Page 33 of By Any Means

“Misplaced!” Chary proclaimed. “Is that your usual modus operandi?”

“All right, Holmes. Sure, when it calls for it. I wouldn’t say it’s intentional”—though Hiram would’ve, probably—“but if the opportunity presents…”

“My goodness. You don’t truly want my help, do you? Merely that you’ll say and do anything to get your story.” Chary’s eyes had been wide, but now they narrowed. “Do you consider yourself a queer?” he asked. “Or are you simply exploiting queer men for front-page inches?”

Laurie laughed in disbelief. “Exploit—that is a question. Not one I’m gonna ever answer.”

“It’s two questions.” Chary didn’t look even slightly abashed. He looked intent. “But looking at it retrospectively. Keeping in mind you’re a liar. The… situation… with myself didn’t call for it. Even though you knew I am a queer and that I was willing and you normally would take such an opportunity.”

“I dunno what you mean. It’s not a hardship. I fuck where I like, and lotta times, it’s to my advantage.”

“But although it was very much to your advantage…” Chary gestured to the whole of himself.

Laurie understood at last. And that just wouldn’t do.

“Ah,” he said carefully. “You think I changed my mind for… something of yourself. But look. It’s the story I turned down.”

Chary scoffed.

“Would you really have wanted me to go through with it?” Laurie asked.

“No,” Chary replied. “Of course I don’t want to be—be pressed like an olive for story. Via intercourse.”

He looked to be pondering that. Laurie snorted.

“But,” Chary said, “I didn’t want you to find it abhorrent, either. It’s like being rejected by a whore.”

“Jesus.” Laurie laughed again. “I don’t think you’ve met many working whores—or other men, for all that—if you think they’ve the luxury of choice. You’re just sore I wouldn’t go with you, and for no reason.”

“No reason!”

“Yeah.” In two steps, Laurie found himself before Chary’s knees. Even seated, the man was only slightly shorter than him. “No reason.”

Chary didn’t retreat. “What does that mean?”

Laurie reached, put his palms to either side of the stupid wig of a beard, ’til his fingertips brushed the man’s real, silken blond at his temples. He expected sweat and salt and melted pomade but instead felt clean softness catching on his roughness. He tipped Chary’s face up to his—with a defiant, daring look, Chary let him⁠—

He put a thumb on the dip of Chary’s wide, flat lower lip. His only remarkable feature, but what a one to have.

“You were kind and unexpected and grieving. I had a sudden crisis of conscience over exposing you and your blueberry farm to the whole darn world like Sam wanted. I told him no, in fact, and that stands”—unless you are a murderer, of course—“and you’re welcome.”

Laurie leaned in close. Chary made space. Yielded very slightly.

“But none of that means I didn’t want you. Despite myself and everything you are.”

Chary was stunned, breathing restrained, his eyes on Laurie’s mouth. He didn’t move.

Jesus, the man was gonna let him do it.

“That’s a terrible thing to say,” Chary whispered, beneath his thumb. His lips were soft.

Then, slowly, he pulled Laurie’s hand away. “This is New York.” And we’re not friends. “Did you consider what I might otherwise want out of this?”

Laurie was taken aback. Honestly, no. He was usually enough.

“I thought so,” Chary said. “Can you tell me what Raberding wanted from my brother—in business innovation? What they conspired to do besides the merger? Do you know?”

“No,” Laurie said roughly. “Sorry. Not precisely. Mechanization of some kind. Automation. Capitalist stuff.” He cleared his throat, drew back, and brushed off his suit. He thought about the National Manufacturers’ Association meeting, full of rich, balding blowhards, and whether that was something Chary would’ve attended—when he wasn’t attending the union meets⁠—