Chapter 4: Cautiously Optimistic
Sunlight slashed through the high windows of the UN Delegates Lounge, glinting off polished chrome and expensive watches. Matthew stirred his lukewarm tea, the china cup feeling absurdly delicate in his hand. Across the small table, Elizabeth Lawrence leveled her steady, perceptive gaze at him. "So. Joe," she prompted, popping the last bite of her salad. "The bookstore guy. You left his number on 'read' all weekend."
Matthew sighed, the sound barely audible over the low hum of multilingual conversation filling the airy space. "It’s not that simple, Liz. It was impulsive. Sweet, but impulsive. He seemed… intense. In a vulnerable way? Like a lost poet." He traced the rim of the cup. "Jake was intense too. In a different way. Mostly in bed."
"And less poetic, I assume," Elizabeth said dryly. "Look, I'm thrilled you're ditching Jake the Human Dildo. Seriously. But this Joe… intense and vulnerable can sometimes just be… intense."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence." Matthew forced a smile, remembering Joe’s earnest eyes over the battered copy of The Great Gatsby, the way his fingers had brushed Matthew's as he handed over the phone number scribbled on a bookmark. A shiver, unrelated to the lounge's carefully controlled temperature, ran through him. It felt different. Hopeful.
"Just… be careful, Matt," Elizabeth said, her voice softening. "You have a tendency to see the best in people. Sometimes, that's a superpower. Sometimes, it's target fixation."
Before Matthew could retort, a familiar, imposing presence materialized beside their table. Ambassador Tony Fitzpatrick. Even in the lounge's relaxed atmosphere, he radiated contained power, his tailored suit emphasizing broad shoulders, the faint scent of sandalwood cutting through the lingering aroma of coffee and bureaucracy.
"Matthew, Elizabeth," he greeted, his voice a smooth baritone. "Plotting the downfall of a small nation over lunch?" His smile was easy, charming, but his eyes lingered on Matthew a fraction too long.
"Just dissecting Matt's love life, Mr. Ambassador," Elizabeth replied breezily, though her own eyes were sharp, watching the subtle shift in Matthew's posture. "Seems he's finally upgrading."
"Ah," Fitzpatrick murmured, his gaze still holding Matthew's. "The plot thickens. Leaving Jake in the dust, I hope? Good. You deserve better than casual, Matthew." The use of his first name, the intimate implication of 'deserve,' vibrated in the space between them. Matthew felt a flush creep up his neck. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow almost imperceptibly.
"Just exploring options, sir," Matthew managed, his diplomatic training kicking in. "Focus remains on the upcoming Security Council session on the Horn of Africa, naturally."
"Of course," Fitzpatrick said smoothly, though his expression suggested he saw right through the deflection. "Always working. Admirable. But even diplomats need… diversions." He placed a hand briefly, firmly, on Matthew's shoulder. The contact felt electric, grounding, and wildly inappropriate. "Don't work too hard. You both have a briefing with me at three." With a final nod that encompassed them both, he turned and walked away, cutting smoothly through the crowd.
The silence he left was heavy. Elizabeth leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Diversions? Matthew Sterling. The look he gave you. You cannot tell me you don't feel it."
Matthew stared into his tea, the image of Fitzpatrick's intense gaze competing with the memory of Joe's hopeful smile. "I feel it," he admitted quietly. "And it can never happen. He's the Ambassador. My boss. It's a minefield waiting to blow up my entire career. And his." He pushed the tea away. "It’s irrelevant. Pointless. Like… like wanting the sun. Beautiful. Dangerous. Untouchable." He pulled his phone from his pocket, the screen still dark. No new messages. His thumb hovered over the notification pane, where Joe’s unanswered number still sat.
He tapped the screen. Opened the new message thread with Joe. The cursor blinked. Accusingly.
Hi Joe, it's Matthew Sterling. From the bookstore? he typed, then deleted it. Too stiff.
Hey Joe, Matthew here. Enjoyed our chat about Fitzgerald the other day… Delete. Trying too hard.
He took a breath, ignoring Elizabeth’s knowing stare. Hello Joe. It was nice meeting you. - Matthew. Simple. Direct. He hit send before he could overthink it. The little 'delivered' notification popped up instantly. His heart gave a small, traitorous leap.
Across town, in the dim, book-dusty confines of the back office at The Last Chapter, Joe’s phone buzzed. He snatched it up, his breath catching in his throat when he saw the sender. Matthew. His Matthew. Replying. Finally. The simple message glowed on the screen: Hello Joe. It was nice meeting you. - Matthew.
Joe stared at the glowing screen. Hello Joe. It was nice meeting you. - Matthew. Simple. Polite. Distant. Not the eager cascade of words he’d imagined, not the spark of connection he’d felt radiating between them over Fitzgerald and coffee grounds. His thumb hovered, itching to reply, to draw Matthew deeper, but a cold prickle of doubt snaked up his spine. Why so formal? Why now? Was Jake still whispering poison in his ear? The warmth of Matthew’s smile in the bookstore felt suddenly fragile, a mirage. He needed more. Needed inside. Needed to peel back the polite diplomat facade and see the raw, vulnerable Matthew he knew existed, the one who deserved protection from predators like Jake.
"Evan!" Joe called out, his voice shifting instantly from brooding intensity to cheerful camaraderie as he shoved the phone deep into his pocket. Evan poked his head around the towering stack of returns he was shelving. "Yeah, boss?" Joe flashed his most disarming grin. "You're a lifesaver, truly. Any chance you could hold down the fort solo this afternoon? Got a sudden... creative emergency. Inspiration struck." He gestured vaguely towards the ceiling. "Feels like a breakthrough brewing. Might be gone a few hours."
Evan hesitated, glancing at the bustling cafe section. "Uh, sure, Joe. Breakthroughs are good." He shrugged, easily manipulated by Joe’s earnest writer persona. "Go chase the muse. I got this." Relief washed over Joe, warm and immediate. Evan was so blessedly gullible. "You're the absolute best, Evan. Seriously. Next coffee's on me." He clapped Evan on the shoulder, the picture of grateful friendship, already mentally mapping the fastest route to Matthew’s Upper East Side building.
The brass lock on Matthew Sterling’s apartment door yielded to Joe’s practiced tools with a soft, satisfying snick. He slipped inside, closing the door silently behind him, the expensive hush of the building enveloping him. The air smelled faintly of lemon polish and something uniquely Matthew – sandalwood cologne and old paper. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating tasteful, understated furniture: a deep blue velvet sofa, sleek walnut bookshelves overflowing with hardcovers, abstract art that spoke of discerning taste. It was sophisticated, calm. Perfect. Joe inhaled deeply, savoring the intimacy of being surrounded by Matthew’s essence. His space. He moved with predatory quiet, gloved fingers trailing over spines, examining framed photos (Matthew laughing with Elizabeth, Matthew looking serious in diplomatic settings), absorbing every detail. He needed eyes here. Needed ears. A discreet camera nestled high on a bookshelf, angled towards the living area? Maybe behind the elegant floor lamp? His mind raced, cataloging possibilities, assessing sightlines, hunting for the perfect, invisible vantage point to watch over Matthew, to understand him completely, to shield him.
The sharp, metallic clack of a key turning in the lock shattered the silence. Panic, cold and electric, seized Joe’s chest. Matthew wasn’t supposed to be home for hours! The briefing! Instinct took over. He lunged towards the bedroom, spotting the walk-in closet door slightly ajar. He slipped inside, pulling the door almost closed just as the front door swung open. Heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, Joe pressed himself into the shadows behind a row of Matthew’s impeccably tailored suits, the scent of wool and cologne thick in the confined darkness. He barely dared to breathe.
Matthew’s footsteps crossed the polished wood floor, sounding weary. Then his voice, clear and tense, cut through the quiet apartment. "Jake. Yeah, it's me." A pause. Joe could picture Matthew running a hand through his hair, that frustrated gesture he’d seen outside the bookstore. "No, I'm home early. Briefing got moved." Another pause, longer this time. Joe strained to hear, every nerve ending screaming. Matthew’s tone shifted, became firmer, edged with exhaustion. "Look, we need to talk. Properly. Tonight. My place. Seven o'clock." A final pause. "Just... be here, Jake." The call ended. The silence that followed felt heavier than before. Joe heard Matthew sigh, a sound of profound weariness, then footsteps retreating towards the kitchen. Hidden among the hanging fabrics, Joe’s earlier elation curdled into icy dread. Jake. Tonight. Here. Talking. The word echoed in the stifling closet air. Talking meant reconciliation. Talking meant Jake worming his way back in. Talking meant Matthew slipping away. Joe’s stomach plummeted, a visceral drop into a cold, dark pit. The fragile hope Matthew’s text had sparked evaporated, replaced by a sharp, possessive fury. He couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t.
Joe wouldn't. He pressed deeper into the suit jackets, wool scratching his cheek, Matthew's scent suffocating him. Footsteps approached the bedroom door. Joe held his breath, muscles coiled like springs. The door swung open.
Matthew entered, looking drained, his tie already loosened. He dropped his messenger bag heavily onto a plush armchair. Rubbing his temples, he sighed again, that same weary sound from the phone call. "Seven o'clock," he muttered to the empty room, the words thick with resignation. He unbuttoned his crisp white shirt with sharp, efficient tugs, revealing smooth skin stretched over defined muscle. His movements were automatic, tired, unaware of the predatory stillness just feet away.
Joe watched, transfixed, as Matthew shed his diplomat's armor. The shirt fell away, then the undershirt joined it on the floor. Matthew unbuckled his belt, the leather sliding through loops. His slacks and boxer briefs pooled around his ankles. He stepped out, utterly naked, the afternoon light catching the curve of his shoulder, the dip of his spine, the taut lines of his back and thighs. Joe’s breath hitched; Matthew was sculpted perfection, a vulnerability laid bare that ignited both fierce protectiveness and a sharp, possessive hunger within him. Matthew walked towards the en-suite bathroom, oblivious.
The shower door clicked shut, followed moments later by the hiss and drum of water. Steam began curling under the bathroom door. Joe slid from the closet, silent as smoke. His eyes scanned the room. There. Matthew’s phone lay discarded on the nightstand beside the armchair, screen dark. Joe was moving before the thought fully formed. He snatched it up, his own burner phone already palmed and ready. A thin, specialized cable snaked from his pocket – not Bluetooth, too traceable, too slow. He needed it all, now.
He plugged the cable between the phones, fingers flying over his own screen. Within seconds, a custom app bypassed Matthew’s passcode – a vulnerability in an older security patch Joe knew by heart. The screen flashed: SYNC INITIATED. Progress bars crawled: contacts, messages, call logs, emails, location data, photos. Every digital whisper of Matthew’s life began bleeding into Joe’s device. He kept one ear tuned to the steady rhythm of the shower. The humid air smelled of Matthew's expensive sandalwood body wash, thick and cloying.
Messages scrolled past on Joe’s screen: flirty texts from Jake ("U free 2nite? ;)", "Miss u"), Elizabeth’s warnings ("Just be careful, Matt"), the unanswered thread with his own simple, polite greeting. Then, a flagged calendar entry: Dinner - Ambassador Fitzpatrick - Le Bernardin - 8pm Thurs. Joe’s jaw tightened. Fitzpatrick. The Ambassador. Another threat circling Matthew. His thumb hovered, ready to delve deeper into flagged emails between Matthew and his boss.
SYNC COMPLETE. The notification pulsed on Joe’s screen. The shower still raged. He yanked the cable free, pocketing both phones. Matthew belonged to him now. Every call, every step, every secret. The phone felt heavy, alive with power, in Joe’s jacket. He cast a final look at the bathroom door, the steam thickening, the water drumming a relentless beat. Jake would be here soon. And Joe would be watching.
The shower’s rhythmic drumming faded behind Joe as he slipped out of Matthew’s apartment, the brass lock clicking softly back into place. Out on the crisp Upper East Side sidewalk, the city’s bustle felt jarringly loud after the hushed intimacy of Matthew’s space. He walked briskly, head down, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, the stolen phone a heavy, humming secret against his thigh. Seven o’clock. Jake’s smug face swam in his mind’s eye. Talking. Reconciling. Touching his Matthew. The possessive fury flared again, hotter this time, a physical burn in his chest. He couldn’t just watch. Action was required. Immediate, decisive action.
He pulled out his burner phone, fingers flying. A map app bloomed on the cracked screen. Matthew’s building pinpointed. Jake’s known address in Williamsburg – gleaned from Matthew’s synced contacts – flashed another marker. Joe traced potential routes with a fingertip. The FDR Drive? Likely, but traffic could be unpredictable. Surface streets? Slower, more variables. He needed certainty. A choke point. Somewhere quiet, controllable. His finger stopped, tapping decisively on a small, tree-lined street just two blocks from Matthew’s building – a shortcut Jake might favor if driving, a necessary passage if walking from the subway. Riverside Park Drive. Dimly lit after sunset. Minimal foot traffic. Perfect. A plan solidified, cold and clear as ice.
He hailed a cab, barking an address in Hell’s Kitchen. The driver grunted, merging into the chaotic flow of Midtown traffic. Joe stared out the window, unseeing. The stolen phone felt like a live wire. He resisted the urge to check Matthew’s messages again, to see if Jake had confirmed. He knew. He knew Jake would come. The predator in him sensed the other man’s arrogance, his casual disregard for Matthew’s feelings. Jake saw Matthew as convenient, available. A plaything. Disgust curdled Joe’s stomach. Matthew deserved devotion, protection. Not Jake’s shallow, grasping hands. The cab lurched to a stop outside his own nondescript apartment building. Joe paid quickly, ignoring the driver’s muttered thanks.
Inside his cramped, book-filled studio, the air hung stale and quiet. He moved with swift, practiced efficiency, bypassing the kitchenette cluttered with dirty mugs. He knelt before a battered footlocker tucked beneath his narrow bed, its lock stiff but yielding to a small key worn smooth from use. Inside, nestled amongst old notebooks and faded photographs of strangers he’d once fixated on, lay a small, unremarkable brown glass bottle. Its label was peeling, handwritten in faded ink: CHCl₃. Chloroform. He lifted it carefully. The liquid inside sloshed, thick and heavy. The sharp, cloying scent of chemicals and faint sweetness of chloroform pricked his nostrils even through the glass stopper. He’d acquired it years ago, a relic from a darker time, a tool for necessary interventions. For Matthew, he thought, wrapping the bottle securely in a clean dish towel. To shield him. He tucked the bundled bottle deep into the inner pocket of his worn leather jacket. It rested cold against his ribs, a promise of silence.
Back on the street, twilight was deepening into proper night. Streetlights cast long, distorted shadows. He walked quickly now, retracing his path towards Riverside Park Drive, the weight of the bottle a constant, grounding pressure. He reached the designated spot – a recessed doorway of a shuttered antique shop, shielded by overflowing trash bins. The air here smelled of damp concrete and decaying leaves. He melted into the shadows, becoming just another patch of darkness. Pulling his hood up, he watched the mouth of the street, his eyes scanning every approaching figure, every passing car. His breathing slowed, deliberate. Calm settled over him, a hunter’s patience. He checked his watch: 6:52 PM. Any minute now. Headlights swept the street as a sleek black SUV slowed, searching for parking. Joe’s pulse remained steady, his gaze fixed. Not Jake. A silver sedan passed. Then, emerging from the gloom beneath the elevated highway, a familiar silhouette materialized under a distant streetlamp. Tall, athletic build, confident stride. Jake Ryan. Walking briskly, checking his phone, a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips. Heading straight for Matthew’s building. Heading straight for Joe. Joe’s hand slipped inside his jacket, fingers closing around the cold glass bottle wrapped in cloth. He waited, perfectly still, as Jake drew nearer, oblivious to the darkness waiting just ten feet away. The rustle of Jake’s jacket, the scuff of his expensive sneakers on the pavement, grew louder. Joe stepped forward, smooth and silent, the damp cloth already in his other hand. "Excuse me?" Joe called out, his voice light, friendly, utterly normal. Jake turned, annoyance flickering across his handsome face. Recognition dawned slowly, replaced by confusion. "Do I know—" Jake began, brow furrowing. Joe was already moving, the chloroform-soaked cloth pressing firmly over Jake’s nose and mouth, his other arm locking around Jake’s neck in a brutal chokehold. Jake’s eyes widened in shock, then terror. He thrashed violently, a muffled cry escaping the cloth, his hands clawing at Joe’s arm. Joe held firm, his own breath coming in short, controlled gasps, pouring his strength, his fury, his twisted love for Matthew into the suffocating embrace. Jake’s struggles weakened, became jerky spasms. His eyes rolled back, the fight draining out of him like water. His body went limp, heavy against Joe. Joe lowered him slowly, carefully, to the cold, wet pavement behind the trash bins. Jake lay utterly still, unconscious, breathing shallowly. Joe crouched beside him, listening. Only the distant hum of traffic, the drip of water from a nearby pipe. He checked Jake’s pulse – thready but present. Good. He didn’t want death. Not yet. Not here. He just needed time. Time for Matthew to see Jake’s true, unworthy nature. Time for Matthew to turn to him. Joe pulled out his phone, navigating to Matthew’s synced location. Still at the apartment. Waiting. Joe hauled Jake’s dead weight up, draping an arm over his own shoulders, making it look like he was helping a drunken friend. He began the short, arduous walk towards the deeper shadows lining the park’s edge, Jake’s head lolling against his shoulder. The chloroform bottle pressed reassuringly against his ribs. Phase one was complete. Matthew was safe. For now.