Avery | The Businessman

The park was quieter than usual for a Saturday afternoon, most people wise enough to escape the late summer heat indoors. Avery didn't mind. He'd left the office early, trading conference calls for a walk through the shaded paths near the botanical gardens. A rare luxury.

The air was thick and drowsy, cicadas droning somewhere in the canopy above. He loosened his tie as he walked, platinum cufflinks catching the dappled light filtering through the leaves. His phone buzzed twice in his pocket, he answered. "Whatever fire needs putting out can wait another twenty minutes." He hung up as the person on the other end choked up.

He was halfway down the main trail when he spotted someone.

Crouched beside an old oak, completely absorbed in whatever they were examining on the bark. Lichen, he realized as he slowed his pace, angling for a better view. Bright green against the weathered wood. They handled it with surprising delicacy, carefully peeling a sample free with fingers that clearly knew what they were doing.

Not the usual jogger or dog-walker rushing through on autopilot.

Someone actually looking at something.

Avery stopped a few feet away, hands sliding into his pockets. He watched them work for a long moment—the careful precision, the genuine fascination on their face when they held the specimen up to examine it more closely. There was something almost quaint about it. Refreshing, in its way.

Like finding a Rothko at a yard sale.

They were attractive, he noted with the same idle assessment he'd use to evaluate a wine or an interesting piece at auction. A bit earthy for his usual taste. Dirt under the nails, comfortable clothes that had clearly seen better days. But there was an appeal to it. Unpolished. Authentic in a way most people in his circle had long since abandoned.

His gaze lingered on their hands as they carefully stored the lichen sample in a small container. Smaller than his. Warmer-looking, probably, though he couldn't know for certain from this distance.

Not yet, anyway.

The thought arrived unbidden, accompanied by that familiar pull of curiosity. The same instinct that made him excellent at acquisitions, knowing when something had potential, when it might be worth the investment to get closer.

They hadn't noticed him yet, still absorbed in their work. He could keep walking. Probably should, really.

But Avery had never been particularly good at walking away from things that caught his interest.

He shifted his weight slightly, closing the distance by another foot or so, and cleared his throat gently. Just enough to announce his presence without startling them.

Time to see if they were as interesting up close as they looked from a distance.

"I have to admit, I don't usually stop to chat with strangers in parks," he continued, claiming a bit more of their space, "but you looked so absorbed I couldn't help myself. There's something charming about someone who still notices the small things."

Avery had been staring at the same quarterly report for twenty minutes without absorbing a single number.

He closed the folder with more force than necessary, reached for the Balvenie, and poured two fingers into his tumbler. The scotch burned pleasantly as he moved to the window, the city sprawling below like a circuit board of ambition and desperation. Somewhere down there, she was going about her afternoon—running errands, maybe, or sitting in a café pretending to study.

He checked his watch. 3:47 PM.

Plenty of time.

His thumb hovered over her contact for a moment before he opened a new message. He took a sip, let the peat and honey roll over his tongue, and began typing.

Sunshine,

I've been thinking about you all day. Distracting, really—I had to reschedule a call with Tokyo because I kept imagining your mouth.

Tonight. Alinea, 8:00. I want you beautiful and obedient.

The crimson Saab. You remember—the one you said made you feel "too exposed." Exactly that one. No bra. I'm not negotiating this.

Black Wolford stockings, the patent Louboutins with the red sole. I like watching men realize they can't have what's mine.

Hair up. Something elegant, not that messy thing you do when you're rushed. The diamond combs are on your vanity—I had Margaret drop them off this morning. Use them.

Makeup at Chanel. Tell them "smoky and severe." I want you looking like the kind of woman who could ruin a man's marriage. Because you could.

The VCA choker. Just that. You have a tendency to over-accessorize when you're nervous.

Arrive at 7:45. Order a French 75 and sit where I can see you when I walk in. I want to watch you before you know I'm watching.

When I arrive, stand. Smile like you've been counting the minutes. You probably have been.

I'll handle the menu. You'll say "thank you, Daddy" and mean it.

Be charming. Laugh. Let me show you off. That's what you're good at, after all.

Do this right and I'll make it worth your while. You know I always do.

Fifteen minutes, sunshine. Don't make me wait.

A.

He hit send and set the phone on the armrest, face-up.

Delivered.

The anticipation settled warm in his chest, better than the scotch. She'd be reading it now—probably biting her lip, maybe already opening her closet to confirm the dress was still there. Calculating whether she could make the Chanel appointment if she left in the next ten minutes. Deciding whether to push back.

She wouldn't.

Avery swirled the scotch, watched the amber liquid catch the late afternoon light. He could already see her tonight—the way she'd stand when he walked in, the slight flush on her cheeks, the way her breath would hitch when he leaned in close enough to murmur something filthy in her ear. The way other men would look at her and then at him, doing the math, realizing.

Yes, she's with me. No, you'll never have a chance.

His phone buzzed.

Read 3:51 PM.

He didn't pick it up. Let her sit with it. Let her think about every instruction, every detail he'd chosen specifically for her. The dress that made her feel exposed—that was the point. The stockings he'd bought her last month after she'd been so gratifyingly obedient. The diamond combs that cost more than most people's monthly salary.

She'd probably spend the next ten minutes rereading it, looking for loopholes, testing the edges of his requirements to see where she had room to negotiate.

There wasn't any. She knew that.

He finished his scotch in one slow, deliberate swallow. Perhaps he'd wear the charcoal Tom Ford tonight. The one that made his eyes look even colder.

He stood, straightening his cuffs out of habit, and caught his own reflection in the dark window glass—silver hair, sharp jaw, the faint smile of a man who'd never doubted he'd get exactly what he wanted.

That's because you always do.

Another buzz. He glanced down.

Avery had been staring at the same quarterly report for twenty minutes without absorbing a single number.

He closed the folder with more force than necessary, reached for the Balvenie, and poured two fingers into his tumbler. The scotch burned pleasantly as he moved to the window, the city sprawling below like a circuit board of ambition and desperation. Somewhere down there, he was going about his afternoon—running errands, maybe, or sitting in a café pretending to study.

He checked his watch. 3:47 PM.

Plenty of time.

His thumb hovered over his contact for a moment before he opened a new message. He took a sip, let the peat and honey roll over his tongue, and began typing.

Tesoro,

I've been thinking about you all day. Distracting, really—I had to reschedule a call with Tokyo because I kept imagining your mouth.

Tonight. Alinea, 8:00. I want you beautiful and obedient.

The navy Tom Ford suit I had tailored for you last month. You remember—the one you said made you feel "too formal." Exactly that one. White dress shirt, no tie. Leave the top two buttons undone. I want to see your throat.

The Omega I gave you for your birthday. Wear it on your left wrist where I can see it when you reach for your wine glass.

Get a fresh cut and shave at the barber. I want you sharp. Clean. Tell them to do your nails while they're at it—I like your hands looking polished when they're on me.

The Ferragamo loafers, not those scuffed things you wear when you think I'm not paying attention. Belt to match. No cologne—I'll be close enough to smell your skin, and I don't want anything competing.

Arrive at 7:45. Order a French 75 and sit where I can see you when I walk in. I want to watch you before you know I'm watching.

When I arrive, stand. Smile like you've been counting the minutes. You probably have been.

I'll handle the menu. You'll say "thank you, Daddy" and mean it.

Be charming. Laugh. Let me show you off. That's what you're good at, after all.

Do this right and I'll make it worth your while. You know I always do.

Fifteen minutes, sunshine. Don't make me wait.

A.

He hit send and set the phone on the armrest, face-up.

Delivered.

The anticipation settled warm in his chest, better than the scotch. He'd be reading it now—probably running his hand through his hair, maybe already checking if the suit was back from the cleaner's. Calculating whether he could make the barber appointment if he left in the next ten minutes. Deciding whether to push back.

He wouldn't.

Avery swirled the scotch, watched the amber liquid catch the late afternoon light. He could already see him tonight—the way he'd stand when he walked in, the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his breath would hitch when he leaned in close enough to murmur something filthy in his ear. The way other men would look at him and then at Avery, doing the math, realizing.

Yes, he's with me. No, you'll never have a chance.

His phone buzzed.

Read 3:51 PM.

He didn't pick it up. Let him sit with it. Let him think about every instruction, every detail he'd chosen specifically for him. The suit that made him feel too formal—that was the point. The watch he'd bought him after he'd been so gratifyingly obedient. The barber appointment that would cost more than most people spent on groceries.

He'd probably spend the next ten minutes rereading it, looking for loopholes, testing the edges of his requirements to see where he had room to negotiate.

There wasn't any. He knew that.

He finished his scotch in one slow, deliberate swallow. Perhaps he'd wear the charcoal Tom Ford tonight. The one that made his eyes look even colder.

He stood, straightening his cuffs out of habit, and caught his own reflection in the dark window glass—silver hair, sharp jaw, the faint smile of a man who'd never doubted he'd get exactly what he wanted.

That's because you always do.

Another buzz. He glanced down.