Randy exchanged a brusque nod with Swagger on Monday morning and went about his business, seemingly oblivious to the other man's presence at the site. He had, however, been taken aback by the other man's appearance. Swagger had been a big, bluff individual with a booming voice, but Randy recalled his incongruous hobby of making stained glass: how his huge hands could set tiny pieces of glass into place, creating pictures of unbelievable delicacy and beauty. But, today, Swagger was a ghost of his former self, severely underweight and haunted-looking. No doubt several years of prison had taken their toll, but this man looked destroyed.
Over the days, he noticed that he worked hard and kept to himself, rarely exchanging more than a few words with the rest of the crew, but he had seen him in earnest conversation with the red-headed Sheamus from the union. When he spoke of his misgivings to John he had been brushed aside, but he found himself watching Swagger more carefully every day.
The other person Randy couldn't help watching was Jericho. When he thought of Evan, wincing and holding his side, as he climbed the stairs to his apartment, it was all he could do not to go after him with a sledge hammer and when he thought of Evan, scarlet with humiliation, insisting that he was simply clumsy, he could feel himself choking with rage.
Early Friday afternoon, he could feel himself being watched and turned around to see Jericho staring at him, a mocking smile on his face. Forcing himself to remain calm, he gave Jericho a half-smile and was about to return to work when a cab pulled up and Evan got out. Dressed in a business suit and wearing dark glasses, Evan gave him an impersonal smile and hurried over to the site trailer, speaking to Chris briefly on the way. Randy watched Chris approach John, who was impossible to miss in the bright orange shirt his youngest brother had given him for Christmas the year before. John liked to joke that it was the smartest gift he had ever received since it meant that no one could miss him on the site, but Randy knew he would have worn it even if it had been pink, rather than hurt his brother's feelings.
As John disappeared into the trailer, Chris came over to where Randy was working. "What is it about you architects," he asked, "that makes you think you're some kind of movies stars?" As Randy remained silent, he continued," I remember your Time cover, standing there like you were Rock Hudson. Or look at him," he said, gesturing towards the trailer, "wearing sunglasses all the time. You'd almost think he had something to hide. But then we all have things we'd like to hide, don't we? Remember Provincetown?"
Chris was smiling as he said all this, but Randy felt himself grow cold. Somehow, Jericho knew. How he had found out and how much he knew, he wasn't sure, but, somehow, Jericho knew that Randy knew what he was.
Randy shrugged. "That was all a long time ago," he said, turning his back on the other man and going back to work. From the corner of his eye, he saw Evan emerge from the trailer and climb into the waiting cab with Chris.
A few minutes later, John came over to him, grinning from ear-to-ear. "Look what Bourne gave me," he exclaimed, brandishing two tickets. "Great seats for next month when the Dodgers play the Cardinals! He said a client gave them to him and he didn't think he'd be able to make it!"
John was almost child-like in his glee and Randy felt momentary shame. He still had a substantial bank account left over from the days when his career was flourishing; he had offered to pay for a home nurse for John's mother and had been refused, but, not once, had he thought of giving him something so simple that would give him so much pleasure.
"That was very nice of him," Randy said, at a loss to say anything else.
"Wasn't it? He said he really enjoyed listening to the game with us on Saturday and thought that if he couldn't go he wanted to make sure that the tickets went to someone who would enjoy them."
As John bounded back to the rest of the crew, happier than a dog wagging two tails, Randy noticed Swagger standing somewhat away from everyone else and decided to end the silence.
He went to stand next to him, "How are you, Jack?"
"As well as you might expect," he replied, crossing his arms and pulling himself up to his full height.
Randy was not, by any means, a small man, but he had forgotten how Swagger could seem to occupy fully any space he was in. "How do you like New York?"
"I don't," he said. "I'm not a city person. I should never have left Oklahoma," he added bleakly and walked away.
Randy shrugged and went back to work, but he couldn't shake the memory of Chris's words or the emptiness in Jack's eyes.
XXXXX
Chris drummed his fingers restlessly on the armrest of the cab he shared with Evan. "This fucking city," he muttered, glaring at the interminable line of traffic.
"Chris, relax," Evan said. "You're not going to miss your train. We're almost at Penn Station. See?" he said pointing at the massive building.
Chris was spending the weekend in Connecticut at the invitation of Paul Levesque, developer of their current project. "You know there's a rumour going around that the Pennsylvania Railroad want to sell this land. Too bad your buddy Randy won't be asked to design the replacement," he said.
Evan forced himself to remain silent. Ever since Chris had returned late Monday night he had been making sneering comments about Randy Orton, which he had refused to acknowledge. It was with real relief he saw that they had finally pulled up in front of the station.
Chris climbed out of the cab, but leaned his head back inside. "I do hope that Cena and Orton enjoy those tickets you paid through the nose for yesterday," he said and slammed the door shut.
Evan exhaled loudly and asked the driver to take him home. He leaned back and removed his dark glasses.
"That's some shiner you've got there, bud," the driver commented, peering at him in the rear-view mirror. "What does the other guy look like?"
XXXXX
As usual, Randy awoke far too early on Saturday morning. He had gone to the tavern the night before and spent the evening mocking John affectionately as the Dodgers suffered their first loss of the season against the Giants.
He went to his small workroom and told himself that he was reorganising it, but soon realised all he was doing was moving his tools from one side of the room to the other and then putting them back in their original spots. Finally, he gave up the fight and left his apartment, heading back to Manhattan, Midtown and, eventually, Park Avenue.
What was he doing, he wondered as he approached the Seagram site, but all week he remembered Evan saying he came there most weekends and found himself unable to resist visiting the site again. But why shouldn't he seek out Evan's company? They shared a native city and school; they shared a reverence for the gigantic towers of the city and the men who had designed them. Why shouldn't he seek him out? Because he was discredited and disgraced while Evan was on the verge of great achievements, because Evan was involved with a sadistic bully and because he, empty and alone, had nothing he could possibly give Evan.
But none of these arguments could prevent his heart from beating faster when a short, dark-haired figure, wearing dark glasses came into view. They exchanged embarrassed grins and stood, for a while, staring at the steel skeleton of the massive structure.
"John's incredibly excited about those tickets you gave him," Randy finally said. "That was very nice of you."
"I'm glad. I thought I should pass them on to someone who would enjoy them."
"How much did they cost you?" He chuckled at Evan's look of surprise. "You're not a very good liar."
"Okay. I really enjoyed myself last Saturday, but I thought he might be uncomfortable if I just gave them to him," he said. "But I'm glad I ran into you today. I-I'd like to show you something," he stammered, turning bright pink. "We'd have to go to my place. I don't have an office yet."
"You want to show me your etchings?" Randy laughed, but stopped abruptly as Evan flushed an even deeper red.
"We can walk. It's only about ten blocks from here," Evan said heading up Park Avenue.
Very shortly, they had reached his building on East 60th Street and Evan led him into the bedroom that served as his work space. He pulled off his sunglasses and dropped them on a desk, turning to face Randy.
Randy caught his breath at the sight of Evan's left eye, horribly bruised, and his cheekbone, swollen, livid and cut, but his expression, defiant, yet pleading, so reminiscent of his mother's, forced him to hold his tongue.
He put on his glasses and gestured to the drawings on his drafting table. "It's a church in Vermont. I have to submit the final design by the end of August."
Randy looked carefully at the drawings. Some were still rough sketches, some were more detailed, but they conveyed Evan's vision of a structure married to the landscape that surrounded it. He could picture it in winter, its sharp lines mirroring the bare trees, in the fall, when the multi-coloured leaves would be reflected against its glass surfaces, the first tender shoots of spring in sharp contrast to the native Vermont granite cladding and in the summer, when the worshippers could raise their eyes to a canopy of green visible through the glass panels in the roof.
"It's beautiful. I've never seen anything like it," Randy said. "You've taken everything we were taught in Chicago and made it your own."
Evan swallowed hard, "Thank you," he said, his eyes growing bright. "But I didn't ask you here just to show you my drawings. I want to carry it inside. I want the interior, the pews, the altar, everything, to be part of a whole, but I can't do that. You could."
"What are you asking me?"
"I don't know, but ever since I saw your work last week, I've been thinking about this. If you even had a couple of ideas."
Randy was silent for several minutes. Then he took up a pad and pencil and began to sketch. For more than twenty minutes, he worked furiously, tearing off many sheets, crumpling them up and throwing them across the room, attacking the paper with such force that he broke several pencils, which he hurled onto the floor before grabbing another. Finally, he shoved a wad of paper at Evan.
He leafed through them, speechless. Although only the roughest of sketches, he knew that this was exactly what he had been looking for. How had Randy done it? With only the briefest glimpse of his drawings, he had grasped his vision and enlarged it.
They worked together silently all afternoon, Evan modifying his drawings as Randy sketched pews, choir stalls, pulpit, lectern and an altar.
"Do they want a permanent baptistery? Then they're going to need a font," Randy said as he bent his head back to his pad. "It should be carved from granite. You'll need a master stonemason. What about the windows? How do you feel about stained glass?"
"Frankly, I'm not too crazy about it, but they're a well-to-do congregation. I imagine they will expect some. It's just that I want a muted colour-scheme; I don't see how stained glass fits in."
"I know somebody," Randy began, but caught himself. "Never mind. He'd never go for it."
Evan removed his glasses and stretched. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he said, "Randy, I can never thank you enough for this. I'll make sure that you get credit for your part."
"Don't bother," he said. "I don't think there are too many people out there who would care to see my name attached to any project. And please, don't thank me; just do one thing for me."
"Anything."
"Stop lying to me. You didn't get that eye in an accident, any more than that fat lip or those busted ribs last week." He reached out and gently brushed his thumb against Evan's cheekbone.
Evan dropped his gaze and began to fiddle with pencils on his desk.
"It's Jericho, isn't it?'
Unable to meet his eyes, he nodded as Randy tipped his chin up with his forefinger. "Don't be ashamed," he said. "It's not your fault."
"But it is," Evan choked. "I should be able to stop it. I should be able to stand up for myself."
Randy slowly drew his thumb along the length of Evan's jaw line. "You've done nothing wrong," he whispered fiercely. "Don't ever blame yourself for this."
He finally raised his eyes to look at Randy, who was regarding him with infinite tenderness as he lifted his other hand to cup his face and brought his lips down to meet Evan's.
XXXXX
Randy had been watching the men pour the concrete when one of them signalled abruptly to the mixer operator to stop.
"Cody, come and look at this," he shouted over the din.
The young operator hopped out of the truck and came around to look at what had already been poured into the slip form. Randy could see him shake his head as he spoke earnestly to the other man.
"Where's Cena?" he called. "Somebody go find him. Fast!"
Randy saw John coming out of the site trailer and loped over to him. "Ted and Cody need you. Something about the concrete."
He watched John hurry over to the two men, who were looking grave and felt himself grow cold. Ted DiBiase and Cody Rhodes were two of the best concrete guys in the city, as their fathers had been before them, and, in Ted's case, his grandfather. It was something of a joke in the construction trade that blood didn't run in their veins; concrete did. If those two thought there was something wrong, there definitely was.
"What's the problem?" he asked as John made his way back to the trailer.
"It's no good. Ted says it full of ground-up rubble. Thank God they only just started pouring today, but I'm going to have to get the engineer in to check what they poured last week. And I have to get hold of Jericho; we've never had problems like this before."
"Did he change suppliers?"
"That's the only explanation I can think of."
Suddenly, John looked tired. Randy knew he'd been up most of the night with his mother and determined that he was going to get John some help at home, no matter what it took.
"Be careful," he said. "A lot of these suppliers are – connected, if you know what I mean."
"I know," John sighed, rubbing his face tiredly as he turned to go back to the trailer.
Randy followed him. "Maybe someone ought to let Bourne know what's going on," he said with studied casualness.
"I'm sure Jericho will," John answered, hiding a smile as he watched Randy pocket a business card lying on the table.
Randy paused in the doorway, "Don't you think it's kind of strange that this kind of thing should happen after Swagger shows up?"
"Don't start jumping to conclusions. It's probably just one of those things; I'll get Jericho on it right away."
Randy looked doubtful, but said no more. This can't be happening, he thought as he made his way across the site, memories of Chicago assailing him. Evan should be told, he decided, and he certainly didn't trust Jericho to do it. He pulled the business card from his pocket. "Evan Bourne, Architect," it read with a phone number in the bottom right corner. And he went back to work, trying to convince himself that this was the only reason why he needed Evan's phone number.
XXXXX
Evan spent all Sunday working feverishly on his drawings for the church. Held in the grip of the inspiration provided by Randy's ideas, he drank pot after pot of coffee, ate whatever first came to hand when he reached into the refrigerator and snatched only a few hours of sleep on the sofa in his office. By lunchtime Monday, he was feeling light-headed and sick from lack of food and sleep. A shower, he decided, followed by a brisk walk and some lunch should set him right. Carefully gathering up Randy's drawings and his own, he locked them away and headed to the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, freshly showered and shaved, he retrieved his mail from the floor of the front hall and opened his door to pick up the Sunday New York Times that he had not bothered to fetch the day before.
"Evan! Oh my dear, what happened to you?"
"This?" He touched his cheek and shrugged. "I was at a very crowded club the other day and caught an elbow. It's so embarrassing." He rolled his eyes and managed a weak laugh for his neighbour across the hall, a stylish widow in her late forties.
"Have you had it looked at? Let me send Liz over."
"Now Ruth, that's not necessary." Evan had to repress a smile; Liz was his neighbour's pretty daughter, who had lost her fiancé in Korea. Her mother's only aim in life seemed to be to find her a husband. But she had studied nursing briefly and he knew his neighbour's concern was genuine and well-meant, so he suggested that she stop by later that afternoon.
Just as he shut the door, the phone rang. Picking it up, he was astonished to hear Randy's voice on the other end. "Evan, I need to see you. It's very important."
"I –I don't think that would be wise," he stammered.
"Please. There are some things going on here I think you should know about. Can I come over later? I'd rather not discuss it over the phone."
Evan reluctantly agreed and ended the call. Thank God Chris wasn't due back from Connecticut until tomorrow. He shuddered to think what would happen if Chris found Randy in his apartment.
Leaving his building, he walked briskly to a nearby deli and bought a sandwich, which he ate as he walked the streets, pausing occasionally to stare up at the great glass towers of the city. The thought that his project would become part of this famous skyline filled him with a sense of awe.
And with his head in the clouds, he finally let himself think about Randy's kiss; how his arms had slid around the taller man as he pressed himself against him; how he had returned his kisses hungrily, opening himself up to his embrace and how, finally, he had pushed him away.
"I'm sorry," he had choked. "I can't."
Randy had caressed his bruised cheek again. "No, I'm sorry. I had no right to do that." he had said and left.
A few hours later, he was sitting with Liz in his living room, both laughing over her mother's transparent attempts at matchmaking, when his doorman called to say he had a visitor.
"I should be going, then," she said.
"No, please don't," he answered. "At least stay and finish your tea."
Randy raised an eyebrow at the sight of a pretty young woman sitting on Evan's couch as he quickly made introductions.
"Liz is my neighbour," he said. "A nurse in need of a patient."
"A nurse? Really?" Randy asked.
"Not exactly. I studied for a short time, but after my father passed away I came back home to stay with my mother," she said. "I was telling Evan, just now, how I wish I could go back, but I suppose it's too late now. I'm just so bored and I wish I could make a little money of my own."
"You know," Randy said, declining Evan's offer of tea, "that's very interesting. I have a good friend who left school for much the same reason." He looked carefully at her; something about her gentle demeanour and expression made him put aside his habitual distrust and cynicism. "His mother is very ill now; she probably has only a couple of months. He desperately needs some help, but I don't suppose you'd be interested in looking after some sick, old lady in Brooklyn."
"Why would you say that?" Liz retorted, her eyes flashing with momentary anger. "I went into nursing to help people. Or are you one of those who think a girl only takes up nursing to catch a rich doctor?"
"Not at all," he answered smoothly, delighted that his initial impression had been correct. "Would you be interested?"
"Absolutely. It's exactly the kind of thing I'd like to do."
Randy scribbled down her phone number and said he would be in touch with her in a day or two. "One thing, though," he added. "My friend won't be able to pay you very much. I will make up the shortfall myself, to whatever you determine is a fair rate; just make sure he doesn't find out."
"Of course," she said, rising to leave. "He's very lucky to have a friend like you."
"She's right, you know," Evan said after Liz had left. "He is lucky to have a friend like you."
"He saved my life," Randy said simply. "Nothing I could do would ever repay the debt I owe him."
"Then you're both lucky," he said softly, "to have found each other."
"I know."
Evan picked up the teacups and carried them to the kitchen, Randy following him. "What's so important that you needed to see me about?"
Randy leaned against the counter rubbing the back of his neck. "Something's not right at the site; there are problems. I can't quite put my finger on all of them, but I just know."
"What sort of problems?"
"Like today; they were pouring concrete, but it was no good. John's getting the engineer in to check what they've done, so far. He's been trying to get hold of Jericho all day."
"He's in Connecticut. At Levesque's." Evan opened his office door and beckoned Randy inside. "What else?"
Randy sat on the small couch and took a deep breath. "Does the name Jack Swagger mean anything to you?"
He remained silent and thoughtful for a minute. "I've heard it somewhere," he puzzled. "Wait! Wasn't he the contractor on your Chicago job? Didn't he go to prison?"
"Yes, but he's out now. John hired him; he's on the crew. He says he looking to start over. John always does believe the best of people." He shook his head.
"Why shouldn't he? Isn't that better than going around convinced that everyone is only out for himself?" Evan asked.
"Aren't they?"
"No, they're not," he replied angrily. "Look at your friend, John. Look at Liz." His voice softened, "Look at yourself."
"Me?" Randy exclaimed.
"Yes, you! Look at how you're trying to help John! You came over here because you're worried about the project," he said, his voice rising. "Don't you dare try to tell me you don't care!" He leaned against his desk, glaring at Randy.
"You're right," he said quietly. "I do care." He rose swiftly and crossed the short space between them, standing so close their bodies were almost touching. "I care because it's important to you. I couldn't bear to see you brought down like I was. And it breaks my heart to see what Jericho is doing to you."
Evan slipped away from him just as his hand reached out. "That isn't your problem," he said dully. "Don't worry about me that way." Swallowing hard several times, he continued, "But what can I do about these so-called problems with the project?"
"There's a man with the City. He has a great deal of power in the building department. He's the only man I've ever seen take on the unions and win. If you can get him to listen to you, he'll get to the bottom of what's going on."
"But why would he listen to me? All you have are some vague suspicions and one possibly suspect concrete shipment."
"Because I'll come with you. There are some advantages to being somewhat infamous." Randy chuckled grimly. "And when he finds out that Swagger's on the crew, he'll have to get involved."
"Why?" Evan asked. "Who is he?"
"It's Jim Ross. He's Swagger's godfather."
Evan caught his breath in surprise. Anyone who had been involved in construction in New York knew of Jim Ross: a transplanted Oklahoman, known to be ruthless, but fair and incorruptible. He had turned down the plum job of Commissioner of Buildings, preferring to keep out of the public eye as much as possible.
"We can't just stroll into his office and say that you think something is going on."
"We can and we will," Randy said. "I'll set something up as soon as possible. And don't worry," he added, correctly reading Evan's expression. "Jericho will never know that I was here or that we are doing this."
Seeing no point in trying to deny that this was worrying him, he simply replied, "Thank you."
Changing the subject, Randy asked, "How is the church coming along?"
"Really well. Would you like to see?" he asked suddenly shy as he unlocked the drawer.
"Yes," he said, taking the drawings from him. He leafed through them in silence for several minute. "This is incredible," he breathed in wonder. "It's unique; you've found your own style."
"I couldn't have done it without your help," he said, turning pink with pleasure at Randy's comments.
"Then let me keep helping you," he said, brushing his knuckles against Evan's cheek, his hand reaching behind to cup the back of his head. "I've waited my whole life for you," he murmured. "If you were happy, if you were with someone who cared about you, I'd leave you alone. But you're not and you deserve so much better."
Evan stared mutely at him.
"Let me be good to you."
