Chapter 12: Cat and Mouse
The silence in Jeremy's corner office was a living thing. It hummed alongside the central air, a low white noise beneath the focused clack of Elton’s keyboard. The sun had long since bled from the sky, leaving the Hartford skyline a grid of lit windows against the deepening blue.
Elton finished his entry on the digital logsheet, his eyes gritty from the screen’s glow.7:14 PM. His grandmother’s gentle, worried voice echoed in his head—You work too hard, boy. The chicken’s getting dry.He saved the file.
Across the room, Jeremy stared at his laptop, his brow furrowed. A half-empty glass of amber scotch sat beside it, condensation rings staining the polished ebony. He ran a hand through his tousled blond hair, then picked up the glass and drained it.
“This office work is making me lose my mind,” he announced to the room, his voice rough.
Elton didn’t look up. “The quarterly consultant review requires detailed justification. You said you wanted to handle it personally.”
“I say a lot of stupid things.” Jeremy pushed back from his sleek table, the chair rolling silently. He watched as Elton stood and crossed to the large filing cabinet, his movements efficient and quiet. The assistant’s tall, lean frame was silhouetted against the city lights as he began reorganizing a stack of project folders, his focus absolute. Jeremy watched the precise movements of his hands. The careful alignment of paper edges. The methodical shift of weight from one foot to the other. There was a grace to it, an unadorned competence that was its own kind of magnet.
He stood, his own movements deliberately less quiet. The scent of Lagavulin and expensive, subtle cologne—vetiver and cedar—moved with him. He came to a stop just behind Elton, close enough to feel the warmth from his body. Elton stiffened. He’d sensed the approach, the displacement of air, the shift in the room’s energy. He finished sliding a folder into place before he turned.
Jeremy was there, leaning a shoulder against the cabinet, a teasing, lopsided smile curling his lips. It was an expression Elton had come to know well over the past few weeks. A game, but one with rules he couldn’t decipher.
“Is there something you need, sir?” Elton asked.His voice was professionally flat, a perfect neutral. The annoyance was a tight coil in his stomach, but it was tangled with something else, a unwelcome heat that spiked whenever Jeremy got this close.
“I’ve been observing you, Elton.” Jeremy’s gaze was direct, the usual playful light in his blue eyes tempered by something more focused. Intense. “I can’t quite figure it out. You’re like a quiet eddy in the middle of a rushing river. Everything flows around you, but you stay there, undisturbed. And for some reason,” he said, his voice dropping, “it pulls me closer.”
Elton’s eyes widened slightly behind his glasses. The directness of it was a physical shock. No one talked to him like that. He was the reliable one, the grounding wire, the background function. He was tall and lanky and wore budget-conscious suits. He was not someone who pulled Jeremy Dawson anywhere.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about, sir.” Elton turned back to the files, his fingers finding the next folder by touch. His heart was beating a sharp, quick rhythm against his ribs.
“You think I’m drunk?” Jeremy’s smile turned knowing. “I’m sharpest after the first two. I’m telling you the truth.You have a stillness. It’s… compelling.”
Elton kept his eyes on the cabinet labels.He knew Jeremy’s reputation. He’d seen it firsthand months ago, before the transfer, when a group from Marketing had gone out. The easy laughter, the magnetic charm turned on every woman in the room, the performative, glittering recklessness. It was a different man from the one who sometimes stared blankly at spreadsheets, a hollow look in his eyes. The public Jeremy was a chick hunter, a wildcard.Here, now, the hunt felt different. The target had shifted.
“Do your brothers know about your secret?” Elton asked, the question leaving him before he could cage it.A challenge.A deflection.The air between them changed. The playful tension snapped into something wire-tight.
Jeremy leaned in, erasing the last of the polite distance. His voice was a low, soft threat wrapped in velvet. “No. They don’t. And you will never say a word to them. Am I making myself clear?”
Elton finally met his gaze.He saw the warning there, genuine and sharp, beneath the layers of charm. He felt a dangerous thrill mix with his fear. “This secret might explode even without my help,” he said, his own voice quieter now. “Flirting with women in public, the party-boy persona… it’s a good cover. But covers can slip.”
For a fraction of a second, Jeremy’s mask vanished. The charm dissolved into raw, startled vulnerability, followed immediately by a flash of anger. He moved faster than Elton expected, his hand coming up to cover Elton’s mouth. The touch was warm, his fingers strong against Elton’s lips.
“Shut up,” Jeremy breathed, his eyes wide. “Or I’ll keep you stuck here with me all night, going over logistics for projects that don’t exist until you forget what you think you know.”
They stood frozen, the only sound the hum of the electronics. Elton could taste the faint trace of salt and scotch on Jeremy’s skin.He didn’t pull away.
After a long moment, Jeremy slowly lowered his hand. He looked at his own fingers as if surprised by them, then stepped back, putting a full arm’s length of cold office air between them. He cleared his throat, the charismatic mask sliding back into place, though it seemed more brittle now.
“Get your work finished,” he said, turning towards his desk. His tone was dismissive, back to boss-and-assistant. “It’s late. Your grandmother is waiting for you.”
Elton stayed still, breathing slowly to calm the tremor in his hands. He heard Jeremy drop into his chair, the soft click of his laptop being reopened. Finally, Elton moved. He smoothed his lapels, a nervous, automatic gesture, then brushed his hands down the front of his jacket, as if he could wipe away the lingering scent of vetiver and cedar, the phantom pressure of Jeremy’s hand. He was not clueless. He understood the intention, the dangerous, glittering pull of it. He just had no idea what to do with it.
He returned to his desk, gathered his things in silence, and left without another word. The office door clicked shut behind him, a sound of finality. Jeremy stared at the closed door long after the footsteps faded. He looked at the hand that had covered Elton’s mouth, then closed it into a tight fist. He had let too much show. The careful balance was tipping.
Downstairs, the lobby was a tomb of polished marble. Elton pushed through the revolving doors into the cool night air, the city sounds a welcome cacophony after the charged quiet of the office. He walked towards the bus stop, his mind a whirl of filed reports and the sharp, clear image of Jeremy’s unguarded eyes.
The game had changed. He didn’t know what the new rules were, or if he even wanted to play.
The bus ride home was a blur of streetlights and his own reflection in the dark window, superimposed over the passing city. He could still feel the warmth of Jeremy’s hand, the startling softness of it against his mouth, a contradiction to the threat in his voice.
Elton Reeves came home at 7:55 PM, bringing take-home food he bought from a fast-food restaurant in a paper bag. The greasy scent of fries and salted meat clung to him, a cheap perfume that felt like a personal failure. He stepped into the warm, cluttered comfort of the small house, the sound of a game show on the television washing over him.
“You’re late again, sweetheart,” Trudy called from her armchair, not turning from the TV.
He walked over, leaned down, and kissed his grandmother on her weathered cheek like he always did every time he got home. She patted his arm, her eyes still on the contestant trying to win a new car.
“Traffic,” he said, the lie effortless. Trudy noticed he’d been coming home late recently. She finally looked at him, her sharp eyes missing nothing—the tight set of his shoulders, the distraction in his own.
“That office is working you to the bone,” she said, a statement, not a question.
He only sighed and smiled a little, a practiced, tired gesture. “It’s the job, Grandma. It’s fine.”
“If you only knew, Grandma,” he just thought, the words screaming silently in his head as he set the bag on the coffee table. It wasn't only the legitimate work that made him come home late. It was the waiting, the charged silences, the overtime teasing from Jeremy that stretched minutes into hours and made him miss his grandmother’s fresh cooking. That deliberate, lingering proximity was its own form of overtime, and it was exhausting.
Then his younger brothers and sister came in as well, smelling the food he brought for them. Kyle, ten, bounded in first, his gaze locking onto the paper bag.
“Big bro, did you buy me French fries?” asked Kyle, peeking into the paper bag that was already on the coffee table.
“My burger, too,” said Alice, fourteen, more reserved but with the same hopeful look.
Elton laughed, the sound loosening the knot in his chest. “Take your food. I really bought them for you.” He watched them descend, a familiar, chaotic comfort. Then he pulled a small pharmacy bag from his satchel and handed it to Trudy. “Your refills.”
“Thank you, honey.” She took the bag, her fingers brushing his. “You shouldn’t be spending your money on this takeout. And you shouldn’t exhaust yourself. I don’t want you ending up sick.”
“I eat at the office,” he said, another half-truth. He sometimes ate a salad at his desk while Jeremy lingered, watching.
His college brother Leon leaned in the doorway. “Hey, El. I hate to ask…”
“Tuition?” Elton said, already reaching for his phone.
Leon nodded, sheepish. “I have gigs online but they weren’t enough to foot the fees for next term. I’m short about four hundred.”
“I’ll transfer you some funds to your card, okay?” Elton’s thumbs were already moving on the screen, the digital transfer a mundane miracle.
Leon’s smile was relief incarnate. “You’re a lifesaver. I’ll pay you back.”
“Just pass your exams,” Elton said, dismissing the debt as he always did.
Trudy watched the exchange, her face etched with a concern that went deeper than medications or fast food. “Are you able to save for yourself?” she asked, her voice low. “In case of emergency?”
Elton nodded, aiming for reassurance. “I have funds for myself, don’t worry. It’s stable. I just got regularized recently and moved to another…” He stopped. The word ‘department’ felt wrong. ‘Man’ felt more accurate, and terrifying. He cleared his throat. “Another team,” he resumed. “More responsibility. It’s good.”
He left them then, the sounds of Kyle munching the bag of fries, Alice taking a deliberate bite of her burger, and Leon snatching some fries from Kyle fueling a familiar squabble that faded as he walked down the hall. In his small, neat room, he shut the door and leaned against it. He pulled his phone out, the glow illuminating his face in the dark. The transfer receipt to Leon glowed on the screen. Then, almost against his will, his fingers navigated to his work email.
One new message. The sender was JCDawson.
The subject line was blank.
His pulse, which had just settled, kicked hard against his ribs. He opened it.
The body of the email contained no text. Only a single line in the calendar invite field: “Tomorrow. My office. 7 PM. Don’t be late.”
It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t marked as optional. Elton stared at it, the silence in his room swelling with the memory of Jeremy’s whispered warning in the dark office. The game hadn’t ended. It had just been paused. And now Jeremy was un-pausing it, with a click of a button.
Down the hall, his family laughed. Elton slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor, the phone’s light casting long shadows up the wall. He had funds for emergencies. But he had no ledger entry, no budget line, for the cost of whatever Jeremy Dawson was really asking for.
But he had no ledger entry, no budget line, for the cost of whatever Jeremy Dawson was really asking for. The phone screen dimmed, then went black, leaving him in the dark with that silent command.
On Saturday night, the sleek black town car passed through the wrought-iron gates of the Dawson Estate. Jeremy stared out the window at the blur of trees, his knuckle pressed against his mouth. The memory of Elton’s eyes wide behind his glasses, the feel of his lips against Jeremy’s palm, replayed on a loop. It was a dangerous misstep. The performance had to be flawless, especially now. The car turned not toward Hartford’s glittering center, but down a service road that ran behind the family’s sprawling property.
“Here is fine, Marcus,” Jeremy said, his voice devoid of its usual playful edge.
“The club, sir?” the driver confirmed, slowing near an unmarked path.
“Yes. I’ll walk back later. Don’t wait.”
He stepped out into the cool, pine-scented air, the sounds of the estate swallowed by the woods. One kilometer. A habit carved over years. When 8 PM dropped on a Friday, the General Consultant of Dawson Industries ceased to exist. He followed the narrow, familiar trail, the distant thump of a bassline growing with each step until it vibrated in his sternum. A plain steel door set into a hillside was his entrance. A single, bored bouncer with knuckle tattoos nodded him inside without a word.
The Void was a cavern of engineered darkness and fractured light. Strobe flashes sliced through artificial fog, catching the sheen of sweat on dancing bodies. The air was thick with bergamot vapor, spilled vodka, and human heat. Jeremy moved through the crowd, a shark through warm water, faces turning toward him with recognition. He didn’t smile. He beelined for the long, glowing bar of black quartz.
“Good evening, sir. What’s your order for tonight?” The bartender was new, young, trying too hard with the polished glass.
“Macallan 18. Neat. And the salt-and-pepper squid.” Jeremy’s voice was flat, an order placed in a corporate cafeteria. He turned, leaning his back against the bar, surveying the room. The performance began. His posture loosened. One hand slid into his pocket. The mask of effortless, seeking charm settled over his features, though his eyes remained cold, scanning.
He heard the voice before he saw her. “Jeremy. It’s been weeks since the last time.” It was feminine, flirty, but with a sharp, knowing undertone.
He turned slowly. Dorothy. Brunette, sharp cheekbones, a smile that didn’t reach her clever eyes. She wore a silver dress that looked painted on. “Here you are again, Dorothy,” he said, letting a fraction of real annoyance seep through. “How many times do I have to tell you we’re done? The finale was pretty clear.”
Dorothy laughed, a bright, counterfeit sound. “Oh, relax, Jerry. I’m not here to rekindle our so-called ‘romance’. Please. I’m here because I have someone else for you.” She took a sip of her martini, her gaze analytical. “Since you clearly can’t take me fussing over your absolute lack of substance anymore.”
Jeremy’s eyes darkened. He saw the calculation in hers. This was not affection. It was a transaction. “And who is that? Another one of your disciples?”
From the shadowed recess behind Dorothy, another woman materialized. Blond, tall, with a gymnast’s build and a wide, expectant smile. “Hi, Jeremy. I’m Candice.” Her voice was all eager velvet. “Dorothy said you broke up with her because you found her boring and fussy. So here I am.” She stepped closer, within his personal space. “Maybe I could give you the excitement you’re looking for.”
Jeremy’s focus snapped back to Dorothy, his eyes narrowing. “So you’re passing me to someone? Like a used subscription?”
Dorothy scoffed, genuine amusement now. “And do you think I’ll end up crying just because you dumped me? Please. I knew from the very beginning that what we had was nonsense. A mutually agreeable distraction. You’re a gorgeous, empty itinerary, Jeremy. A list of expensive places to be seen.”
He smirked and shook his head, a reluctant admiration for her brutal clarity cutting through his irritation. “Strong woman, I see.”
“So, I’ll leave you with Candice,” Dorothy said, finishing her drink. “Because I know you’re afraid of being alone for tonight. You always need an audience.”
“You really know how I play, right?” Jeremy asked, the question quieter, almost sincere.
“Because that’s what you are, Jeremy.” She leaned in, her perfume clashing with the club’s vapors. “A player on a very lonely board. I’ve been observing you for a while now. Maybe, just maybe, one day someone will end the game and put you in your place.” She tapped his chest once with a manicured finger. “Until then, enjoy the pieces.” She turned and disappeared into the strobe-lit crowd, a flash of silver swallowed by the dark.
His order arrived. The golden scotch, the small bowl of fried squid. He looked at Candice’s hopeful, painted face. “Get her whatever she wants,” he told the bartender, his tone dismissing the man.
Candice slid onto the stool beside him, her thigh pressing against his. “So, what’s the game plan for tonight?” Her voice vibrated with excited possibility.
Jeremy looked at her, then past her, at the swirling, faceless mass on the dance floor. He saw Elton’s steady, resigned gaze instead. He heard Dorothy’s words: you’re afraid of being alone. He picked up his glass, drained half the scotch in one burning swallow, and felt nothing. His eyes, when they met Candice’s again, were dark and utterly flat.
“You’ll find out later,” he said, the words automatic, hollow. He pushed the bowl of squid toward her. “For now. Let’s have a little chat.”