,” Cameron said with a smarmy grin. “Don’t pay any attention to Harvey. He’s still sulking because he couldn’t get me kicked out of the game two years ago. He’ll tell you it was because of our rocky personal history, but the truth is he hates losing to me, whether it’s in court or at cards.”
The only sign Harvey gave of his annoyance was a tightening in his jaw which Mike noticed because he was standing right beside him. “Keep it up,” Harvey purred, “and I’ll call for another vote. Are you so sure you’ll squeak through a second time?”
“Harvey,” Louis interrupted him, “enough already. You detest one another. We get it. Let’s move this along. It’s been a long week, and I’m ready to dominate you all.”
Half the table groaned at that.
“What? I’m feeling it tonight. It’s a kind of…mmm…and uh…and ahh….” He half-danced, half-shadowboxed in his chair and made weird little grunting noises, the entire performance filling Mike with alarm. “The mojo is strong tonight. I feel my mojo rising. Uh. Uh.”
“Jesus, Louis,” said an attractive blond man who had yet to be introduced, “keep your mojo under control or I’m leaving right now.” He turned his gaze to Mike and gave him a blinding smile. “Hi, Mike. I’m Tom Keller. I sure hope you decide to stick around, because your math scores are sexy as hell.”
“Um. My what, now?”
Harvey didn’t give Tom a chance to respond. They’d made it all the way around the table, and stood next to the final player. “This is the newest member of our group and our first legacy, Logan Sanders.”
“Nice to meet you,” Sanders said. He gave Mike a slow, filthy smile, accompanied with aggressive elevator eyes, and extended his hand for Mike to shake.
Mike knew he was staring, and maybe his mouth was open a little, because dark-haired, tall drink of water Logan Sanders was a prime specimen of manhood indeed. He placed his hand in Logan’s and gave it a shake, but felt nothing aside from the dampness of perspiration. Shame. “Nice to meet you too,” he remembered to say.
Harvey took the empty chair next to Logan’s, leaving Mike standing awkwardly on his own.
“All right, Mike,” Harvey began, “it’s pretty simple, really. This group convenes here at ten o'clock on the first Friday of every month. We play poker – dealer’s choice – for the next four hours. We play for money, but to make things more interesting, the overall winner of the night also takes home the jackpot.”
Mike glanced around the table, but found no clues forthcoming, so he asked, “Jackpot?”
“Haven’t you guessed yet? That would be you.”
Mike opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“I love this part,” he heard Louis whisper. “The shock and disbelief and confusion. It’s adorable.”
“Well, I think it’s just cruel,” said Vanessa. “So, just as I’m always forced to do, I’ll be the one to explain. Yes, Mike. You are the jackpot of the night, but we all have our own specific plans for you. In the spirit of full disclosure, we’ll now go around the table and – ”
“Briefly,” insisted Louis.
“Fine,” she said between clenched teeth. “We’ll go around the table and briefly tell you what will be expected of you if we win. I’ll start. As it happens, I’m a private investigator, and you will be assisting me in my work, sometimes as backup and sometimes going undercover yourself. How does that sound?”
“Er, wow. That sounds….” To his surprise, it actually sounded like fun. “I mean, sure. I could do that.” His eyes widened as something occurred to him. “Are you the one that did my background check?”
She smiled sweetly back at him. “Don’t let it bother you too much. I’ve seen much worse. But let’s keep this moving. Benjamin?”
The small man had been busy on his phone during the preceding conversation. Now he looked up, as alert and high-strung as a terrier. “You like gaming, Michael. No, don’t ask me how I know. Really, though, Diablo 3? You can do better. I’ll introduce you to worlds you never dreamed of. Don’t expect much sleep, if I win you. We’ll be going pretty much non-stop, all weekend.”
“Just so we’re clear,” Mike said, “that would be non-stop….”
“Gaming, Michael. Keep up. I’m going to open your eyes. Action, adventure, stealth, RPG, FPS, trivia, racing, simulations, and -- OMG, Michael -- MMOG’s. I mean, I’ve got my own team put together, but Harold is a bit of a weak link. If you pan out, I could slot you in – ”
“I think Mike gets it,” interrupted Harvey. “Is that enough to go on, kid?”
“Yeah. Sure. Absolutely.” Mike was beginning to suspect he’d fallen straight down the rabbit hole.
“Good. Let’s hear from Louis next.”
“Otherwise known as the deal breaker,” Benjamin muttered darkly.
“I heard that,” Louis said, “and I take exception. If – no, when – I win you, Mike, we’re going to do…things.”
Without realizing what he was doing, Mike took a step back from the table. “Things?”
“Spa days. Mudding. Racquetball. Brunch. And I get tickets to all the hottest shows. Operas, plays – Shakespeare, Mike! – the symphony and ballet. When I win, I'm going to make you my own little fairy princess.”
“Uh, no. Prince, maybe, and I think…I mean, wouldn’t that make you the fairy…godfather?” He heard Harvey trying unsuccessfully to stifle his laughter. “But, yeah, I could handle all of that." He'd ask later what, exactly, Louis meant by "mudding." "So far it all sounds doable. What else, though?”
Tom raised his hand. “I want you for your brain. I run a fantasy football website, and although there are computers and algorithms to crunch the numbers and statistics, I could really use a human touch to smooth out the rough edges. I have other not quite legal entertainments in mind, but I wouldn’t want to incriminate myself. We can discuss that later, if I actually win, which I have yet to do.”
Weird, but, “Fair enough,” he allowed. “Paul? I mean, Mr. Porter?”
“Eh, first names are fine. I want you for my wife.”
And there was the other shoe right there, clonking Mike on the head like an anvil. “I might have to object to that. I mean, no offense, but the age difference alone – not that it would automatically rule things out – but I’m not sure I could see my way – ”
Paul scowled. "No, you ninny, I don't want you to be my wife."
“Ohthankgod.”
“I’ll ignore the unflattering nature of your relief, because really, you should be so lucky. No, I’m referring to winning you for my wife, Bianca.”
“You want me to….?”
“Entertain her. Precisely.”
And there was the other, other shoe, shooting in from the side to bap him in the ear. “I don’t think…and truly, no offense…but I don’t…I’m not…I’m just wired that way.”
"You're gay.
"Exactly."
“No worries,” Benjamin interjected. “His wife’s got a strap-on.”
Mike gave a nervous laugh, but when no one else joined in, he realized that Benjamin was serious.
“You could do worse,” said Paul. “But actual sex is something you two will have to negotiate between yourselves. I can’t promise she’ll be gentle, but I guarantee she’ll be grateful. If you choose to keep it platonic, you'll have to find other ways to keep her occupied. I'm sure she'd find one of your seedy little gay clubs amusing. She adores karaoke. Anything to keep her happy while I spend time with my mistress.”
“He almost never wins,” Vanessa stage-whispered.
"Moving along," said Harvey, "let's hear next from Satan...I mean Cameron. What plans do you have to corrupt this innocent soul?"
Cameron directed a perfectly executed bitch face at Harvey. "First of all, that never gets old – oh wait, yes it does. Secondly, the boy's not so innocent, according to your own report."
That comment set alarm bells clanging inside Mike's head, and he gave Harvey an accusing look. "You ratted me out to the former DA?"
"Calm down. It was my turn to recruit our game's next jackpot, which means filling the group in on both your attributes and your flaws. Consequently, everyone at this table knows more about you than you possibly know yourself. And just like you will be, they are all bound by a strict non-disclosure agreement. Don't feel too bad. We've had our fair share of felons, petty criminals and overall train wrecks come through here over the years. By comparison, your flaws are relatively pedestrian. Your attributes, however...."
Harvey paused to give Mike a slow perusal, with an expression on his face which could only be termed lascivious. "...are exceptional," he finished, making Mike's knees go weak. He didn't elaborate, and didn't give Mike a chance to ask what he meant, as he turned back to Cameron. "So, lord of the realms of darkness, what nefarious designs to you have on young Mike?"
Pointedly ignoring Harvey, Cameron spoke directly to Mike. "Since I'm semi-retired -- "
"I wish," muttered Harvey.
"Ignore him. Like I said, poor loser. As I was saying, I'm semi-retired, and only doing a little consulting on the side."
"If by consulting you mean stirring up shit every other week."
"Harvey, fuck you -- "
"You guys," whined Louis, "you're strangling my mojo. Mojo delayed is mojo lost, and I can feel my mojo going flaccid."
"Ew," Tom got in.
Looking seriously put out now, Cameron groused, "If Harvey would let me finish....Got any more clever jabs? No? Awesome. Mike, I've taken up some hobbies in my newly freed up time, all designed to explore new avenues of self-expression. You'll assist and participate." He held up one hand, as if to ward off a question that hadn't been asked. "That's all I'm saying in front of these people."
Mike's eyebrows scrunched down in confusion. "That's kind of vague."
Cameron crossed his arms and shrugged.
Deciding to be blunt, Mike told him, "Just so you know, I'm not interested in having sex with you."
"Right back at you."
"Oh." He fidgeted, not sure what to say to that.
"We good?" asked Harvey.
"I guess so."
"And that," concluded Harvey, "leaves us with Logan."
Logan gave Mike a look that was equal parts smoldering sex god, obnoxious frat boy, and hard-nosed negotiator. "Unlike the rest of these weirdoes," he began, ignoring the sounds of protest that erupted around the table, "I want you in my bed."
“Ah. Um. Wow.” Mike gave Logan a shy smile, preening a little. “While that’s flattering – ”
“Hey,” said Cameron, “I’m pretty sure I should be insulted here.”
“ – I don’t know if I could agree to that. I think I’d have to get to know you a little first.”
“You want to be wooed?” Logan asked. “Seduced?” He shrugged, as if it made no difference to him one way or another. “Sure. I can do that.”
They all seemed to be waiting for Mike’s response. He honestly wasn’t sure how he felt about Logan’s…request?...demand? If he’d laid eyes on Logan in a club or a bar, he would have been all over that in a heartbeat. The overtones of coercion here, though, felt…strange. He was in the midst of trying to work out if those overtones were strange/bad or strange/good, when Harvey interrupted his thoughts.
“You’ve heard from everyone now. Time to make a decision. Are you in or are you out?”
Mike stared at Harvey in confusion. "Everyone? Um, no. You haven't said what you'd want me for." What you would use me for, he brain interpreted for him, and he ordered his brain to get a grip.
Harvey's smile was drenched in mischief. His eyes actually twinkled back at Mike, which was a pretty neat trick. "Didn't I mention that part? You can just consider me the wild card here. As the...procurer of the new jackpot, I'm exempt from the need to divulge my plans for you."
The way he lingered over the word "procurer" made it sound so dirty that Mike shivered at the implications. Ignoring the sudden, vivid images that flashed through his mind, he countered, "That hardly seems fair."
"You don't think so? Look, we're all gamblers here, kid. The eight of us at this table are gambling our money. It seems more than fair that you ante up as well, if not with cold hard cash, then with something less tangible, like your uncertainty and anxiety about how you'll be spending the weekend, and much of the rest of the month."
Jesus. So many shoes were dropping, Mike felt like he needed an industrial strength umbrella to avoid a concussion. "Wait a second. You never said anything about the rest of the month."
"Didn't I? Huh. Well, the weekend following the game is non-negotiable. You're the winner's property until Monday morning, unless they decide to release you sooner. If they want to continue on during the month, you should do your best to make yourself available."
That right there made Mike nervous. How much of his time was this craziness going to eat up? He still needed the job, though, and so far nothing any of them had cooked up for him sounded completely odious. But then there was Harvey to consider. What did he have in mind? He'd dropped several hints already that he might have designs on Mike similar to Logan's.
Bottom line? More than even Logan, Mike was attracted to Harvey. In a cerebral, objective way he could list all of Harvey's outward qualities that added up to Hot-as-Fuck -- the arithmetic on that hadn't changed since day one. But it wasn't just that. There existed something almost...chemical...that burned between them. Or was he just imagining it? Maybe Harvey turned that sizzle on everyone, with or without intending to.
He'd been quiet for too long, he realized. In truth, he'd already decided what his answer would be, and was only stalling at this point. He sucked in a deep, fortifying breath and announced, "I guess I'm in. Shuffle up and deal."