Chapter 9: The Second Date
The sharp chemical bite of bleach still lingered in Joe’s nostrils, phantom tendrils entwined with the phantom scent of decay. He scrubbed his hands under scalding water in the bookstore’s cramped bathroom, watching the skin redden, raw from earlier cleaning. Jake’s phone, silenced, sat heavily in his jacket pocket, a cold, dead weight against his ribs. The texts he’d sent – flimsy digital life rafts thrown to Jake’s family and friends – felt like taunts.
Buzz. His own phone this time. Matthew.
> Walking into La Bella Luna now. Secured the corner booth. Can’t wait to see you.
Joe stared at the words. The warmth they promised felt like a physical impossibility. How could he sit across from Matthew, smell garlic and basil, talk about books or art, while Jake’s plastic-shrouded form lay cooling in the sub-basement? Because of a forgotten vial? Because he hadn’t checked the bag? The wave of revulsion was immediate, not for what lay hidden, but for the sheer, stupid messiness of it. Unplanned. Uncontrolled. It risked everything.
He leaned his forehead against the cool tile wall. Breathed. Out. Matthew was waiting. Matthew, who was everything Jake wasn’t: intelligent, cultured, worthy. Matthew, who deserved protection. Protection Joe had failed to provide properly, but the threat, at least, was… neutralized. Permanently. He straightened up, met his own eyes in the mirror. Saw the slight tremor in his hand. Saw the shadow beneath his eyes. He forced a smile. It looked functional. Barely. He practiced it again. Better. For Matthew.
The transformation felt like shrugging on a heavy, familiar coat. The charming, slightly bashful bookseller. The man who noticed details, who listened. He smoothed his shirt, ran damp hands through his hair. The lingering scent of bleach was masked by a quick spray of cedar cologne. One more breath. Showtime.
The warm, garlic-and-tomato scented embrace of La Bella Luna hit him as he pushed through the heavy curtain. Soft laughter, the clink of glasses, Sinatra crooning low from hidden speakers. Matthew sat in the deeply shadowed corner booth, exactly as promised. He looked up as Joe approached, and the genuine smile that lit his face was a punch to Joe’s gut. An ache of longing mixed with the corrosive guilt.
"Joe! You made it." Matthew half-rose, gesturing to the seat opposite. "Traffic okay?"
"A nightmare on 7th," Joe lied smoothly, sliding into the plush leather. He focused on Matthew’s face – the intelligent eyes, the slight crease of warmth at their corners. Anything but the image of grey plastic sheeting. "You look fantastic. That color suits you." It did; a deep burgundy sweater that brought out the warmth in Matthew’s skin.
"Thanks," Matthew ducked his head slightly, a faint flush creeping up his neck. "Glad you think so. Was worried I might be overdoing it for a simple pasta place." He gestured around the cozy, bustling room. "But this is La Bella Luna. Deserves some effort." He took a sip of his wine – a deep ruby red already waiting. "Ordered you a Negroni? Hope that’s alright? Seemed… fitting."
"Perfect," Joe said, the sharp bitterness of the Campari cutting through the cloying ghosts in his mind as he took a long sip. "God, I needed this. Long day. Stupid plumbing leak turned into… well, you don’t want to know. Books and water don’t mix." He offered a rueful smile, the practiced vulnerability. See? I’m just a guy with messy problems.
Matthew chuckled, the sound warm and easy. "Tell me about it. Embassy once had a pipe burst right over the Cultural Attaché's office. Lost irreplaceable loan documents. Absolute pandemonium. I was just glad my desk was far away." He leaned forward slightly, his expression shifting, becoming more intent. "But honestly, Joe? I’ve been thinking. About our texts. What you said about it feeling… different." He paused, swirling the wine in his glass, watching the legs form. "It does. For me too. I’ve been… cautious. After Berlin. After Montreal." He named the cities like old wounds. "People see the passport, the job… they see an accessory. Or a stepping stone. Not… me."
Joe felt a familiar, possessive surge. Matthew was different. He saw past surfaces. He deserved honesty. His kind of honesty. "I see you, Matthew," Joe said, his voice dropping, infused with a sincerity that wasn't entirely manufactured. He reached across the small table, his fingertips just brushing the back of Matthew’s hand where it rested near his glass. A deliberate, calculated contact. Matthew didn’t pull away. His breath hitched, almost imperceptibly. "I see the guy who quotes Neruda and argues passionately about obscure Italian neo-realist films. The guy who actually listens." He let his thumb trace the faint ridge of a knuckle. "The passport’s irrelevant. The job’s just… what you do. Not who you are."
Matthew’s gaze locked onto Joe’s. The ambient noise of the restaurant seemed to fade, replaced by the thud of Joe’s own pulse in his ears. He saw the flicker of relief, the vulnerability laid bare. It was intoxicating. Power, pure and clean, flooding in to displace the basement rot.
"You have no idea," Matthew murmured, his voice thick, "how long I’ve waited to hear someone say that and actually believe them." He turned his hand, palm up, catching Joe’s fingers for a fleeting squeeze before letting go, a self-conscious smile playing on his lips as the waiter arrived with steaming plates of pasta.
The conversation flowed easier then, buoyed by shared laughter over disastrous dates and mutual appreciation for the perfectly al dente cacio e pepe. Joe watched Matthew’s animated hands as he described a chaotic diplomatic reception in Dublin. He cataloged the small details: the way Matthew’s eyes crinkled when he laughed, the subtle shift in his posture as he relaxed, the quiet intensity when he talked about his hopes for a more stable life back in New York. With someone. The unspoken word hung in the air between them.
Dessert was declined. Coffee lingered, growing cold. The restaurant was thinning out. A comfortable silence settled, charged with the unspoken shift in the evening’s trajectory. Matthew traced the rim of his espresso cup, avoiding Joe’s eyes for a moment.
"Look, Joe…" He started, then stopped, clearing his throat. "I know last time… I asked you to my place too soon." He met Joe’s gaze again, sincerity etched on his face. "I panicked a little. Old habits, stupid reflexes. But tonight…" He gestured vaguely, encompassing the intimacy of the booth, the connection they’d forged. "Tonight feels… real. Solid." He took a breath. "Would you… maybe want to come back? To my place? No pressure. Honestly. Just… talk? Or not talk?" He gave a small, slightly sheepish shrug, the vulnerability utterly disarming. "I just… don’t want the night to end quite yet."
Joe’s mind flashed. His place. Where Jake had been. Where Jake’s ghost might linger in the air, in the things Matthew didn’t yet know were missing. The risk was immense. Physical proximity. Questions. But the hunger was stronger. The need to stake a claim, to solidify this connection on his terms, to push the basement horror further away with Matthew’s warmth. He pictured Matthew’s apartment – clean lines, curated art, the lingering scent of Jake’s expensive cologne now fading. He could replace that scent.
He let the silence stretch for a beat, just long enough to convey thoughtful consideration, not hesitation. He reached across the table once more, this time covering Matthew’s hand fully with his own. His touch was warm, deliberate. He met Matthew’s hopeful, slightly anxious gaze, letting a slow, genuine-looking smile spread across his face, reaching his eyes.
"I panicked a little too, last time," he confessed softly, the lie smooth as silk. He squeezed Matthew’s hand. "Scared of messing up something that felt… important." He paused, letting the word resonate. "But you’re right. Tonight is different. It feels real." He held Matthew’s gaze, pouring every ounce of manufactured sincerity into his own. "I’d love to come back, Matthew. Just talk. Or… whatever feels right." He gave Matthew’s hand a final squeeze before pulling back, standing up. "Let’s get out of here."
The crisp night air felt like a slap after the restaurant’s warmth. Matthew flagged a cab with effortless authority, his burgundy sleeve brushing Joe’s arm. Inside the taxi’s close darkness, the city lights streaked past, painting fleeting patterns on Matthew’s profile. Joe watched him, cataloging the clean line of his jaw, the way his fingers tapped lightly on his knee. Not nervous. Anticipating.
"God, traffic's light for once," Matthew murmured, leaning back against the worn vinyl seat. He shifted slightly, his thigh pressing against Joe’s. An electric jolt, deliberate or accidental? Joe couldn’t tell. "My place isn’t far. Tenth floor. Decent view."
"Sounds perfect," Joe managed, the lie smooth, automatic. He focused on the solid feel of Matthew beside him, the lingering scent of his cedarwood cologne. Anything to drown out the phantom smell of bleach, of Jake’s final, rasping breaths. He needed this. Needed him. Matthew was the anchor dragging him back from the abyss he’d created.
Matthew’s apartment was exactly as Joe had imagined from his meticulous online sleuthing: minimalist chic, mid-century modern furniture, walls adorned with abstract art and a stunning black-and-white photograph of the Brooklyn Bridge at dawn. Airy. Uncluttered. Nothing like the suffocating chaos he’d left entombed below the bookstore. "Wow, Matthew," Joe breathed, genuine appreciation mingling with his surveillance. "This is… you. Sophisticated. Calm."
"Thanks," Matthew smiled, heading towards a sleek kitchenette. "Make yourself at home. Wine? I have a decent Pinot I opened earlier." He moved with easy familiarity, pulling down two large, stemless glasses. The soft clink echoed in the quiet space.
"Please." Joe wandered towards the floor-to-ceiling windows. The glittering grid of Manhattan spread out below, a vast, indifferent tapestry. He traced the faint reflection in the glass. His own face, superimposed on the cityscape. The watcher. The protector. Below, somewhere unseen, Jake was silent. Secured. The thought was a cold stone in his gut.
Matthew returned, handing him a glass brimming with deep ruby liquid. Their fingers brushed. The wine tasted of dark cherries and earth, grounding. "Cheers," Matthew said, clinking his glass softly against Joe’s. "To… feeling real."
"To real," Joe echoed, holding Matthew’s gaze. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward; it hummed with unspoken possibility. Matthew leaned back against the arm of his sofa, watching Joe over the rim of his glass. The low light caught the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. "Tell me something," he said softly. "Something about running the bookstore you haven’t told anyone else. Something only you know."
Joe considered. Truth, wrapped strategically. "The smell," he began, leaning against the window frame. "Not just the books. Old paper, leather, dust. That’s normal. But… there’s a corner in the rare books section. Near the 19th-century poetry anthologies." He took a slow sip, letting the image form. "Sunlight hits it for maybe twenty minutes, around four in the afternoon, this time of year. Warms the bindings. Releases this… scent. Vanilla, almost. And something else. Like old roses pressed in a book. Forgotten." He looked directly at Matthew. "I stand there sometimes. Just breathing it in. Feels like stepping into another time. Private."
Matthew’s expression softened, captivated. "That’s beautiful, Joe. Truly." He pushed away from the sofa, closing the small distance between them. He stood close now, so close Joe could see the faint stubble along his jawline, the pulse point fluttering gently at his throat. The city lights reflected in his eyes. "You see things," Matthew murmured. His free hand came up, fingertips lightly tracing the line of Joe’s collarbone through his shirt. "Things others miss."
The touch ignited a slow burn. Joe set his glass down on the windowsill with deliberate care, the click loud in the stillness. "Only the important things." His voice was low, rough. He mirrored the gesture, his own hand rising to cup Matthew’s jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. The skin was warm, alive. Matthew’s breath hitched, a soft intake of air.
Their kiss wasn’t tentative. It was a collision, an inevitable slide into heat. Lips parting, tongues meeting with a shared urgency that surprised them both. The glasses were forgotten. Matthew’s hands fisted in the fabric of Joe’s shirt, pulling him closer. Joe’s own hands slid around Matthew’s waist, feeling the solid muscle beneath the soft wool sweater, anchoring him against the dizzying pull of desire and dark relief. This was the antidote. The necessary oblivion.
Clumsy fingers worked buttons. Matthew’s burgundy sweater slid off broad shoulders, pooling on the polished concrete floor. Joe’s shirt followed, buttons straining, discarded near the sofa. Skin met skin. The cool air of the apartment contrasted sharply with the sudden heat radiating between them. Matthew’s mouth traced a hot path down Joe’s neck, teeth grazing the tendon. Joe groaned, arching into the contact, his hands sliding over the smooth planes of Matthew’s back, pulling him flush.
He could feel Matthew’s heart hammering against his own chest. Fast. Strong. Alive. The sheer, vital presence of him was intoxicating, washing away the lingering horror like a cleansing tide. He needed this consummation. Needed to mark this territory, to banish Jake’s ghost entirely, to bind Matthew to him in the most fundamental way. He kissed Matthew deeply, possessively, one hand tangling in his thick hair, the other sliding lower, tracing the waistband of Matthew’s trousers—
BRRRNNGGG! BRRRNNGGG! BRRRNNGGG!
The sudden, sharp electronic shriek of Matthew’s work phone shattered the charged silence. It vibrated violently against the glass coffee table where he’d left it, a jarring, insistent alarm.
Matthew flinched as if struck, pulling back sharply, confusion and frustration warring on his flushed face. "Shit. Work. Has to be." He stared at the phone, blinking, still breathing hard. The spell was broken, the intimate cocoon ripped open.
Joe froze, every muscle locking tight. Rage, pure and scalding, flooded his veins, momentarily blinding. Fitzpatrick. It had to be. The interfering bastard. The timing couldn’t be accidental. He saw it now – the Ambassador, watching from the shadows, trying to sabotage this. Trying to keep Matthew for himself. The image of Fitzpatrick’s confident, muscular frame filled his mind, morphing instantly into another obstacle. Another problem.
But he couldn’t show it. Not a flicker. He forced his clenched fists to relax, painted concern onto his face. "It’s okay," he said, his voice impressively steady, a soothing murmur belying the inferno inside. He reached out, gently squeezing Matthew’s bare forearm. "Get it. Might be important."
Matthew snatched the phone, glancing at the screen. A grimace confirmed Joe's suspicion. "It is him," he muttered, swiping to answer. "Fitzpatrick. What’s happened?" He listened, his bare shoulders tensing, the flush of desire fading rapidly into professional alertness. "The Azeri delegation what? When?... Christ. Okay. Secure perimeter. Call Security Council Emergency Protocol Bravo. I’m on my way. Twenty minutes." He ended the call, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Joe… I am so sorry. This is critical. Something’s blown up at the UN. Literally, maybe. Details are vague but Fitzpatrick needs me there now."
The disappointment on Matthew’s face was real, edged with anxiety. Joe harnessed it. He stepped closer, framing Matthew’s face with both hands. "Hey," he said softly, locking eyes. "Don’t apologize. The world needs saving. Or at least, crisis management." He managed a small, understanding smile. "Go. Do your diplomat thing." He leaned in, pressing a brief, firm kiss to Matthew’s lips – a promise, not a demand. "I’ll be right here when you’re done." He pulled back, his thumbs brushing Matthew’s cheekbones. "You’re worth waiting for, Matthew Sterling. Believe that."
Matthew searched his eyes, the tension easing slightly into profound gratitude. He squeezed Joe’s arms. "Thank you. For understanding. I… I really needed to hear that." He stepped back, already grabbing his discarded sweater. "Make yourself at home? Stay? Order food? I have no idea how long this will take…"
"Go," Joe urged, his voice warm, supportive. "Don’t worry about me. Just be safe." He picked up his own shirt, beginning to button it slowly, watching as Matthew scrambled into his clothes with efficient speed, the lover replaced by the diplomat in moments.
Within two minutes, Matthew was at the door, jacket on, briefcase in hand. He paused, looking back at Joe, framed in the doorway. "I’ll text," he promised, a final, lingering look passing between them before he vanished into the hallway.
The heavy door clicked shut.
Silence crashed back into the apartment, louder than the phone’s ring. Joe stood perfectly still, his fingers frozen on the last button of his shirt. The supportive mask dissolved instantly, leaving his face cold, expressionless. The taste of Matthew was still on his lips. The warmth of his skin still imprinted on Joe’s hands. The scent of his cologne hung in the air, mixed now with the tang of interrupted desire and… something darker.
He walked slowly to the window Matthew had stood at earlier. Below, a black town car pulled away from the curb, taillights flaring red as it merged into the late-night traffic. Heading towards the illuminated slab of the UN building. Towards Fitzpatrick.
The supportive words – You’re worth waiting for – echoed hollowly in his mind. He hadn't lied. Matthew was worth waiting for. Worth everything. But Fitzpatrick? Fitzpatrick was a complication. A meddler. A man who thought he could summon Matthew away, who dared to interrupt what was sacred.
Joe’s gaze remained fixed on the distant, glowing complex where Matthew was heading. His hand, hanging loosely at his side, clenched into a tight, white-knuckled fist. The Ambassador had just made a very serious mistake.
The heavy door clicked shut, sealing Joe alone in Matthew’s pristine world. He stood frozen, the supportive facade crumbling instantly. Only the hum of the refrigerator broke the silence. The lingering scent of Matthew’s cedarwood cologne mixed with the faint, coppery tang of his own adrenaline still pumping beneath the surface. Fitzpatrick’s interruption was a calculated strike. An invasion.
Joe moved with predatory silence, shedding his shoes near the door as Matthew might. His gaze swept the living space, not as a guest, but as an archaeologist uncovering layers. First, the coffee table: a sleek biography of Dag Hammarskjöld bookmarked halfway, a folded Financial Times, an empty espresso cup. Neat. Controlled. He drifted towards the kitchenette, opening the Sub-Zero fridge. Organic greens, expensive yogurt, a single bottle of Veuve Clicquot chilling. Precise, curated sustenance. No junk. No trace of Jake’s chaotic energy here anymore.
The small, polished desk near the window beckoned. Joe slid into the ergonomic chair, its leather cool. He opened drawers with delicate precision, gloved fingers brushing contents. Utility bills filed meticulously. Diplomatic cables in a locked drawer – avoided. Personal correspondence: a postcard from Dublin showing Trinity College library (He remembered that story), a heartfelt birthday card signed "Love, Mom & Dad", a brochure for a sailing trip in Maine. A life lived with care, yet… solitary. A small, worn Moleskine journal lay tucked beneath a box of Montblanc cartridges. Joe flipped it open. Sketches of bridges, hurried notes about policy nuances, a single line on a recent page: Met Joe today. Feels… different? Good different. His breath hitched, a possessive warmth blooming cold in his chest.
He moved to the bedroom. The bed was meticulously made, crisp white linens stark under the ambient city glow. Joe opened the walk-in closet. Rows of perfectly pressed suits and shirts, organized by color. Expensive shoes lined up like soldiers. One shelf held personal items: a framed photo of Matthew shaking hands with an Irish dignitary, looking young and earnest. Another showed him laughing with colleagues outside a Delhi market, vibrant colors blurring behind him. No photos of lovers. No Jake. Only a small, elegant wooden box. Inside, a silver pocket watch, initials M.S. – likely an heirloom. Vulnerable. Precious.
The ensuite bathroom yielded little: high-end grooming products, a prescription bottle for mild insomnia medication. No surprises. But beneath the sink, tucked beside extra towels, Joe found a small, locked fireproof box. He hesitated only a second before employing a thin, flexible tool from his wallet. Inside: passport, birth certificate, a deed to a property in Connecticut… and a single, recent photo. Matthew and Ambassador Tony Fitzpatrick, standing close on a rooftop terrace, glasses raised. Fitzpatrick’s hand rested lightly on Matthew’s shoulder. Both were smiling broadly, relaxed. Intimate. The inscription on the back, in Fitzpatrick’s bold script: To Matthew - Still the brightest star at the mission. Don’t let them dim your light. Tony. Joe studied the photo, the easy camaraderie, the ambassador’s confident grip. The possessive warmth curdled into icy fury. Fitzpatrick wasn't just an obstacle. He was a contender.
Joe meticulously replaced everything exactly as found, erasing his presence. He poured himself a glass of water in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. The glittering cityscape outside felt like a vast, indifferent audience. He checked Jake’s silenced phone – no new alerts. His own showed the time: 1:17 AM. Matthew was still at Fitzpatrick’s beck and call. He dimmed the lights, settled on the sofa, and opened the Hammarskjöld biography. Waiting. Watching the minutes crawl by. Reading without absorbing a word, his mind ticking over the contents of the apartment, the photo, the journal entry. Matthew was his. Fitzpatrick would learn that. The price of interference was steep.
The faint electronic chime of the apartment door unlocking finally shattered the stillness at 3:58 AM. Joe closed the book silently, placing it back precisely. Matthew stumbled in, looking utterly drained. His suit jacket was slung over one arm, tie loosened, hair dishevelled. He blinked in the dim light, spotting Joe on the sofa. "Joe," he breathed, his voice raspy with exhaustion. "God, you’re still here. I’m so sorry. It was… endless."
"Shhh," Joe stood, crossing the room in swift, silent strides. He took Matthew’s jacket, draping it over a chair. "You look wrecked. What happened?"
Matthew waved a weary hand, collapsing onto the arm of the sofa. "Azeri delegation walked out. Accusations flew. Security Council emergency session turned into a shouting match. Fitzpatrick..." He sighed, rubbing his eyes. "He worked the room like a maestro. Calmed things down. Eventually. Took hours. Contingency planning after." He looked up at Joe, shadows stark under his eyes. "I’m just… hollow."
"Come on," Joe said softly, his voice a gentle command. He offered his hand. Matthew took it, letting Joe pull him to his feet. He leaned heavily against him as Joe guided him towards the bedroom. "No talking. Just sleep."
Matthew didn’t resist. He shuffled into the dark bedroom, fumbling with his shirt buttons before giving up. He kicked off his shoes and peeled off his socks, leaving them where they fell. He all but fell onto the bed in his undershirt and trousers, groaning as he sank into the mattress. Joe moved quietly, pulling back the duvet. Matthew crawled under, burying his face in the pillow with a muffled sigh.
Joe stripped down to his own undershirt and boxers, sliding into bed beside him. The linen sheets were cool and crisp. He shifted closer, wrapping one arm securely around Matthew’s waist, pulling his back flush against his chest. Matthew instantly relaxed into the hold, a deep, shuddering breath escaping him. Joe’s chin rested lightly on Matthew’s shoulder. He could feel the slow, deep thud of Matthew’s heartbeat gradually settling into a tired rhythm against his own chest. Matthew’s breathing deepened, becoming slow and even.
"Just sleep," Matthew mumbled, already half-gone, his hand finding Joe’s arm where it held him. "Please. Just... hold me."
"Always," Joe whispered into the darkness, his lips brushing the nape of Matthew’s neck. He tightened his embrace fractionally, a possessive claim in the quiet. Matthew exhaled, a sound of pure, exhausted relief, and was asleep within seconds, his body limp and trusting in Joe’s arms. Joe lay perfectly still, listening to the soft sounds of sleep, feeling the warmth of Matthew’s skin. The city’s glow painted faint stripes across the ceiling. His gaze found the outline of the locked box, hidden in the walk-in closet across the room. The image of Fitzpatrick's hand on Matthew’s shoulder burned behind his eyelids. He held Matthew tighter, the promise cold and absolute in the peaceful dark.