Page 29 of Technical Advances

I really wanted to get along with Beck and didn’t know what he had against me, but at least I didn’t have to worry about pulling all-nighters, because like clockwork, Beck continued to show up in the lab and not so subtly send me on my way each evening.

Despite my efforts to keep an eye on the clock, it came as a surprise to Anson and me every night; that's how engrossed in the work we were. I got the sense that Anson being engrossed in work, and Beck being the one to remind him to do things like eat and sleep, was common practice at New Day Technologies. Every time Beck glared at me like I was an anomaly in his data set that he wished he could simply delete, I tried to remember that he was just looking out for his friend and partner.

I knew you couldn’t just delete an anomaly; you must figure it out, make it work. Getting Beck to like me was just another equation to solve as an (about-to-be) employee of New Day Tech.

One day during the third week of our time together, we were in Anson’s dimly lit, wood-paneled office. A ridiculously large tub of French fries sat on the desk next to the keyboard. Beck had scowled when he saw them, and I’ll admit, we did usually pick healthier food, but Anson had actually suggested burgers and fries, and I was more than happy to oblige. I was unnaturally elated to be giving Anson what he wanted. For someone who could have anything he asked for, no matter what the cost, Anson didn’t seem to ask for much for himself.

Beck hadn’t stayed long that day, mumbling something about us enjoying our burgers as he left with a promise from Anson that they would meet first thing the following morning to review some expense report. Translation: we’d be seeing him again before eight p.m. so he could kick us out of the lab.

Burgers done, I was surreptitiously watching Anson as he sat at the computer, fingers flying. I stood behind his butter-soft, high-backed chair, slightly to the side, ostensibly so I could see over his shoulder. In truth I wasn’t paying any attention to the computer screens as I marveled at the man in front of me, whose simple pleasure was a hamburger and fries, a man who could get lost in a project and forget to eat and sleep. A man with a nagging, and okay, caring best friend. A man, not an icon, not a hero. Just … a man. And your boss, my mind tried to warn me.

Anson asked a question, pulling me back to the task at hand, causing me to tear my eyes from him as we bounced ideas back and forth, and I watched another part of our project come to life on the screen.

Occasionally, I’d lean forward over his shoulder to reach the greasy bucket on his desk and pop a fry in my mouth. The pungent French fry grease permeated the room, but each time I leaned in, despite moving closer to the blotchy cardboard bucket as well, all I could smell was this odd mixture of sandalwood and Anson. It was a scent I had come to know and one I missed when we weren’t together.

With every single handful of fries, I would straighten back up quickly and shove the food in my mouth, barely able to keep myself from leaning closer to find out if he’d tapped a drop of the cologne behind his ears or simply sprayed it all over his body. The mouthful of fried potatoes kept me from whimpering or sighing at the thought of finding out.

I moved my gaze from the numbers flying on the screen to stare again at Anson’s profile. I managed to stifle a groan as I took in his ramrod-straight posture in the expensive office chair, his handsome features made even more so by the intensity of his concentration. I should have been used to seeing him like this, focused, driven, able to drown everything else out. It was the drive that would have kept us up all hours in the lab if he didn’t have Beck looking out for him and making sure he took a break each night. A surge of warmth ran through me, and I realized how grateful I was that Anson had Beck to watch over him. The feeling quickly turned to something I couldn’t quite explain as my brain jumped from “Beck is wonderful for looking out for his friend” to “Why is Beck so keen on looking out for Anson? What exactly is the extent of their relationship?”

I tamped those thoughts down as best I could. My quagmire of emotions certainly couldn’t handle jealousy, and my logical brain knew that being jealous of Beck would be futile. Anson Day and Henry Beckett were famously best friends. Even in my fantasies, I knew I could never come between the two. Nor would I want to, I reminded myself. Beck and Anson complimented each other perfectly.

So do Anson and you.

After my third or fourth handful of fries, I realized I was the only one plucking from the bucket while Anson continued to work. I grabbed a greasy fry, leaned down, and placed it in front of his face. He made no move at first, other than to finish the formula he was working on. I kept my hand still, and as Anson switched to use the mouse and rotate the mock-up on the screen, he leaned in and snatched the fry with his teeth. His hands never stopped moving over the keyboard as he worked to chew the thing until it was gone.

And then we did that over and over again, one fry at a time, my hand moving closer to his mouth with each one.

Since that day in the Commons, I had been so good at focusing on the project and ignoring the pull my body felt toward Anson. But watching him continue to work as I fed him, all I could focus on was the space between us. While he solved one of our many conundrums, I wondered if I could straddle him in that big chair, deciding that the armrests would very much be in the way. That didn’t stop me from picturing myself doing just that, the food still within reach as I fed him fries one by one from the comfort of his lap.

Behind him, blocked mostly by the chair, my cock got hard so quickly that I couldn’t stop the tiny whimper that left my throat. I quickly diverted my hand to shove another handful of fries into my own mouth. I didn’t think Anson was paying any attention to me, but his mouth trying to chase my hand before the food left his peripheral vision said otherwise.

“Sorry, baby.” God damn! I was so distracted. Had I really said that out loud? I looked at Anson, who appeared to be still in the zone, and at the screen where the answer to our latest riddle was clearly blossoming before my eyes.

“To the tenth factor,” I muttered as I queued up his next fry. I inhaled deeply, holding my breath as I steadied my hand and my nerves. He snapped up the fry, and it flopped from between his lips as he nodded in agreement and tweaked the formula. I exhaled. Maybe he hadn’t heard the endearment?

“Of course,” he mumbled as he chewed, typing away. Deep in the recesses of my brain, I knew the formula was coming together, but all I could focus on was Anson’s profile, the beating of my own heart, and my pulsing cock.

God! Up until about ten minutes before I had decided I needed to hand-feed my boss, it had been difficult enough to call him Anson. And yet the word “baby” had just fallen out of my mouth, like I called him that all the time. I had to get my shit together. I continued to watch him intently, but he didn’t seem to notice.

I couldn’t help myself. I fed him one last French fry, then I took a big step back, making a show of heading to the small refrigerator I knew was hidden behind one of the room’s cherry cabinets.

The cabinet with the drinks was next to the couch, opposite Anson’s desk and the distracted, and distracting, man sitting at it. I grabbed a bottle of water for Anson and a soda for myself. I placed his water on the desk from the cock-blocking distance of the opposite side, then I plunked myself down on the comfortable couch. Hidden by the two large computer screens, I was able to adjust myself, but even that purposeful touch sent a surge through me. I inhaled again and quickly opened the soda bottle to mask it, pouring half the liquid down my throat and concentrating on the burn instead of the other sensations flowing through me.

Knowing his work habits as I did after the amount of time we’d spent together, I assumed the couch I was sitting on was placed there intentionally, probably by Beck, so that Anson had a place to lay his head when the thoughts and calculations and inspirations that I knew ran through his mind constantly, like they ran through mine, finally allowed him a respite. Of course, as I sat on it, thoughts of Anson sprawled out on the couch were competing with the calculations I was supposed to be working on. My cock surged again. I didn’t dare attempt to adjust it. Another pull from the soda emptied the bottle, and I was left staring at the back of two computer screens, fantasizing about the man behind them.

Pulling out my phone in an effort to distract myself, I found a text from my dad with a picture of him wearing an “MIT Dad” T-shirt, a goofy smile on his face and his thumb up. I chuckled and replied with a thumbs-up emoji in turn.

Benji: I can meet you at the airport.

I smiled down at the phone. My dad had worked so hard all my life so that I could get into a good school and pursue my dreams. He’d dropped me off, first in New Jersey for my undergrad and then at MIT, with such pride. He would be here in twenty-four hours, and within a few days after that, I would have my doctorate. My dream job was secured, and I vowed, as I’d been doing every night after Beck dismissed me from the lab, that I wouldn’t let my stupid adolescent feelings get in the way of my promising future.

Not necessary, Dad responded. I’ve visited enough to get myself to your apartment. See you soon.

He sent another smiley photo, so I tilted my head, put my thumb in the air, and sent one back. I hadn’t noticed that the typing had stopped, but when I lowered my phone, my eyes locked with Anson’s. How long had he been staring at me from between his two computer screens and why?

Our gazes held for one beat, two, neither of us moving or saying anything. Slowly I lowered my phone as if I didn’t want the move to catch his attention and draw his cerulean eyes from mine. Cerulean, like the color of the sea near my grandparents’ place on the west coast. I could dive in them, drown in them, they were that blue.

There was a wide expanse of his office between us, but in some ways, I’d never felt closer to him. At the same moment as I realized that was because it felt like he was really seeing me, it occurred to me that I should, in no way, actually let him see the real me—or at least that part of me that harbored adolescent fantasies that were drenched in sandalwood and heat and involved the nickname “baby.” So instead of staring at him until the end of time, I raised the phone back up until it was level with my face. That didn’t break our eye contact, so I waved it back and forth.