2016 Top Ten Gay Romance

Chapter 3-1

Chapter 3

Max didn’t talk to Owen about it on Monday. He kept himself busy, and since Owen was out a lot of the day in court, it wasn’t too hard to avoid him. By Tuesday afternoon, the strategy was working so well, they’d barely exchanged two words.

Tuesday afternoon. After the end of today, he’d have done five full days working here. A whole working week. Next step, a fortnight. After that, the nearly unchartered territory of a month. But could he stay working here with Owen going around being simultaneously gorgeous and unapproachable?

“Sagan,” Mr Bell said, coming out of his office, “we want coffee for two in the conference room, immediately.”

“Yes, sir.” Max jumped to it, heading for the little kitchen and putting the kettle on. In most of Max’s other jobs, making the coffee had involved a kettle, a mug, a teaspoon of instant coffee, and a splash of semi-skimmed.

Not here.

As the kettle boiled, he scooped freshly ground coffee into a French press. He arranged the best cups, saucers, and spoons on a tray. He put out some fancy biscuits—which he’d been told plainly by Mrs Barstow were for solicitors and clients only, not the likes of him. He added a jug of fresh cream and the bowl of sugar—making sure none of the sugar was clumped together thanks to inconsiderate people putting wet spoons in it. Clumped sugar was unacceptable to the senior partners, and packets of sugar looked “common,” according to Mrs Barstow.

The kettle clicked off, and he filled the French press. The amazing aroma of fresh coffee rose up. He placed the lid on carefully, picked up the tray, and headed for the conference room. The door was slightly ajar when he approached. He heard the voices of Mr Bell and Mr Pringle in there. He stopped by the door, trying to arrange things so he could hang onto the tray and knock, heard them speaking.

“Hart says we should take both of them on,” Mr Pringle said. “That there’s enough work for two.”

“Loves spending the firm’s money, doesn’t he?” Mr Bell replied. “Do we have to take either of them?”

“We do need one new solicitor.”

They were talking about Noah and Penny, Max realised. Both would be finished with their two years as trainees soon and would be fully qualified solicitors. He held his breath and listened for a moment longer, knowing he shouldn’t. They’d clam up as soon as he came in the room. But if he got at least a hint of good news he could pass on to Noah…

“We can take someone from outside,” Mr Bell said. “I know some good men who are about to qualify. I mean, what has it come to when we’ve got a poof telling us to take on both a skirt and a darky? My father would turn in his grave.”

Max gasped and froze.

“Political bloody correctness,” Pringle agreed.

For a moment, Max was locked in place, common sense warring with rage. Fury boiled and bubbled inside him, desperate to burst out. It was met by common sense, trying to hold the line, trying to tell fury Max needed this job and he needed to keep it buttoned and pretend he heard nothing.

He unfroze and shoved the door open, rudely, no knock. The two senior partners looked at him with surprise. He marched to the table and, for a second, he nearly scattered the tray of coffee things across it. But if he did, it would be Mrs Barstow clearing it up later, not either of these two complacent bastards. Instead, he slammed it hard, making everything on it rattle and jump. The solicitors stared.

“You want to know something about that ‘darky?’” he demanded, the word tasting as sour as bile in his mouth. “I’ve watched him work twice as hard as anybody else, at school, at university, and right here, to get not even half the respect. He’s still here at six and seven in the evening, when you’re home with your feet up. He grabs a sandwich and takes fifteen minutes for lunch, while you’re gone for two hours, guzzling, drinking, and sucking up to your cronies.”

Their faces were frozen masks of shock. Max’s raised voice brought Mrs Barstow to the door, and she stood there, staring at him.

“And everything I said goes the same for Penny.” He took a breath. He hadn’t known her at school and university, but he’d bet it was exactly the same. Running twice as fast as anyone else to stay in the same place. “You’d be lucky to have either of them work for you, never mind both. And you don’t deserve either. Or Mr Hart, because he works twice as hard as either of you two.”

That wasn’t Max’s infatuation talking. Owen didn’t take two-hour lunches. He was often here late, too. He went home carrying case files. And he was the one doing Penny and Noah’s training on top of the rest of his work.

“You’re sacked!” Pringle finally managed to gasp out.

“Good. You and Mr Bellend can pour your own damn coffee.”

He grabbed a fancy, solicitors-only, biscuit from the tray—they’d spilled off the plate—bit it, and spun on his heel to march out. Mrs Barstow hastily cleared the doorway, and he steamed past her.

“Draw up his P45,” Bell shouted to her as Max marched across the office.

Penny appeared at the door of the library, staring and wondering what was going on. As Max approached the exit, the door opened. Owen and Noah came in, talking, but then struck into silence by the sight of Max barrelling for the door and the yelling coming from elsewhere.

“Max?” Noah said.

But Max was in no mood to chat. “See you at home,” he said and swept past and out of the door. He didn’t have the patience to wait even five seconds for the lift, so slammed back the door to the emergency stairwell and headed down. His feet clattered on the concrete steps.

Above him, someone called his name, but it was difficult to tell who in the echoing stairwell. He ignored it, went on, crossed the building’s lobby, and hit the street. He sucked in a big breath in the cold air, feeling as if it was the first time he’d breathed since he left the conference room.

Well, done, Max. Didn’t even manage the week.