Chapter 1: Towel-Snapped Into Submission
Steam still curled from the bathroom door as Tom shuffled into his bedroom, towel slung low on his hips. The familiar scent of his pine-scented shower gel mingled with the damp, clean smell of his skin. He rubbed another towel vigorously over his wet hair, the rough cotton catching on his ears. A Miles Davis trumpet solo, soft and melancholic, drifted from the old speaker on his dresser. Peace. Routine. The comforting predictability of a Tuesday night.
He dropped the hair towel onto the rumpled duvet, reaching for the worn flannel pajama bottoms folded neatly on the pillow. The bedside lamp cast a warm, low pool of light, deepening the shadows in the corners and along the hallway leading to the living room. The only other sound was the persistent, soft tick-tock of the walnut-cased clock on the nightstand.
His fingers brushed the flannel. Then, the air behind him shifted.
Not a sound, not a breath. Just a sudden, chilling displacement of the humid air, the faintest scent of engine oil and stale sweat cutting through the pine. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck prickled a fraction of a second before the arm snaked around his waist.
It wasn’t an embrace. It was an iron bar, impossibly thick and hard, crushing the breath from his lungs in a whoosh. His bare feet left the carpet. He was yanked backward off-balance, spinning slightly, slammed flush against a wall of solid muscle and heat. A gasp tore from his throat, instantly stifled by the sheer pressure against his ribs.
"Wha—?" The syllable died, choked off. Panic exploded, white-hot and blinding.
The arm around his waist pinned his own arms uselessly to his sides. The sheer mass behind him – it felt less like a man and more like being pressed against a moving dump truck. He smelled leather, that pungent oil, and something sharp, medicinal underneath.
Before he could even think to struggle, to scream, a thick, damp cloth clamped over his nose and mouth with terrifying precision. It wasn't held gently. It was slammed there, a suffocating seal.
The smell hit him like a physical blow – sickly sweet, cloying, chemical. Chloroform. The knowledge flashed through his terror, useless and terrifying.
He bucked. He kicked wildly, bare heels connecting with shins like kicking concrete. He threw his head back, trying to dislodge the cloth, but only succeeded in cracking his skull against a jawbone harder than granite. Pain sparked behind his eyes.
The arm tightened. Agony flared in his ribs. Stars danced at the edges of his vision, mixing with the panic. He couldn’t draw breath. The cloth pressed harder. He tried to twist his face away, frantic, desperate gulps sucking in nothing but the thick, sweet poison.
"Easy," a voice rumbled in his ear. Low. Calm. Dispassionate. Like stone grinding against stone. The sound vibrated through the massive chest pressed against his back. "Why don’t we get nice and comfortable, this might take a while”
The sound vibrated through the massive chest pressed against his back. "Why don’t we get nice and comfortable, this might take a while?”
Brick moved. Not fast, but inexorable. He pivoted, dragging Tom sideways towards the bed. Bare feet scrabbled uselessly against the carpet, finding no purchase. Tom’s muffled shrieks turned into desperate, high-pitched whimpers behind the soaked rag. The chemical sweetness flooded his sinuses, thick and cloying, making his eyes water. He could feel the roughness of the burlap, smell the cheap detergent mixed with the nauseating chemical tang.
His vision swam. The bedside lamp’s glow pulsed, haloed. The Miles Davis solo warped, the trumpet notes stretching into distorted, mournful wails that matched the terror clawing up his throat. He bucked again, a final surge of adrenaline-fueled panic, throwing his weight back against the immovable wall of muscle. It was like slamming into a brick building. Pain lanced up his spine. Brick didn’t grunt, didn’t shift an inch. His grip, that crushing band of iron around Tom’s ribs and waist, only tightened further. Tom felt a rib creak, a sharp, sickening pressure that stole what little breath he had left.
Tom could feel every contour of the body holding him captive. The hard swell of pectorals pressed into his shoulder blades. The ridged expanse of Brick’s abdomen against the small of his back. The thick column of his thigh braced behind Tom’s legs. It was a suffocating, intimate cage of pure, terrifying strength. Brick shifted his weight slightly, grinding his hips forward, pressing Tom harder against him, letting Tom feel the undeniable, disturbing proof of his arousal through the thin towel. The deliberate, slow friction was obscene.
The deliberate, slow friction was obscene. Tom’s muffled cries dissolved into ragged, wet gasps behind the suffocating rag. The chloroform’s cloying sweetness filled his head, thick as syrup, making the room tilt and the lamplight smear into a pulsing, dying star. His struggles weakened, muscles turning to water, limbs leaden and uncoordinated. The crushing pressure against his ribs felt permanent, an immutable fact of his existence now.
Brick shifted his weight, grinding harder for a sickening second, letting Tom feel the full, terrifying scale of his arousal. Then, with terrifying ease, he adjusted his grip. One massive hand remained clamped over the rag, while the other slid lower, fingers splaying possessively over Tom’s hip bone, digging in. The thin towel felt like tissue paper against that strength.
"Shhh," the rumble vibrated through Tom’s back, resonating in his own hollow chest. Brick’s breath was hot and damp against the shell of Tom’s ear, smelling faintly of stale coffee. "Fightin' just makes it… deeper. Breathe it in. Nice and slow. Feels good, yeah? Takes the edge off." His voice was low, conversational, chillingly calm amidst the violence. "Just relax into it. Let it happen."
Tom’s vision tunneled. The ticking clock faded, replaced by the frantic thudding of his own heart against Brick’s unyielding chest. Miles Davis was a distant, discordant echo. He felt the world shrinking, pulling away, leaving only the heat and smell of the man crushing him, the relentless pressure of the cloth, the terrifying intimacy of that grinding hardness. He couldn’t scream anymore. Couldn’t even whimper. His legs buckled completely, only Brick’s iron hold keeping him upright.
Brick chuckled, a low, gravelly sound that held no humor. "There we go. Easy now." He began walking them slowly backward. Tom’s bare feet dragged limply over the carpet, toes scraping uselessly. Each step sent fresh jolts of panic through his fading consciousness. They were heading towards the bed. The thought pierced the chemical fog like a shard of ice.
He managed a feeble twist of his head, catching a blurred glimpse of the bedside lamp, the neatly folded pajamas still waiting. His refuge, his sanctuary, about to become something else entirely.
Brick stopped beside the bed. He gave Tom a little shake, as if testing his responsiveness. Tom’s head lolled. His eyelids felt weighted, the edges of his sight swimming with dark, oily swirls. The chloroform wasn't just sapping his strength; it was dissolving his thoughts, turning terror into a thick, distant sludge.
"Maybe…" Brick murmured, his lips brushing Tom’s ear again. The contact sent a fresh wave of revulsion through Tom’s core. "Maybe the bed might be the best spot to continue the fun." The word ‘fun’ landed like a physical blow, heavy with unspeakable promise.
With a grunt of effort that seemed more for show than necessity, Brick hoisted Tom slightly higher against him. Then, as casually as a man kicking off work boots after a long day, Brick planted one massive foot, then the other, and shoved off his heavy, scuffed work boots. They landed with solid thuds on the carpet. He turned his feet, revealing thick ankles and, beneath frayed denim hems, socks. White athletic socks, once pristine, now greyed and stained with grime at the heel and ball, smelling faintly of sweat and concrete even through the chemical haze assaulting Tom’s senses. The mundane detail was somehow profoundly disturbing.
"Much better," Brick sighed, flexing his socked toes into the carpet. He shifted his grip on Tom, one hand still covering the rag – though the pressure eased slightly as Tom’s resistance crumbled – the other sliding firmly around Tom’s chest, fingers splayed over his sternum in a mockery of an embrace. Brick leaned in, his voice dropping to a hoarse, intimate whisper directly into Tom’s ear, cutting through the muffled roar in his head. "Don't you worry your pretty little head. Gonna make sure you feel every second. Nice and slow. Let’s lie down and get comfortable.”
Brick’s rumble vibrated deep in his chest, pressed tight against Tom’s spine. "Let’s lie down and get comfortable.”
The command, casual and horrifying, cut through the thick syrup filling Tom’s brain. Bed. The word sparked a final, desperate surge of adrenaline. Not the bed. Not there. The chloroform rag was still a sickly-sweet suffocation over his nose and mouth, but Brick’s grip on it had loosened slightly as he prepared to move. Tom saw his chance. Not with his pinned arms, useless at his sides. But his head. He jerked it sideways, a frantic, spastic movement fueled by pure terror, trying to knock the leather-clad hand away from his face. His temple scraped rough leather, but the hand barely budged. It was like hitting oak.
Above him, Brick chuckled again. Low. Darkly amused. Tom caught the shift in the air, the subtle flex of the arm holding him, and risked a blurred upward glance.
Brick was looking down at him, his face a shadowed cliff in the dim lamplight. And there it was – not a smile, not a leer, but a mischievous grin. Like a kid delighted by a stubborn toy. It transformed the menace into something infinitely colder, more predatory. The grin widened, a flash of teeth in the gloom.
"Feisty," Brick murmured, the word dripping with condescending approval. "Good."
He shifted his weight again, that terrifyingly effortless movement. Instead of dragging Tom further, Brick simply sat down on the edge of the bed. It groaned in protest under his immense bulk. He didn't lower Tom gently; he pivoted, pulling Tom backwards with him, using his own weight to guide their descent. Tom’s buckling legs finally gave out completely. He fell backwards, not onto the cool sheets, but onto Brick himself.
The bodybuilder was now seated on the mattress, his back propped against the headboard, his legs spread wide. Tom landed awkwardly, half-sprawled across Brick’s lap, his back pressed against that solid wall of chest and abdomen, the chloroform rag still clamped loosely over his lower face. Brick’s arm remained a crushing band around Tom’s ribs and chest.
The sudden shift in position sent the world tilting violently. The lamplight swam. The ticking clock became a frantic drumbeat in Tom’s ears, competing with the thunderous pulse hammering in his own throat. He felt the heat radiating from Brick, the sheer immovable mass underneath him, the ridges and planes of muscle beneath the worn flannel shirt Brick wore. It was horrifically intimate.
And then, the towel.
Pinned awkwardly, the knot at Tom’s hip had been strained during the struggle and the fall. As Brick settled back against the headboard with a satisfied sigh, adjusting Tom’s limp weight against him, the terrycloth simply… let go. It slid down Tom’s hip, whispered against his thigh, and pooled onto the carpet beside Brick’s socked feet. The cool air of the room hit Tom’s bare skin with shocking clarity. Utterly exposed. Vulnerable in a way that stripped away the last shreds of his already dissolving dignity. He felt the rough denim of Brick’s jeans against the back of his legs.
The rough denim scraped against the back of Tom’s bare legs, a jarring counterpoint to the suffocating heat radiating from Brick’s body beneath him. Utterly exposed, the cool bedroom air prickled his skin. Panic, thick and oily, surged anew, battling the chloroform’s syrupy drag on his consciousness. He tried to arch away, a feeble spasm against the impossible weight pinning him.
Brick chuckled, a deep rumble that vibrated directly through Tom’s spine into his own hollow chest. The sound held no warmth, only dark amusement. The arm constricting Tom’s ribs and chest – a steel cable disguised as flesh – shifted. Not to release, but to settle. Brick leaned back further into the headboard, adjusting Tom’s limp form like a ragdoll, pulling him even more flush against the massive expanse of his torso. Tom’s head lolled uselessly against Brick’s collarbone.
"Better," Brick murmured, his breath hot and damp against Tom’s temple. It smelled of cheap coffee and something metallic. "Comfy?"
The question was obscene. Tom managed a choked gasp behind the rag still clamped loosely over his lower face. The chemical sweetness was a constant assault, making the dim lamplight pulse and smear. He could feel every ridge of muscle beneath Brick’s flannel shirt, the sheer, terrifying density of the man. The deliberate pressure of Brick’s arousal pressed low against the small of Tom’s back hadn’t lessened; it felt like a brand.
Brick sighed, a long, contented exhalation that shifted Tom’s weight minutely. His free hand – the one not holding the damp, reeking cloth near Tom’s face – slid from Tom’s hip. Not away, but upwards, slowly, deliberately tracing the line of Tom’s ribs through the thin layer of damp skin. Calloused fingertips rasped against bone.
"Skin like silk," Brick mused, his voice a low growl directly in Tom’s ear. "Knew you’d be soft. Saw you through the window last week. Waterin' those little plants. So… careful." His touch lingered, possessive, just below Tom’s collarbone. "Quiet life. Bet nobody even knows you’re missing yet." The words weren’t a threat, just a chilling statement of fact.
Tom squeezed his eyes shut, but the darkness only amplified the sensations – the crushing pressure, the invasive heat, the rough scrape of denim, the nauseating sweetness clogging his sinuses, the terrifyingly intimate drag of Brick’s fingers. Miles Davis was a distant, discordant ghost. The only rhythm now was the frantic, weakening thud of his own heart against Brick’s unyielding chest and the slow, heavy tick-tock of the clock on the nightstand. Counting down.
Brick hummed tunelessly, a dark, unfamiliar melody. He shifted his hips slightly, grinding that insistent hardness against Tom’s spine again, drawing another stifled whimper. The sound seemed to please him.
"Shhh," he soothed, his voice dripping with false comfort. "Just relax. Ain't no rush. Got all night." His thumb stroked a slow, deliberate circle on Tom’s sternum. "Don’t need you fightin’. Want you… present. For the fun part."
The hand near Tom’s face moved. Not removing the rag, but adjusting it. Pressing the damp, chemical-soaked fabric more firmly against Tom’s nostrils for a few terrifying seconds. Tom’s weakened struggles renewed momentarily, legs kicking uselessly against Brick’s thick, denim-clad thighs. He felt Brick’s muscles coil and harden in response, an effortless containment. The chloroform flooded his senses anew, a thick, sweet wave pulling him further under. His vision swam with oily black spots.
Brick eased the pressure on the rag slightly, letting Tom gasp in a thin, ragged breath that tasted like poison and despair. "There," Brick murmured, satisfied. "Just takes the edge off the nerves. Makes it… smoother." He leaned his head down, his stubbled cheek scraping against Tom’s hair. "You’re warm now. Just where I want ya."
BRICK PULLS HIM IN TIGHTER, SAVORING THE MOMENT. The arm around Tom’s chest became a crushing vice, pulling Tom’s back impossibly closer against the furnace of Brick’s body. Brick inhaled deeply against Tom’s neck, a long, slow draw, like a man breathing in the scent of a desired meal. Every contour of Brick’s immense musculature imprinted itself on Tom’s vulnerable skin – the hard shelf of his pectorals, the ridged valleys of his abdomen, the thick pillar of his thighs. Brick held the position, utterly still except for the powerful rise and fall of his own chest beneath Tom. Silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by the relentless ticking clock and Tom’s own shallow, muffled breaths. Brick’s eyes, Tom could feel them, were fixed on the vulnerable curve of his exposed throat, watching the frantic flutter of his pulse. A low, hungry sound vibrated in Brick’s chest, a predator’s purr of pure, possessive satisfaction as he savored the utter helplessness beneath him, the slow surrender to the drug, the absolute control. His grip tightened another fraction, a final claiming pressure, before he finally spoke, his voice a dark caress against Tom’s ear. "Yeah. Nice and snug. Perfect for a nice big nap" Brick rasped against Tom's ear, the words barely above a whisper, yet each syllable seemed to land like a physical blow. "Come on, pretty boy. Let it take you. All that fightin's just makin' you tired."
The chloroform's cloying sweetness grew heavier, like a suffocating blanket settling over Tom’s mind. His vision blurred, the edges of his sight softening into a hazy, oily blackness. The harsh ticking of the clock seemed to warp, each second stretching into a slow, agonizing eternity.
Brick’s breath, hot and damp against his neck, a physical presence, a claim, sent fresh tendrils of panic spiraling through Tom’s mind. He felt the massive size of him, the unyielding grip, the deliberate, almost sensual way Brick shifted to pull him even closer. The strange, mingled scent of engine oil, coffee, and something metallic filled his nostrils, choking his every breath. Tom could feel Brick’s heartbeat, a strong, steady rhythm against his back, a reminder of the life ebbing away from his own limbs. The drug worked its insidious way, turning his thoughts to sludge, his limbs to deadweight. Yet, amidst the terror and the chemical haze, a spark of defiance flared.
He forced his eyes open, the lids heavy and reluctant.
Brick’s face was a blurred shadow inches from his own, the grin still etched into his features. It was a grim, predatory smile, the kind of smile that said the hunt was over. Through the haze, Tom looked at Brick’s features.
They were brutally handsome, impossibly rugged – like a storm-tossed cliff, all hard angles and dark shadows. The grin was a slash of white teeth in the gloom, distorted by the chloroform fogging Tom’s vision. Brick’s eyes were dark, almost black, and bore into Tom with an intensity that was as terrifying as it was mesmerizing.
"You’re a real fighter," Brick murmured, his voice low, almost hushed, as if talking to a child. "I like that. Makes it more… exciting."
Tom managed to part his lips, drawing in small, shallow breaths through the suffocating cloth. His eyes, though blurry and heavy, locked onto Brick’s. Defiance flickered within him, a last-ditch effort to cling to consciousness.
“Someone is playing hard to get I see… maybe I need to be more… assertive.” Brick’s hand, still holding the chloroform-soaked rag, didn’t move, but the pressure increased just enough to steal the tiny amount of breath Tom had managed to cling onto.
Tom tried to blink away the blur, but the world was turning into a watercolor painting, the edges of his vision smearing and dissolving. He could feel every ragged breath, every heartbeat echoing the steady rhythm of Brick’s chest against his back. It was a grim parody of intimacy, this violent closeness, this slow, inexorable suffocation.
Brick’s gaze never left Tom’s face.
He saw the defiance in those glassy eyes, the desperate attempt at control. It was a challenge, a last stand against the inevitability of what was to come. Brick’s smile widened, eager and predatory.
“You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?” he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. “But you know what they say, don’t you? All that struggling just makes it... sweeter…”
“Maybe I need to play less fair to take you my little prince.” Brick’s free gloved hand, the one splayed possessively over Tom’s chest, shifted. Slowly, he began to play with his bare torso. The massive hand, still glove-clad in well-worn leather, traces patterns over Tom’s skin, slow and deliberate. Tom’s vision swam, the world tilting as he tried to follow the movement. The touch was clumsy, yet deliberate, as if Brick found pleasure in the act of exploring. It was a mockery of tenderness, a brutal invasion of privacy.
His hand lingered on Tom’s chest, fingers tracing the outline of ribs, the curve of collarbone. Tom tried to recoil, but the arm around him was an unyielding vice, pinning him in place.
He could only manage a weak, choked gasp behind the wet rag. Brick's fingers dug in, exploring, reminding him of his helplessness. Each touch sent shivers of revulsion through him, but they were impotent, like the last sparks of a dying fire.
"Hush now," Brick crooned, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through Tom's entire body. "Just a little exploration. Nothing bad. Just getting to know you better."
His index finger traced the line of Tom's sternum, circling the hollow of his throat, outlined by the sharp ridges of his collarbone.
Tom’s eyes fluttered, the last remnants of his consciousness slipping away like sand through a sieve. The room spun, the edges of his vision darkening as the chloroform clawed deeper into his brain. Despite the haze, something caught his attention – a glint of metal and glass on the nightstand. His eyes widened slightly, focus blurring and sharpened in turns.
It was a picture frame, its surface reflecting the dim lamplight. The glass caught the light, blinding him for a moment as he struggled to make sense of the image. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, despite the chloroform’s relentless assault. It was their wedding picture – Tom and Brett, smiles wide and genuine, eyes sparkling with a love that was as new then as it was strong now.
The image was faded, but the memory was vivid, as real as the touch of Brett’s gloved hand on his thigh. Tom’s gaze locked onto the photo, and in that moment, the fog lifted a little. Brett, not Brick. This was a game, a sensual power struggle between them. He forced a small, defeated smile, the corners of his mouth turning up despite the sickening sweetness clogging his throat. The chloroform's haze was still there, but it was thinning, replaced by a rush of remembered heat and passion.
Brett leaned in, his voice a low, triumphant rumble against Tom’s ear. "Told you I could take you down, sweetheart. Looks like you’re doing the dishes all week." Brett's voice was a low, satisfied purr, his breath hot and damp against Tom's ear. The words sent a shiver down Tom’s spine, not of fear, but of remembered pleasure. The world around him shifted slightly, the harsh lines of Brick’s rugged face softening, replaced by Brett’s strong, handsome features. The predatory grin was the same, but now it held a different promise.
Brett's voice dropped, losing the Brick façade, replacing it with the familiar, low rumble that had once sent shivers down Tom's spine. "Game over, Tommy. Time to end this."
The pressure on the chloroform-soaked rag increased, the wet cloth sealing off any chance at escape. Tom's eyes widened in shock, the blurry haze clearing as he struggled to process the sudden shift. Brett's hand, once so brutal and unyielding, now traced the line of his jaw with a tenderness that was almost painful. "You fought well, sweetheart. Better than I expected. But now, it's time to finish this. We do have your parents’ anniversary brunch tomorrow and it’s a 2h drive.” Brett concluded, moving to fully knock his husband out and end their little game.
Tom struggled weakly, the last vestiges of defiance flickering in his eyes. He knew there was no more fighting this. Not with Brett in this mood. He closed his eyes, letting out a shuddering breath. Brett smirked, pleased with the victory.
"That's right, sweetheart. Just let go." He pressed the rag harder, the scent of chloroform filling the room. Tom's struggles weakened, his body going limp against Brett's powerful frame.
Brett held him there, waiting for Tom to fully succumb to the drug. When Tom's body finally relaxed completely, Brett removed the rag and tossed it to the side.
He leaned back against the headboard, cradling Tom's limp form against his chest. The bedroom was silent except for the steady ticking of the wall clock, a metronome counting down the seconds until the chloroform took full effect.
Brett looked down at Tom, his features softening as he brushed a stray lock of damp hair from Tom's forehead. "You're such a pain in the ass, Tommy," he murmured softly, a hint of affection creeping into his voice. "But you're mine. And I love you for it."
He adjusted Tom slightly, pulling him closer, tucking him under Brett's chin.
The moment of tenderness was completely at odds with the brutal struggle that had just taken place. Yet, it was genuine, a glimpse into the complex dynamics of their relationship.
"Sleep tight, Tommy," Brett whispered, his voice now soft and gentle, the rough edges smoothed away. He pressed a gentle kiss to Tom's forehead, the touch lingering for a moment before he pulled away.
The room was quiet, the only sound the slow, steady tick of the clock. Brett held Tom close, his grip no longer restraining but protective, almost nurturing. He ran a hand through Tom's damp hair, his touch gentle and soothing. He realized he needed to put his pijamas and sleep, they did have an early wake up tomorrow.
He gently shifted Tom onto the bed, laying him down carefully on his back. Tom was completely limp, his breathing shallow, but steady. Brett pulled the covers up over him, tucking them in snugly around his shoulders. He watched Tom for a moment, a soft smile playing on his lips. He leaned over and pressed a tender kiss to Tom's cheek.
"Love you, Tommy," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. "Always."
Brett stood up and removed his Brick attire. He enjoyed these games, a fun switch from their normally calm routine as a married, gay, corporate couple in the city in their early 30s.
Brett stood up, quickly undressing, removing the rugged clothes and gloves from the ‘Brick’ persona. He walked to the closet and pulled out his regular sleepwear, a soft cotton shirt and boxers.
As he dressed, he admired Tom’s form, sprawled out on the bed, the sheets rumpled around him. Even in the dim, warm light of the bedside lamp, Tom’s features were soft and peaceful, his breathing steady and deep. It was a stark contrast to the intensity of their game, now replaced by a sort of calm contentment.
Brett slipped into his boxers and shirt, the familiar cotton soft against his skin, a comforting contrast to the rough denim and leather he had worn as Brick. Once dressed, he turned off the bedside lamp and got into bed. He positioned himself behind Tom, spooning him, one arm curled around Tom’s waist, the other tucked under his own pillow. Brett took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of Tom’s shampoo and the faint trace of Miles Davis’s melody still lingering in the air. He listened to Tom’s steady breaths, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against his own.
“You always were a fighter,” Brett murmured softly, his words almost a whisper. “Even when you know you’re going to lose.” He felt Tom shift slightly, a subtle reaction to his voice, and he smiled to himself.
Brett settled in, letting his own breathing sync with Tom’s. The room was dark now, the only light coming from the dim glow of the alarm clock on the nightstand. The ticking was almost soothing, a steady metronome marking the passage of time.
Brett thought back to their first encounter, years ago now. Tom had been the new intern at the firm, fresh out of grad school, all eager eyes and sharp suits. Brett had been the senior associate, already on the fast track to partnership. He’d been drawn to Tom immediately, not just his looks, but the quiet confidence that seemed to radiate from him.