Sometimes you just knew when a project was going to go wrong, he thought. There was no reason to believe that the odds were stacked against this one, but somehow he just knew. John had laughed at him and told him to stop borrowing trouble, but that sense that something wasn't quite right wouldn't go away.
On paper, there was no reason to feel this way; the drawings were sound, the materials were good, no one was suggesting that they cut any corners and the crew was the best. Still, there were always a million things that could go wrong, especially on a project this size; he knew.
Maybe the bad feelings had started when the politicians got involved; maybe it was when he spotted the red-haired union boss snooping around the crew; maybe it was something about the bland smile that never quite reached the blue eyes of the contractor, but by the time he heard that the architect was visiting the site he knew that this was not going to go well.
He shrugged and went back to the task at hand; John was the foreman, let him worry about it. But that was the problem, John wasn't worried about it and Randy couldn't fight off the sense of foreboding that had plagued him all week. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a taxi pull up and two men get out. He recognised the contractor and supposed the other was the architect, but turned his attention to the endless series of steel girders that formed the skeleton of the massive structure.
Randy found the repetitive nature of the work soothing, in spite of the noise, and soon became absorbed in what he was doing. The early spring day was just warm enough to work without a jacket and just cool enough to allow him to engage in physical labour without becoming uncomfortably hot. He stopped and stretched and realised he was being watched.
A short dark-haired man smiled winningly at him. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't mean to stare. It's just that I find the process fascinating."
Unaccountably taken aback by the young man's interest, he took refuge in feigned boorishness. "Stare all you like, bud," he grunted. "Just keep out of the way."
He wasn't being fair, he realised; the man was standing a safe distance away; he wore sturdy boots and a hard hat. That suggested he was no stranger to construction sites: a refreshing change from some of the suits who visited, picking their way through the rubble and detritus in hand-made Italian loafers. Nor was this man wearing a suit: he was clad in blue jeans and a plain shirt. Only his obviously expensive sunglasses looked out of place.
With a start, he recognised the architect. When they broke ground for the project the Times had done a short article with a picture of the young man standing near him. He was very young to have won such a large commission, it had said. His design had aroused some controversy, but Randy had seen the drawings and had admired its stark simplicity.
Without thinking, he approached the other man. "No I-beam mullions?" he asked with a slight smirk.
The architect answered him with dead seriousness, "No. It's all very well to be inspired by Mies, but I don't want to be a second-rate copy of him."
Forgetting himself, Randy continued, "You studied in Chicago." It was more of a statement than a question.
"Is it that obvious?" he asked, pulling off his sunglasses.
"Only to someone who…" Randy's voice trailed off. "Gotta get back to work, bud," he said, turning away.
The young architect hurriedly replaced his sunglasses and retreated to the site trailer, while Randy attacked the girders forcefully. Idiot, he cursed himself. What had possessed him to start that conversation? That was all behind him; he took comfort in the anonymity of the crew. Life as a working stiff might be dull sometimes, but his needs were few and easily met.
A couple of hours later, the whistle blew and, grabbing his lunchbox and jacket, he hopped on a bus. Letting himself into his second-floor walk-up, he pulled a beer out of the refrigerator and drained it in several large gulps. He gnawed absentmindedly on a cold chicken leg while he read the paper, but soon realised that the short encounter he had with the architect that day had unsettled him more than he had been willing to admit.
He pulled a portfolio out from under his bed and began to leaf through the drawings it contained. Some of them had the power to make him smile: a horrendous Beaux-Arts structure and a pretentious Art Deco cinema. Several were not unlike the current job and one, covered in drink rings and cigarette burns, made him close his eyes and shake his head as if to banish the memories it evoked.
Unwilling to sit alone any longer, he headed out and walked to a small tavern a couple of blocks away. As he had hoped, John was at the bar listening to the ball game.
The two men nodded at each other and drank in companionable silence until the game ended, Randy handing John a five-dollar bill. "That'll teach you to bet against the Dodgers," John crowed. "They're going all the way this year. I can feel it."
Randy found the fanaticism of Brooklyn fans somewhat amusing; he was a fan of his native St Louis's Cardinals, but with nothing of the fervour that the Dodgers' fans seemed to possess.
"It'll happen next year. Isn't that what you guys say?" Randy mocked.
"It's going to happen this year," John grinned. "I know it." He ordered them another beer, paying for it out of his winnings. "I saw you talking to Bourne today. Were you reminiscing about St Louis or Chicago?"
"I read somewhere that he was from St Louis, but I'd forgotten. And I have nothing to say about Chicago. You know that."
"I'm sorry," John said. "I didn't mean to bring it up. It's just that it seemed kind of odd to see the pair of you talking like that. By rights, you should be working together or competing for the same jobs."
"By rights a lot of things should be different," Randy pointed out. "You shouldn't have had to leave college at the end of your freshman year."
"Well, my dad had died. My mom needed help."
No, Randy thought. It wasn't fair. John had given up his future to look after his younger brothers and still lived at home caring for his ailing mother; a couple beers and a ball game the highlight of his day. He remembered how John had glowed with pride when his younger brother had been accepted to medical school and how he'd worked three jobs to put him through. He'd never forget how John had given him a place to stay and a job when his own life had collapsed around him.
"So, what did you think of Bourne? He seems awfully young, but you were when you got your first big project."
"We only spoke for a second," Randy said, reluctant to share his brief conversation, "but his stuff is good."
"Of course it is," John laughed. "It reminds me of what you were doing." When Randy refused to answer, he went on. "Are you over your case of the creeps about this building now that you've met him?"
"It was never the building that bothered me. It's the people. That Irish union guy, who keeps showing up, can only be bad news."
"Who? That guy they call Sheamus? There's one of those sniffing around every project. I wouldn't worry too much," John answered.
"And what about that contractor? He walks around with this shit-eating grin on his face, but I wouldn't trust him any further than I could throw him."
"Jericho?" John asked. "I know he seems a bit seedy, but Levesque likes him and he's the guy who signs our cheques."
"I know," Randy said. They spent a few more minutes chatting, John reminding Randy that he had promised to come to his house for dinner that Sunday, before leaving the tavern. Randy watched John disappear around the corner to walk the few blocks to his home and headed back to his own small apartment.
Lying in his bed, listening to the street sounds of New York, Randy thought again about his encounter with the young architect. How odd that both of them should have come from St Louis and studied in Chicago. John was right: under other circumstances they would have likely been crossing paths professionally. But he steadfastly refused to dwell on what might have been.
And, just as he was about to fall asleep, he remembered the instant when Bourne had raised his sunglasses and wondered who he had pissed off badly enough to have acquired that black eye.
XXXXXXXXXX
Evan lay in his bed in his upper East-Side apartment puzzling over his strange conversation with the construction worker that day. It had lasted only a few seconds, but it had haunted him all day. Why did he have a feeling he had seen that man before? Maybe he'd been on the crew on another of his projects? And the comment about I-beam mullions? The way he'd recognised the Chicago school immediately? Those were not observations commonly made by site-workers. Still, maybe he was being guilty of the worst form of snobbishness: assuming that a working man had no knowledge or interest beyond his own world.
That was one of the reasons why he had come to New York. Everything seemed bigger and louder and bolder here. After the stuffiness of his parents' home and his convention-bound childhood, every day in the most exciting city in the world seemed like an adventure waiting to happen. When he had won the commission to design this middle-income apartment block he had leased a two-bedroom apartment in the city and, with more commissions coming his way, he knew he would soon have to look for space and move his office from his second bedroom.
He tensed as he heard a key in the lock and held his breath as the other man lurched unsteadily into the room.
"You've been drinking." The words were out before he thought about them.
"So?" he said as he stripped off his clothes and climbed nude into the bed.
Evan closed his eyes and prayed that the other man was intoxicated enough to fall asleep immediately, but he was not to be so lucky. He fumbled with Evan's pyjama pants, pulling them down as he pushed himself between his buttocks.
"Chris, no!" Evan gasped even as the blond-haired man sank roughly into him. Evan gritted his teeth, determined not to let the cries of pain escape him as the other man thrust brutally. His sensitive nerve endings on fire, Evan squeezed his eyes shut and waited for it to be over. Chris reached around and grasped Evan firmly. It was bad enough to have to endure this, Evan thought; he was damned if he was going to enjoy it. He tried to push Chris's hand away, but received a ringing slap across his ear and stopped fighting.
The pain had begun to recede and Evan had begun to respond to Chris's skilful hand pumping his shaft when Chris hissed into his ear, "Say it!"
This was the part he hated the most: worse than the pain of the forced intrusion, worse than the blows, worse than being co-opted into enjoying his own degradation.
"No!" he muttered, shaking his head frantically.
Chris struck him across the ear again and increased the force of his assault. "Say it!"
"No," he whispered. "Not like this!"
Chris continued to handle him mercilessly and, in spite of the pain and humiliation, Evan felt his own response building. "Say it, damn you!" He punched Evan in the kidney with all his force just as he felt his hand become sticky with his seed. "Say it!"
And Evan, his ears ringing from the slaps, blinded with pain from the blow to his kidney, finally sobbed out the words that Chris had been waiting to hear.
"I love you."
Chris collapsed atop Evan with a harsh cry while Evan lay perfectly still, determined not to give Chris the satisfaction of pulling away. Finally, Chris rolled away from him and Evan rose painfully, making his way to the bathroom.
The man on the bed opened his eyes and stared at him blankly. Looking at the blood trickling down Evan's leg, he said, "You should have said it sooner."
XXXXXXXXXX
It hadn't always been that way. Shortly after graduating from the Illinois Institute of Technology, Evan had been offered a position with a well-respected firm in Chicago. He had met Chris during a site visit of one of their projects. Evan had realised the truth about himself while in high school in St Louis and had, during his time in Chicago, discovered a few discreet spots for men such as he. Chicago might be a large city, but the community of men who shared his leanings was small and one night he had arrived at a small club to see Chris leaning against the bar. The blond man had given him a slow, knowing smile and it had begun.
Evan's experience hadn't gone much beyond a few fumbling encounters and Chris introduced him to a new world. In the beginning he had been sensitive and loving, but, somewhere, his nature had begun to sour and he began to drink heavily. The first time he had stuck Evan, he had burst into remorseful sobs and they had put it behind them. But over the months, the drinking had increased and so had the outbursts. Finally, Evan had broken it off, but Chris had begged for another chance and had sworn that he was a changed man.
Perhaps, if hadn't been feeling so alone in the world, he wouldn't have relented, but his parents had been killed in a car accident a couple of months earlier. He was surprised to discover that his share of his parents' estate was enough to allow him to leave the firm and strike out on his own. Chris had suggested that they move to New York, insisting that a fresh start was just what they needed. Excited by the prospect, Evan had agreed.
At first, it seemed that Chris had been right; they had never been happier. Manhattan had become their playground and they had explored it like gleeful children. He could still remember how Chris's eyes had shone with pride when he got his first commission, but as his success increased, so had Chris's drinking. He had become sullen and resentful and, eventually, the day had come when he turned his anger onto Evan.
Did he still love Chris, he wondered sometimes. Yes, but with every blow, every forced encounter, every abusive word, he loved him less. Soon the day would arrive when the last of his love would be gone, but when that happened would he be able to send him away? He didn't know and underneath it all was a gnawing fear that Chris would never let him go. Like him, Chris had no family left and neither had any close friends in New York. So they hung on to each other, tied by a sick dependency; more frightened of being alone than of being bound in a relationship that was destroying them both.
That Saturday morning Chris joined him in the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. They had already gone past the stage of apologies and recriminations. What happened in their bedroom was ignored outside of it.
"I'm going to my place for a day or two," Chris stated. He rented a small studio apartment in the East Village. That was part of the pattern: after an encounter like the night before Chris would disappear for a couple of days, only to return loving and affectionate until the whole sordid cycle started again.
Evan nodded wordlessly and returned to his paper, sipping his coffee.
"I saw you talking to one of the workers yesterday."
Evan took a deep breath while he considered his response. He suspected Chris had someone in the Village, but he knew that he could fly into a rage if he thought he was interested in someone else.
"It was just a couple of words. You know how I like watching them work." Which was true; he could stand for hours watching a crew at work, fascinated by the actual construction. And in this instance, watching his own design translated to reality filled him with a sense of awe he couldn't quite describe.
"Well, that one was certainly worth watching," Chris said. He was smiling, but there was nothing friendly about it.
"I hadn't noticed," he answered mildly.
"You know who he was, don't you?"
"How could I know that?"
"It was Randy Orton."
"No!" Evan exclaimed, genuinely astonished. No wonder he looked familiar. He'd won several prizes at IIT; even his student designs were spoken of with reverence. Although he had graduated a few years before Evan started there, his name was familiar to all the students. Within a couple of years, he had made a name for himself. Evan remembered his picture in the Tribune on several occasions and, of course, later, he had been in all the national papers.
"How on earth did he end out on a crew in New York?" Evan asked.
"He didn't tell you? I thought for sure you two were yakking away about St Louis and your beloved alma mater, IIT," Chris said nastily. "You know, worshipping at the shrine of Mies."
Evan flushed. True, he had rambled on endlessly about Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, but only because he had felt so privileged to study under him. This was another of Chris's little habits: to make fun of people and things he admired and to poke fun at him for his admiration. And to make matters worse, he had been, although briefly.
"I told you. I only spoke to him for a second, but how did he end out there?"
"It seems he and the foreman Cena, were college roommates. Cena was studying engineering when he had to quit. He took a job in construction and gave Orton a job when it all came tumbling down around him." Chris concluded his statement with a cynical laugh.
"That's not funny, Chris," Evan said. "A lot of people died in that accident."
"They sure did. And it was your buddy Randy's fault."
"Don't be stupid, Chris," Evan said indignantly. "Randy's not my buddy. I've never even met him. And that accident wasn't his fault. They were using sub-standard materials-" He stopped abruptly as Chris flushed with anger. "I-I didn't mean to call you stupid," he stammered.
"But you were thinking it, weren't you?" he asked silkily.
"No!" Evan paled his eyes huge. He tried to get out his chair, but Chris bore down on him before he could.
Fifteen minutes later, he examined his face anxiously in the bathroom mirror. Not as bad as he thought. Still, his lip was badly swollen and his ribs hurt from the kicks he had received. Hopefully, nothing was broken; he didn't think they would believe he had been mugged again at the Emergency Room.
Shaking from head to foot, he stood under the shower for a long time, letting the hot water soothe his aching body. As he towelled dry, he noticed, with a detached fascination, the bruises already forming on his torso and realised that this was the first time it had happened when Chris had not been drinking; and recognised, in that instant, that it wouldn't stop until one of them was dead.