Me and My Big Mouth

Max slammed the front door, threw his jacket and his house keys on the hallway floor, walked into the living room, and fell onto the sofa flat on his face. “You’re back early.” He lifted his head. Noah was sitting at the dining table, files and notebooks and huge law books open in front of him. Max dropped his head back into the sofa cushions and groaned loudly. “What’s up?” He heard Noah move away from the table, and the arm of the sofa creaked. Max turned on his back to look up. Noah’s dark and concerned face peered down at him. “I got sacked.” “Again?” Noah sighed. “What did you say this time?” “What makes you think it was something I said?” “I’ve met you before.” “Harsh. Though probably fair. But it wasn’t my fault this time, I swear. He asked.” “Who asked what?” “My boss.” Max winced. “The bar manager. He asked how come he never had any luck with women. Come to think of it, it might have been one of those rhetorical questions.” “But you answered it anyway.” “It just slipped out. I kind of said he might do better if he didn’t model his facial hair after 1970s porno actors.” “Max…” Noah shook his head. He hadn’t face-palmed this time at least. “Well, it’s true! And helpful. I gave him useful information he can act on. He should be grateful.” “How many times have I told you, you should never tell your boss the truth?” “Are you saying you never tell that guy Owen the truth?” “No, I meant you, specifically you, Max Sagan, should never tell your boss the truth.” “I was brought up to be honest.” “I know. I was there. But there’s honest and there’s oh, my God, stop talking now.” Max sighed and sat up. He picked up the remote from the coffee table and pointed it at the Blu-ray player. The opening credits of Thor: The Dark World started playing. “It’s for the best,” he said. “Work was really cutting into my perving at Chris Hemsworth time.” Noah took the remote from him and turned off the movie. “So what next?” “I should go back to concentrating on my long-term project of finding a sugar daddy.” He liked that project. It involved getting plenty of beauty sleep. “Or I could sell my hair.” Noah clicked his tongue. “Mum would kill me if I let you sell your hair. Besides, you can only do that once. Or at least only once every couple of years. And nice as your hair is, I don’t see it bringing you in enough to live on for two years.” Max pulled his long blond ponytail over his shoulder and combed his fingers through it. As good as the hair was, it had so far failed to snag him even a steady boyfriend, never mind a sugar daddy. “So I suppose it’s time to go on the game after all.” “Shut up. You know you have to have a job.” Noah frowned and bit his lip. “Look, Max, I told myself there’s no way I’d do this and I’m absolutely sure I’ll regret it, but a job just came up where I work. The girl who had the job left suddenly. I’m not sure why. Anyway, it’s admin and general dogsbody work. Office junior, you know, filing, making coffee, that kind of thing. You’ve done that before.” Max grimaced. Work at a law firm? Him? Even the pub he’d been working at until an hour ago had felt a bit staid for him. A firm of lawyers? Not that he had anything against lawyers. Noah had finished his law degree two years ago and was mere weeks away from completing his on-the-job training to become a fully qualified solicitor, but still… “I’m not sure I’d fit in.” “I’m quite sure you won’t. But you only have to stay for a few weeks while you find something more suited.” “I wouldn’t stay if they don’t take you on after you qualify.” The firm currently employed Noah and another trainee, but didn’t have to take either of them on as a solicitor after the two-year training contract ended. Noah smiled and batted Max’s shoulder. “Do they still wear wigs and cloaks?” Max asked, grinning, teasing. “That’s gowns, not cloaks, and barristers wear those, not solicitors. But you know this because I’ve told you a million times. Let me give Owen a ring and see if you can come in tomorrow for an interview. I can’t promise you more than to ask if you can have an interview, but they need someone desperately. I bet you’d get it.” “Why are they so desperate?” Max asked suspiciously. “They were already down one person, before this one left, since they have someone on maternity leave.” “So this is a job to do the work of two people? Lovely.” “It will keep you too busy to say anything stupid to anybody. Go and put the kettle on, and I’ll call Owen. The senior partners asked him to find someone, and, incidentally, he’s got a say in whether or not I’m taken on after my training contract. So if I happen to drop the perfect office junior into his lap…” “Got it. Okay. Okay, call him then.” “You won’t regret it—though I might. Go make a cup of tea while I call. Then we’d better make sure your suit is pressed.” “I have more than one suit, you know.” “I’m not counting the purple one.” “Probably for the best.” * * * * Max had never been to Noah’s office before, but he managed to get off at the right bus stop outside a town centre office building and found the door to the place on the third floor. Noah came to meet him in the tiny reception area. “Do I look okay?” Max stood up. “Conservative enough?” Noah snorted. “You, conservative? Not likely.” He brushed some strands of Max’s long hair off his shoulder and straightened his tie. “But you look fine. Did you polish your shoes?” He inspected them critically. “Of course.” Noah looked him over and nodded with approval. “You’ll do. Owen’s looked over your CV.” Noah had brought it in with him that morning. “He’s happy enough with it. All you have to do now is not massively screw up the interview, and you’re in.” “No pressure then.” “Just stay cool. You know how you tend to babble. And listen. I swear half your screw-ups come from not listening properly to what people say.” “That’s not fair. You know I have a dodgy ear. Sometimes I…miss things.” “Remember, take a breath, and think before you speak. That’s all I ask.” “I will.” “Okay, let’s go introduce you to Owen.” Max had to take several deep breaths before he could speak because there was something Noah had neglected to mention in all this. Owen was gorgeous. Max’s jaw nearly dropped open when Noah took him into the office and a man rose from behind the desk and came around it to shake hands. He was mid-thirties, tall, broad-shouldered, with a nice tan, and beautifully cut dark brown hair, glossy as teak. Of course, he wore a good suit—he was a lawyer—but he filled it out better than most men. His white shirt looked like it had been made from the same material as the gowns of angels. “Good to meet you, Mr Sagan,” Owen said, holding out his hand for a shake. Max took it. A big strong hand. It made him gulp when it gripped his. “Owen Hart.” “I know,” Max said. “Ah, I mean, I, yes, Noah told me…um, hello.” Owen looked slightly amused. Noah frowned. “Thanks, Noah,” Owen said, “Could you please ask Mrs Barstow to bring coffee for two. Please, sit down, Mr Sagan.” He gestured at a leather armchair that faced another across a coffee table. “Will do,” Noah said. He gave Max a final look—a cross between stern admonition and mute appeal to not mess this up—and left. “So you and Noah are roommates?” Owen said, sitting down opposite Max. “Yes,” Max said. “We’re old friends. Since we were kids.” “He passed me your CV,” Owen said. “You’ve had a number of short-term jobs.” “I…I know, it looks bad. I haven’t found anywhere I quite fit into yet.” “And do you think you’ll fit in here?” Owen asked, giving him the penetrating, lie-detecting stare only a lawyer could manage. His eyes were grey-green. Oh, God, Max was so doomed. His heart was pounding and his mouth dry, and it was nothing to do with job interview nerves. “Probably not,” he found himself saying. “But I need a job and you need an office junior, and we’re both desperate.” Oh God, shut the hell up. Owen stared at him for a moment and then laughed. “Noah said you had a tendency to be overly frank. I don’t think I mind that, Mr Sagan. I’m a lawyer. I hear so many lies in a day, I nearly suffer internal injuries swallowing them all. A bit of truth is refreshing.” “Some of my previous employers have said the same,” Max said. “And, um, then sacked me when I took them at their word.” Owen nodded, serious. “I’ll try not to do the same. But, in return, you should try to learn a thing or two about discretion. Let’s talk about issues of confidentiality.” The coffee arrived as they got into that. Mrs Barstow, who brought it, was in her fifties and the sort who still insisted on being called a secretary, not any kind of new-fangled nonsense about personal assistants. She was also the office manager and would be Max’s boss if he worked here. He gave her his best smile when Owen introduced them. She looked back at him as if she didn’t approve of his hair. Or his suit. Or his face. “She’s been with the firm since my father qualified,” Owen said as they sat again when Mrs Barstow left. “I think the place would collapse without her. Let’s talk about some of your previous jobs.” Max still retained enough brainpower in the face of Owen’s deep sexiness to spot Owen was testing him as they spoke about his other jobs. He was watching to see how loose-tongued Max might get about previous employers. To see if he’d break a confidence, even if it wasn’t such an important matter as it was here at a law firm. Discretion, he told himself. I am the soul of it. So he resisted the temptation to launch into any of the anecdotes about previous job disasters he kept Noah and other friends amused with. As the interview wound up, Owen posed him one last question. “Do you have anything else to say about why we should take you on?” Max decided, because if you want, I’ll get on my knees and blow you every single morning when I bring you your coffee would not be the right answer. For one thing, he couldn’t be certain Owen played for the right team, either on a full- or part-time basis. And anyway, Owen was so hot, he surely could not be on the market. “Ah, because I work hard, I get here on time, I don’t mind staying late.” Why not? If Owen was in the office, he’d happily stay all night. “I make a really good cup of coffee, and I won’t harass the female staff.” Owen’s eyebrows shot up. “I see. Those are all excellent reasons.” Owen stood, and Max rose hastily, accepted Owen’s handshake. Owen smiled, and Max wanted to sit down again. Or lie down. Or drop to this knees and…He pulled himself together and listened, as Noah said, listen for a change. “Welcome to the firm, Mr Sagan.” “I…got the job?” “On a month’s trial. I’ll have to check your references, but I trust Noah’s word on you. And my own judgement about you.” Max gulped, looking up—Owen had three or four inches on him. A nice amount. For height anyway. He wondered about inches elsewhere and told himself to shut the hell up, fearing the chance of some insane words escaping him in his nervous state. “Ah, could you…” Owen said and glanced at their hands still locked, Max having forgotten to let go. It was hard to let go that big warm hand with the electricity crackling from it shocking Max right to his heart. “Sorry!” He pulled his hand back at once, feeling like a fool. “No problem.” Owen gestured for Max to walk with him, and they left the office. Thrills raced up and down Max’s spine when Owen rested a hand on his back and steered him towards Mrs Barstow. “Let’s make it official.”