Bob Appavu
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Merritt's Story Extra: ...At the Sheridan
🕑 Added 2020-08-02 22:10:14 +0000 UTCThe bonus short is here! I had a couple chronic sick days the past two days, so I was a little behind on this, and I'm still working on the Secret Gallery illustration. (Aiming for tomorrow.)
I ended up taking the suggestion about Belmont messing with the board members. So, this scene is the party from Merritt's Story book 1, chapter 15 for Belmont's promotion to right hand, but told from someone else's point of view..... Enjoy!
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Bitches! At the Sheridan
-Merritt's Story Extra-
Wolfram was looking fine today. Surprisingly suave and sexy. Damn, when did he get so hot? Pratt slowed his pace, tilting his head as he examined Wolfram’s passing reflection in the ceiling-high windows separating the Sheridan from the marble-floored lobby.
The reflection he’d been examining slowed too, while the nearly identical one behind it kept walking.
Oh, that explained it. Pratt had mistaken his own reflection for his fellow advisor’s. No wonder Wolfram seemed to look better than usual.
Pratt lingered beside the window for another moment, straightening out the preserved narcissus blossom that peeked out from within his breast pocket—a gift from Belmont earlier that week. Belmont had told him that narcissus flowers were a symbol of respect.
At last he reluctantly tore his gaze away from the window, then noticed Wolfram was about to enter the Sheridan without him. “Hey, wait for me, will you?” he called. He didn’t want to look like he’d come to the party alone.
Wolfram paused and allowed Pratt to catch up. “Damn, how many people did Belmont invite?” he muttered as they entered the extravagant restaurant.
“How many do you think are actually happy to see Belmont get promoted to Mercury’s right hand?” Pratt whispered back, and they shared a restrained, synchronized chuckle.
The restaurant’s central seating area was rearranged to make room for the oversized crowd of milling guests. As Pratt scanned the dimly lit clearing to assess the quality of the gathering, he thought about Belmont’s recent promotion. He wasn’t entirely displeased that Belmont had earned the position. Everyone considered it inevitable, after all. But Higgins’s death was both a blessing and a curse. Pratt could rest easier without his disgusting presence always hovering around the corner, or his constant nagging for a quickie in the elevator or in his office. On the other hand, Pratt had earned Higgins’s favor the hard way. He’d always been the first one Higgins came to with inside information, the one most often invited out to dinner, and the recipient of his most expensive gifts. Neither Mercury nor Belmont was likely to give him the same preferential treatment.
Belmont had always been jealous of Pratt. Higgins had enjoyed playing them against each other, and while Pratt was happy to lick Higgins’s boots, Belmont was too proud to do the same. How could Belmont blame Higgins for being partial to Pratt? Belmont got the worst of Higgins’s violent urges when they were behind closed doors, but it was his own fault for refusing to defer to Higgins like Pratt did.
Belmont had always insisted he didn’t want to be Higgins’s favorite. “Lap dog” was the word he’d used derisively. But of course he wanted it. Who wouldn’t want to be the right hand’s favorite?
Now Belmont was the right hand. And Pratt would have to find a way to become his favorite.
“There he is,” Wolfram said, pointing toward the center of the crowd where Belmont stood with a self-satisfied grin on his boyish face, shaking hands with Wilson. Pratt could tell by the subtle tightness in Wilson’s brows that he preferred Mercury’s old second in command.
The moment the two of them parted ways, Belmont glanced furtively toward the entrance. His gaze washed past Pratt like a wave lapping lazily at the shore. How annoying. Did he not notice that Pratt was wearing a brand new Leavenworth suit today? Leavenworth didn’t make suits for just anyone.
“I’m going to get a drink,” Wolfram said. Pratt waved him away, then continued toward Belmont. As he made his way deeper into the crowd, he watched Belmont greet a few more guests. Between each handshake, Belmont took another look at the entrance.
Who was Belmont looking for that was so important? Everyone who was anyone in the North Sphere was already at the party, aside from Mercury, who was meeting with Cannon.
Pratt loved that Mercury wasn’t able to make it to Belmont’s big event. But that was another matter. What mystery guest was Belmont waiting for?
“Looks like you and I are going to be working a lot closer together from here on,” Evans was saying to Belmont a few feet ahead. “Higgins always called me ‘the man with all the answers’ when it came to the military. So if you find yourself with questions, you know who to come to.”
Pratt bristled. He was the one Higgins used to call the man with all the answers. He clenched his teeth and plastered on a poised smile as he approached.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Belmont replied evenly. As he turned away, he said, “I’m looking forward to working with you, Lawrence.”
Evans’s face fell. “Ah, it’s….” He stammered, then fell silent, too proud to reintroduce himself to someone who obviously knew who he was.
Pratt tried to slide gracefully through the crowd toward Belmont, but the philistines were too tightly packed. Just when Pratt spotted an opening, someone said into his ear, “Hey, you should try the crab cakes before they run out.”
He turned, his lip curled just a bit, at the sight of Mannheim at his side. He glanced at the wall behind Mannheim while he contemplated whether to reply. Pratt had the unparalleled gift of looking straight through people who weren’t worth his time, and he’d never cared for Mannheim. He just couldn’t comprehend how Belmont could share his greatest alliance with a guy who was so fucking unattractive.
Pratt had tried to break the two of them up before, but they were surprisingly loyal to each other. In recent weeks, he’d begun to doubt whether he’d ever be able to turn them against each other. If he couldn’t, and if Mannheim was the guy who had Belmont’s ear, then it was probably in Pratt’s best interest to butter him up a bit—even if he was ugly as sin.
“Oh, that sounds superb,” he said at last, forcing himself to meet Mannheim’s drab eyes. “I’ll grab one when I get a chance.”
“Did you bring a guest?” Mannheim asked.
“No, everyone worth being at the party was already invited,” Pratt replied. “Did you?”
While Mannheim gave an answer Pratt didn’t care about, Pratt snuck another glance at Belmont. Belmont had just parted ways with Crilly—ugh, another ugly—and was again looking toward the entrance. This time, he froze in his tracks. Apparently, his “guest of honor” had arrived.
Pratt turned to the entrance, and his poker face nearly collapsed. No. Seriously? That guy?
Standing just inside the doorway was the little blond soldier Mercury had allowed to crash their quarterly review party and recent board meeting. Why was everyone so obsessed with him? Why was Belmont so obsessed with him? Yeah, he had a nice face and a good body, but his suit jacket didn’t even fit right, and the toes of his shoes were scuffed. Fuck, he was even wearing the exact same suit he’d worn to the quarterly review party. He really was offal.
Pratt leaned toward Mannheim and lowered his voice as if about to divulge a scandalous secret. “Look who just got here.”
Mannheim glanced at the entrance and released an audible groan. “For fuck’s sake, why? I told Belmont not to invite him.”
“I know, right?” Pratt replied, exaggerating his agreement for Mannheim’s benefit. “Why should he be here? I don’t even know his name.”
“It’s Merritt.”
“I wasn’t asking,” Pratt muttered with a subtle pout.
Mannheim ran a hand over his spiked black Mohawk. “You know what I heard about him?” he asked.
“What?” Pratt replied eagerly.
“Heard he gave Dobson a blowjob in the Yackley’s stairwell. Randolph told me Dobson was bragging about it at work the day after the quarterly review party.”
“Dobson was at the quarterly review party?” Pratt asked skeptically. “Isn’t he only an eight?”
“He wasn’t there. He just heard the rumors and wanted everyone to know he’d face-fucked the guy who broke Belmont’s arm.”
“I hear Dobson only works out three times a week,” Pratt sneered. Mannheim didn’t reply—probably a sign that he worked out even less. “Hey, you weren’t at the quarterly review party either, were you?”
Pratt had said it as if he’d only just noticed, but, of course, he’d known all along that Mercury had skipped him because of the intelligence database hack. Mannheim’s gaze went cold at the mention.
“Mercury’s loss,” Pratt added smoothly. “He’ll get it right next time.” Finally taking enough satisfaction in Mannheim’s discomfort, Pratt changed the subject. He pointed toward the handsome, well-dressed twink at the offal’s side. “Isn’t he one of yours?”
Mannheim squinted. “Ugh, yes. Devon. Fucking social climber.” He shot Pratt an odd look. “Always sucking up to someone.”
Pratt’s fake smile faltered. Before he could reply, Belmont suddenly swooped in between them. He turned his back toward Pratt and said to Mannheim, “Hey, can you entertain your lackey for a few minutes?” He pointed at Devon.
“Why?” Mannheim asked, though the note of dread in his voice suggested he already knew why.
“Hey,” Pratt interrupted, stroking the back of Belmont’s arm. “You’re not going to say hi to me?”
“Yeah, later,” Belmont muttered, waving Pratt off. To Mannheim, he said, “Just for a minute. If you get bored, you can cut him loose.”
It was obvious that Belmont just wanted Mannheim to entertain Devon so he could talk to the soldier, and Pratt wasn’t about to let that happen. “Mannheim and I are talking right now,” he said indignantly.
“I’ll call Devon over,” Mannheim said, too quickly for Pratt not to take offense.
“No, you wait here,” Belmont replied. “I’ll send him to you.” He turned and was about to slip away when Pratt caught his arm.
“Hey, slow down,” he said. “You didn’t even give me a chance to congratulate you for your well-deserved promotion.”
Impatience flashed across Belmont’s eyes, but he lingered nonetheless. “Yeah, thanks,” he said curtly.
Pratt wished Belmont would settle down. He still seemed too eager to dart away. Pratt ran a hand down Belmont’s arm, examining his eyes for a reaction. Belmont was like a finicky cat. Sometimes he responded to being petted with a purr, but sometimes he swatted the hand away.
“What you did to Higgins was pure genius,” Pratt cooed. “You’ll be a much better right hand than he was.”
“Higgins was bound to croak any day, with the way he took care of himself,” Belmont replied with a not-at-all-convincing smirk. “I was just at the right rank at the right time.”
“You know what they say,” Pratt began. “Good luck is a sign of exceptional planning.” He gestured toward the bar. “Let me get you a drink.”
“It’s an open bar on my tab,” Belmont retorted. “Kind of rude for you to ask me to get you a drink on my big day, don’t you think?”
Pratt faltered. After a pause, he haughtily replied, “My payment to you is the quality of my company.”
“Then you’re putting yourself in deeper debt with every second we’re together.” Belmont turned his back on Pratt’s scandalized frown. After taking three long strides, he called over his shoulder, “Thanks for coming to my party!”
* * *
No. Fuck, no. Pratt had tried his best not to fixate on Belmont and that blond soldier. A few minutes ago, he’d watched Belmont launch into a long-winded tirade about books, and he’d thought he didn’t have to worry about the two of them hitting it off anymore. But now they were suddenly clinking glasses of Potent in champagne?
This was unacceptable. In the past years, Belmont had fooled around with every gay, bi, and adventurous member of Mercury’s board—except Pratt. And now, instead of giving Pratt his time, he was buying Potent for an offal soldier? It was like he was trying to spit in Pratt’s face.
“What are you?” Belmont was asking the blond. “A two? A three? Doesn’t matter. I’ll treat you like a face card.”
Pratt watched, his fury and indignation about to reach a boiling point, as the two of them disappeared around the corner into a private booth.
Hale suddenly appeared beside Pratt, holding a tiny, perfectly umbrella-shaped psilocybin mushroom on an appetizer plate in front of his face. “Look what I got from one of the private rooms.”
Pratt continued to stare at the booth across the room.
“Come with me,” Hale said, nudging him. “There’s still more.”
Pratt shook his head. “Nah, I’m busy.” There was no time for psychedelics tonight.
“You don’t look busy.”
“I’m waiting for Belmont. He said he’d get me a drink.”
“Really?” Hale asked. “He’s refused to drink with everyone who’s asked him.”
Pratt shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
Hale shrugged and wandered off, and Pratt returned his attention to the couple at the booth. How could he break them up?
Before he could come up with a plan, his savior descended upon the pair, white robes billowing behind her. Archer leaned toward Belmont and said, “I’m really sorry to have to talk shop during your party, but do you mind if I borrow the captain for a moment? I’m trying to coordinate a military poison project, and I’m on a tight deadline.”
Pratt delighted in the sight of Belmont’s scowl. Belmont made a dismissive gesture and said something inaudible, and the soldier slid out from his side of the booth and followed Archer around the corner.
Belmont’s shoulders slumped just a bit as he rose from his seat, holding his slim champagne flute in his long fingers. Pratt made his way through the crowd toward him, but just when he was within calling distance, Thomas slipped in front of him and reached out to shake Belmont’s hand. “Congratulations on the promotion,” he said in a painfully insincere voice. “No one deserves it more than you.”
Belmont looked Thomas up and down. “Did I invite you?” he asked, brows furrowed.
Thomas stammered. “Of course you invited me. I’m—I’m on the board!”
“Hey Clif!” Belmont called toward the bouncer, loud enough for everyone in the vicinity to hear. “Can you check and see if Thomas here is on the guest list? I don’t remember inviting him.”
As the onlookers whispered among themselves, the bouncer pulled out his phone and scrolled through a few screens. “He’s here, sir.”
“Oh,” Belmont replied with a shrug. “My mistake. I guess I just forgot.” He laughed and said to Thomas, “Let me get you a glass of Charisma. You look like you need it.”
Thomas’s poker face showed yet more cracks, but he knew better than to turn down a drink from the new right hand. He accompanied Belmont to the bar. Pratt followed after them, just far enough behind for his pursuit to look unintentional. Thomas and Belmont took seats at the counter, and Pratt snagged the seat at Belmont’s other side.
Pratt waited patiently for the bartender to fill Thomas’s drink, but with every second that passed, another party guest closed in behind Belmont, trying to squeeze in for their chance to talk to him. It was aggravating. Most of them were barely even nines. They were probably only invited to the party out of pity. But they all crowded around Belmont as if they thought they deserved a piece of him.
At last, Thomas got his drink and took a sip. Before Belmont could get distracted by the horde behind him, Pratt leaned into Belmont’s shoulder and pointed to his half-finished glass of Potent in champagne. “Want to finish that together?” he asked in a sultry voice.
Belmont pulled the glass away before Pratt could take a sip.
Then he paused. He looked Pratt up and down, and his expression softened. Pratt’s confident smile widened. He could tell that—finally—Belmont had noticed him. Finally, Belmont was coming to his senses. Finally, he’d see that he didn’t need to waste his night with offal.
“You’re wearing the flower,” Belmont said with a secretive smile. He adjusted the petals in Pratt’s pocket.
“Looks good on me, doesn’t it?” Pratt asked. “I had this Leavenworth suit designed just to match it.”
“It’s perfect,” Belmont replied.
“Remember the quarterly review party before last?” Pratt asked, stroking Belmont’s arm. “When we shared a pipe of blue blossom?”
“Hmm,” Belmont replied noncommittally.
Pratt leaned in closer. “You looked so hot that day. You always look good, but that day, you were like a god. And today you look like that again.” He ran his hand down Belmont’s chest. “I think you look your best when you’re next to me—because I reflect off of you.” He nuzzled as close to Belmont’s side as he dared. “We look good together. Everyone can see it, you know.”
Belmont chuckled and took a sip of his Potent. The crowd behind them continued to grow. Pratt wore a satisfied smile, knowing that all of them would see him at Belmont’s side.
Belmont lowered his glass and fixed a seductive smile on Pratt. “You know,” he said, loud enough for everyone around them to hear. He lowered his hand onto Pratt’s knee. “I had a dream about you the other night.”
“Oh?” Pratt asked, his eyes lighting up. “Tell me more.”
“It was a lucid dream—practically a memory. It felt so real, like it really could have happened.”
“Yeah?” Pratt purred.
“Yeah. I dreamed you wet yourself in the middle of a board meeting.”
Ripples of laughter erupted all around them. Pratt’s poker face melted into a bitter frown despite his every attempt to control himself.
Without another word, Belmont swiveled in his seat and stepped into the crowd. His back to Pratt, he headed toward Coulter. “Ooh, let me see,” he said, gesturing for Coulter’s cufflinks. “Those are exquisite.”
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