Chapter Four - Secret Crush
Mike examined the fern guarding the door to the elevator like an extra from an alien-themed movie, something about overgrown biota taking over some distant planet. He could take the stairs, but it was just something about elevators he liked. The idea that he was, for several seconds, in the hands of a machine, pleased him and tickled his inner nerd. He felt the same thing about high-speed trains, but he wasn't that much of a traveler to enjoy such joyrides. So, for the moment, the elevator trips he took to the basement of the building where the servers were, aka his workplace, had to do.
A few co-workers joined him. Well, maybe that wasn't the right term to use. Mike didn't mingle, and he was a loner by definition. No one cared about the guy in washed-out jeans and dark t-shirts operating the machines that practically kept the whole place from falling apart.
It was okay. Mike liked to be in charge of so much power and responsibility, even if he got no gratitude for his day by day work. Whenever there were troubles with the hardware, he was the man. No bit of information was lost, due to his careful backup strategy, and the company living and breathing above cared naught about the small disasters averted every day by the faithful employee operating in its bowels.
"Have you seen our new boss?" one of the female co-workers waiting for the other elevator chirped happily.
"He is absolutely dreamy. Finally, we have someone younger to run the company. Mr. Armstrong was supposed to retire eons ago."
"Well, at least they don't have to change the name on the door," another said. "Our new boss is Mr. Armstrong's nephew and carries the same name. So we practically have a prince inheriting the royal throne."
"It must be nice not to have to climb the ladder. You know, have everything handed to you on a silver platter."
"How old is he, anyway?"
"Thirty-two, I heard."
"That's nice. Not too young, but not too old. Just as I like them." The woman laughed.
"With our luck, he's married."
"Lena from HR told me she didn't see a ring."
"Then we really have a chance, girlfriends. May the best of us win."
"It's not only us; you realize that, don't you?"
"I haven't seen him yet." A third intervened in the conversation. "How does he look like?"
"Oh, he's tall and dark," the first said dreamily. "Ivy League crew cut hair, all buttoned up ... you know, that kind of guy."
"Oh, nice."
"And he dresses like he's out of a fashion catalog. Business professional, not casual."
"You girls are missing the point. Does he have a girlfriend?"
"Unknown at this point."
"Maybe he's gay," the third one said.
"Shut up!" The other two turned toward her.
Mike pretended to focus on the numbers blinking slowly as his elevator was finally coming down.
"Hey, you're Mack, right?" One of the women talked to him.
"Mike," he corrected her.
She offered him a forced smile. "Have you seen our new boss? Could you tell whether, you know, he's batting for your team?"
Some people at work knew of his orientation, not that he was waving the rainbow flag or anything. Apparently, turning down a couple of female co-workers and being honest about the reason had been at the root of that. He didn't mind, so he replied as direct as possible. "I haven't seen him, and I couldn't tell, anyway," he offered in the most apologetic tone he could muster.
A collective disappointed sigh from all three women was the immediate reaction.
"Is your gaydar broken?" One ventured to ask.
"I don't think I have one of those," Mike replied, shifting from one foot to another.
Good, his elevator was there. Mumbling an excuse, he hurried inside. That had been enough awkward conversation for the entire week. He doubted he could be some woman's best gay friend for now or something. Like he felt toward many guys, he was intimidated by women, too.
***
Jared and Adrian were both too tired to go out for a drink on Monday evening, so Mike was heading for one on his own in a pub close to his workplace, where he had never set foot before. It had been all Jared's idea, encouraging him to go out a little and try to mingle with other people. For starters, he had decided on something neutral, not a gay bar or club, as usual when hanging out with his best friends.
He intended to go there, stay for a drink, and then head back home. That had to count as mingling, and even Jared had to admit that it was enough for a first attempt.
Mike pushed open the glass door, and the flurry of conversation was the first thing to meet him. It was the type of place where young corporate employees chose to hang out, mainly because it was close to the cluster of buildings where most of them worked.
Maybe it was too brightly lit and too open, Mike thought and was about to turn on his heels when newcomers pushed him inside from behind. Now he had no choice but to head over to the bar, climb on a stool, and order something simple.
Everything looked squeaky clean, and that gave the place a bit of an artificial air. Not that Mike liked uncleanliness or anything, but it felt like the smallest human imprint had been wiped with sanitizing alcohol.
Mike grabbed a stool and sat upright, placing his elbows on the shiny bar, but then reconsidering. As usual, he appeared to be invisible to the bartender who was busy serving a band of slightly tipsy young interns.
"Do you come here often?" From his right, he heard a voice with a slight pleasant lilt.
Maybe the guy wasn't talking to him, but it would have been impolite not to look. Mike turned on his stool and came face to face with a pair of amused black eyes. His breath caught in his chest.
"I'm terribly sorry about my accent. It's both a blessing and a curse. People often don't understand me, although they say they like it. Should I repeat the question? It's not just an ice breaker. I would really like to know the answer."
Mike stared at the stranger for a couple of seconds. He was pretty sure people had trouble understanding the man simply because he was too gorgeous. The plaid shirt was open two buttons, and the stranger seemed relaxed and at ease. The rolled-up sleeves showed muscular forearms, and Mike lost a couple of more seconds admiring the bony wrists and large hands that, although not particularly callous, seemed to belong to someone working construction or something that involved a lot of physical activity. Unlike him, the stranger had had better luck with the bartender, and there was a snifter half-filled with whiskey in front of him. Neat, Mike thought and remembered something about what Adrian had once told him about the right way to have whiskey. The stranger knew his stuff; no whiskey on the rocks for him.
