André

By Jayce Ellis

“Beautifully rendered and portrayed with sensual, gladdening and sometimes heartbreaking emotion.” —All About Romance

Jayce Ellis's sexy, contemporary High Rise series features the bustle of DC and the hustle of love.

After a week filled with nonstop work, André Ellison heads to the club to blow off some steam. One night off is the perfect distraction from the project that’s about to make his career—or tank it completely. A few drinks in and he leaves with a smoking-hot stranger for some scorching, burn-the-sheets-up sex.

Marcus Thompson is going places, so he can’t think of a bigger waste of time than being put on loan to a two-bit firm to prepare some small-time report. The last thing he wants—or needs—is his impeccably dressed, hot-as-hell one-night stand as his boss.

As they work side by side, their attraction grows to a fever pitch, but there will be no kissing, no touching and absolutely no sex until the project is over—if they can wait that long.

High Rise
Book 1: Jeremiah
Book 2: André

Also by Jayce Ellis:

Higher Education
Book 1: Learned Behaviors
Book 2: Learned Reactions

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jul 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781488074776

Jayce Ellis

Jayce spends her days divorcing “happily married couples” and her nights writing about people like her: Black, queer, fighting for their happy-ever-afters, with her husband and two turtles by her side.

Book preview

Chapter One

André

It was only Tuesday, but my head pounded like I’d already worked sixty hours. My long-held rule not to drink until the weekend was being sorely tested by the man sitting across from me. To be fair, he didn’t look any more pleased than I was, so we could both be pissed.

I closed my eyes, prayed for patience, and plastered on the thickest smile I could muster. Mr. Walker, did you bring the statements for your annuity and brokerage accounts?

The older white man blustered, his face turning as red as the plaid shirt he wore. No, forgot about that one. You know my wife keeps all of these things.

I knew. I wanted his wife at all meetings for this exact reason. Their retainer agreement said as much. But who cared about rules? Not this guy.

Can you get her on the phone? I’ll step away and let you secure the statements here, then give you a more accurate financial outlook.

He frowned, like the very thought was an insult to his manhood. I ain’t got time for all that. What about you tell me my financial outlook based on the numbers I gave you?

For all the good that would do. At our initial meeting, even though she’d remained mostly silent, deferring to her husband, a downright placid grin on her face, it was clear Mrs. Walker handled the finances. He’d gone red then too, then showed up by his lonesome today. I didn’t have time for the ego, and I wasn’t doing this again.

Without a full accounting of your assets, it’s impossible for me to run projections for you. I’d like to see you again in three weeks. With your wife.

Why?

Yep, here by himself trying to play big dog. Waste of my time and his money. Mr. Walker, these are joint accounts, and you need to be jointly involved in making decisions on them. I’m certain you read that in your contract. Does Tuesday at four p.m. generally work well for both of you?

I didn’t miss the way his knuckles fisted the brim of his hat, the way his eyes narrowed like the word boy was just itching to fall from his tongue and into the air, but he swallowed and nodded. I penciled it in, then scrawled the date and time on a card, sliding it into the dark blue pebbled folder embossed with Ellison Financial—my firm, my pride—in gold font on the front. About the only positive of this meeting. I handed it over and he snatched it, trying to regain some sense of I don’t know what. I tried not to smirk. He didn’t like being told what to do, and damn sure not by my Black ass.

He stood and I followed suit, holding my hand out until he took it with a grudging shake. He was out the door in a flash and I leaned on the desk, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. Now I understood why Harold, my mentor and friend, always held his meetings in the conference room. It kept the office pure, he said, free from the anger that lingered even after people like Mr. Walker had left. But I worked in a shared work space, and someone had already reserved it. Which meant I needed to put my request in tonight for our next appointment.

With Walker gone, the flash of pride I’d felt just moments ago was eclipsed by a deep-seated irritation. One day I wouldn’t need to take clients like this, but I wasn’t there yet. No matter what Harold said about starting picky and staying picky, my bills had their own plans, and right now, I needed all the income I could get. Enough that I held my tongue and my breath, and cursed into a glass of kombucha I pretended was whiskey every night before getting up the next morning and doing it again.

A soft chuckle drew my attention and I looked up. ’Sup, lady?

Fiona, my Fenty 460 diva and receptionist for all the companies that worked here—meaning she basically ran the place and everyone in it—sauntered in and draped herself in the seat Mr. Walker had abandoned. I don’t even know why you took that client. You knew he was gon’ be a hot mess when you met him.

Fiona and I lived in the same complex. She’d told me about the space when I first launched on my own, and got me in mad cheap. Usually she was all business, sometimes she was like this. I huffed. Something something beggars choosers. She rolled her eyes while I slumped in my seat and breathed out, What’s going on?

Harold called, wants you to call him ASAP.

My heart dropped, straight to the soles of my feet, and burrowed itself in the place my arch would be if my flat-footed ass had them. How that made me incapable of forming words, I didn’t know, but I had to hack a few times in a pathetic attempt to clear my throat. He say what for? I asked, proud of how even-keeled I sounded.

Nope, but he said he needed a call back today, even if it’s after hours. She looked at her watch. Which it’s about to be for me.

Go on and get out of here.

She stood and gave me a mock salute before striding out of my room and down the hall. With that white pencil skirt—still pristine after eight hours on the job—her hair black this week instead of her usual summertime blonde, and red-bottomed stilettos, she looked like a runway model. And she damn well knew it. I shook my head and played off like I was cool until she was out of sight. Then my barely suppressed anxiety kicked in and I had to take a few deep breaths before picking up the phone.

Because this? This call could mean no more Mr. Walkers.

Conversely, it could also mean no more Ellison Financial.

Harold answered on the first ring. Took you long enough.

Got waylaid by a man who keeps his figures in his head.

The low rumble Harold gave turned into a full-bodied laugh, and something about that loosened the knot in my chest. Success rate? he asked.

Thirty percent. Maybe. Not really.

Let me guess. Came without his wife?

I joined him, feeling my shoulders finally start to sag. You got it. Now what’s so important that I had to call you back today, hour be damned? I knew the reason, but still I waited.

Harold sobered, the laugh cutting off immediately, and I sucked in a strong breath. I could picture him, silver hair shining, the only sign he was over fifty, staring at the phone as intensely as if I was sitting in front of him. Remember the family that was coming in and wanted a partnership between large and small firms to plan and manage their estate? The Penningtons?

Of course. Harold had nagged me until I’d submitted a proposal, even though I had no clue how I’d actually handle a project of that size. I kept a full-time office here, but I had no employees and, as much as I wished she did, Fiona didn’t work for me. The amount of time this partnership would require, over and above keeping tabs on my actual clients, was tremendous. I’d have to find more hours in the day somewhere. But this was a make-or-break chance, and my little one-man show needed this to make it. Enough to try to get in good with my old firm, Clarymore & Toth, and Harold knew what that’d cost me.

I cleared my throat before answering. How could I forget? Pulled three all-nighters getting that proposal together. They make a decision yet? The words tumbled out and hung in the air. The churning in my stomach at the idea that they’d gone with someone else drove home how much I needed this.

I told you about waiting ’til the last minute. They’ve narrowed it down to three, and you’re one of them.

My lungs deflated on a deep exhale, and I flopped back against the chair. You serious? Excitement I hadn’t dared let myself feel before bubbled up, and I laid a hand on my chest to calm down. Didn’t much help. I fished out my antacids from the desk drawer and popped two in the mouth, concentrating on chewing.

Because it’s a joint venture, they want to know how well we work together. But we can’t loan out our associates for an indeterminate length of time. We made them a compromise.

Alarms pinged around my brain. This was why he was calling. Whatever Harold was about to tell me, I wasn’t going to simply dislike it. Chances were high I’d actively despise it. And what was that? I asked cautiously.

He chuckled again, and I knew I was in for it. We agreed to loan out some of our interns to the finalists. One to each firm.

I didn’t even try to muffle my groan. After nine years working for him, Harold was well aware there were few things I hated more than dealing with interns. They almost exclusively came from upper-crust MBA programs, the Whartons and Stanfords and MITs of the world and, regardless of their experience—or lack thereof—they still believed they knew more than people who were actively doing the job. I’d pawned them off on younger associates as soon as I was able.

Now Harold was positively laughing at me. I knew you’d feel that way. I told the guys you’d hate the idea, but it’s what the client wants. His voice lowered. You deserve this, André. After what happened with Phil... He trailed off, not needing to say more.

Yeah, Phil. The lover who got mad when I wouldn’t let him top. The lover who set up a video in his room and recorded himself using a dildo on me, the most I’d allow, while I deep-throated him. Of course, he’d been smart enough to keep his face off camera. And then he sent it to the partners. All of them. It wasn’t grounds to fire me, but the resulting HR conversation made it clear I’d never move up.

So I moved on instead. Harold was the only person I kept in touch with. The one who’d asked, point-blank, Who set you up?, and was Team André from jump. He referred a lot of business to me, had forced me to submit this proposal to a company I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to work with again, regardless of whether I needed the score, and I was apparently going to repay the favor by taking on an intern.

It was my worst nightmare, but my options were to accept this condition, bust ass and get this contract, or pack up shop and move back to Tallahassee. And I loved my family, but from a distance. A big one. If ever there was a time to swallow my pride, this was it.

I ignored the whispered rumblings in my head, asking how the hell I was going to pull this off, and spoke. Okay, what are the parameters?

Harold chuckled and I flipped him off, wishing he was there to see it. I grabbed a notepad and pen, and settled in.

---

By the time I got off the phone with Harold, I was even more ready for a drink. The self-imposed rule I’d started after two too many happy hours playing with the big boys seemed unduly restrictive under the circumstances. But now more than ever I had to stay on top of my game, especially since I’d be responsible for someone else. I grabbed a soda from the shared fridge and sat my ass back down.

I’d said I needed more hours in the day to pull this off, and having an intern who could actually do the job and not equal more work for me would be a blessing. If I got one of those. If not... I couldn’t afford to think about that right now.

I pulled out a notepad, because some things just always felt better on paper than a computer, and found my proposal file with the submitted copy. I’d scratched out some initial ideas, but it was time to go deeper, find the thing that would connect what looked like three, maybe four generations of Penningtons who had vastly different visions for the future of their assets, into something that could make everyone happy.

By the time I took a break, it was after ten. As a rule I tried to limit the number of days I worked late, because that grind-’til-you-die foolishness just led to an early grave. But this, this was going to take all the hours I had available, and some I didn’t.

I closed my eyes for a minute, and had to be well more than halfway to sleep when my cell rang, startling me awake with the office lights blazing overhead. My phone was set to do not disturb after 9:30, so whoever was calling had to have called twice in rapid succession to bypass the setting.

I reached out and answered it, putting it on speakerphone. Yello?

What? Is you sleep or something?

I squeezed my eyes shut and groaned. I should’ve double-checked the screen before picking up. My baby brother, George, who had zero sense of time. And I loved him, I promise you I did, but he would talk forever if I let him, no matter the hour. The absolute last thing I needed.

Normal people are, G, I said, answering him.

He laughed, loud and long, and I could hear his smile on the phone. Us Ellison boys have never been normal. Why start now?

I didn’t even have a good retort for that. He wasn’t wrong, but Jesus. Eleven was still too late to be calling.

To what do I owe this pleasure? I asked, hoping to steal, and therefore shorten, this conversation.

So, Dad’s birthday is in three weeks.

Yup. Just before Labor Day.

Me and the guys got him and Mom a cruise, but we’re kinda feeling like that’s not enough, you know?

Because this year was Pop’s seventieth, and that was cause for celebration. Not that my family needed it, because they loved to find excuses to party. I couldn’t ignore this one the way I did some of the others, but fifteen hundred miles was a long trip for a family friend’s son’s third anniversary. I’m just saying.

And then I remembered the rest of what he’d said. Wait. What do you mean y’all got a cruise for them? Why didn’t y’all tell me?

George huffed. You get too damn economical and shit. Don’t want to buy nothing until you’ve compared prices at like six different sites or whatever. No one wants to do all that, man.

Again, what was there to say? I snagged the photo of us from Tracey, my youngest brother, at his graduation, and thumbed over the frame. It was the only personal item I kept in this otherwise sterile office space. I was glad they were all doing well enough that they could pay for something like that, but talk about being out in the cold.

George cleared his throat and I focused back on him. But that’s part of why I called. His voice trailed off at the end, and I straightened. George was known for many things. Being unsure around me wasn’t one of them.

What’s up, G? What do you need?

So, Mom and Pops know we’re doing the cruise and all, but we want to have a party for his friends too. Like, it’s a celebration, bitches! But we’re kinda tapped out, though. Wanted to see if you could pitch in.

Of course, I said, maybe a little too quickly. But as much as I avoided going home, I didn’t like feeling left out of things surrounding it. That was a problem, I knew. My brothers, George, Tracey, and the quiet one, Wallace, all still lived near Tallahassee. I was the one who’d flown the coop, who always found some reason to stay away. To explain it, that even at thirty-four the nagging and teasing about my sexuality had bordered right at the edge of malicious, enough that I didn’t subject myself to it more than necessary, sounded silly. I mean, shit. At thirty-four, who gave a fuck what people thought? Apparently, my sorry ass did.

Dre, man, that’s great. Thank you.

Damn, if George had been talking I’d completely zoned out. I laughed to hide my cringe, then said, No problem.

It was the perfect—perfect—place to end the conversation and get ready to go home. So naturally, I talked to my brother for another hour. By the time we finally hung up, sometime close to one, I was dead on my feet and the thought of turning right back around and being at the office in less than seven hours set me on edge.

But if I got this partnership, that might be my new normal. And I wasn’t sure how much I wanted that. Needing it be damned.

Chapter Two

Marcus

For as many hours as the interns—including myself—worked, you’d think that Clarymore & Toth, one of the most well-known financial firms in the world, could afford to spring for some damn walls. But no, they were all gung ho about the open-office concept, which quite frankly struck me as patently ludicrous. The last thing that increased my productivity was hearing seventeen other people yammering on about whatever the hell they were into on a Friday night.

And yes, that made me the asshole, the Angry Black Man if you will, the cranky one who never wanted to be bothered, the one who didn’t smile enough, but I’d stopped caring years ago. If I occasionally missed the inside jokes that set people off in peals of laughter, that was okay. My mom always told me I didn’t go to work to make friends. Apparently she was the only one who’d said that.

I was also apparently the only one who cared. Because I watched Harold Johnson, one of the only Black advisors—let alone partners—at Clarymore, follow our supervisor back into his office, and the noise didn’t seem to faze him at all. Harold sure was pissed as hell about something, though, and that was more interesting than anything else going on around me.

I considered taking a risk and drowning out the chatter with some music, but decided against it. The one time I’d put on my headphones—those big-ass, over-the-ear behemoths that screamed fuck off to the rest of the world—that same supervisor unceremoniously snatched them off my head. Anywhere else, some shit might have popped off, no matter what school I went to, and the look on my face must’ve said what words couldn’t. From then on, he gave me a wide berth. So did most of the other interns. And I’d instantly become he-who-does-not-play-well-with-others.

Hey, Marc, Brian called out from across the aisle, swinging back and forth in his chair. My stomach rebelled against the motion and I had to avert my gaze.

Marcus, I replied automatically. Yes, some people called me Marc. I called them family. Not even that, because my parents hated nicknames and insisted on using Marcus. My friends, they called me Marc. These people weren’t family, damn sure not friends, and the familiarity grated, especially by someone I was convinced was trying to make me sick.

Brian rolled his almost scarily blue eyes heavenward. Somehow, he made being bald with a full beard look jovial and not sinister, and he liked to fuck with me. He was about the only person here I could stand. Marcus, he said, then paused for effect. Oh Maaar-cus, he singsonged, channeling his inner Eartha Kitt. What are you doing tonight, Maaar-cus darling?

I glared, while the other interns within hearing distance looked on in confusion. Had these white folks really never seen Boomerang? Jesus be a fence. Still, sleeping with your boss to get a leg up? Or, hell, your subordinate? Not a chance in hell, and I didn’t like the connection, even if I knew he was joking. I was maybe a little paranoid about what people thought of me, but I was the only Black person in this eighteen-intern class and yeah, stereotypes.

I narrowed my eyes at his smirk and he laughed. He knew he’d gotten under my skin. What do you want, Brian?

We’re going out for drinks after this. Thinking about Waterfront. You game?

The Waterfront? Sequoia, Tony and Joe’s, Farmers Fishers Bakers? I was game, but not with them. I needed to be with my own people for a while.

Nah, I’m good. Thanks for the invite, though.

Aw, come on. You never come out with us. Shelby walked by, highlighted blonde hair swinging, her heels clacking against the floor, and punched me lightly on the arm. I closed my eyes. Wouldn’t do any good to scare her, and opening my mouth would do that, but I wished like hell she’d stop touching me. I’d watched her enough to know it wasn’t just her personality, but she got close to me and acted like a kid at a petting zoo.

Maybe next time, I grated out. Especially if the next time was the last one before the Apocalypse.

The door across the hall opened and Harold strode out, looking remarkably calmer than he had minutes before. Our erstwhile supervisor followed more slowly. If I thought hard, I’d remember his name, but he’d asked us to call him Supe, like he was trying to be down. It was corny as hell, one of the only things me and the other interns agreed on. Yet and still, the stupid name stuck, especially since I’d already internally dubbed him that. He walked to the center of the open space and cleared his throat loudly. No one but me seemed to notice. He clapped his hands and waited until the din that was part and parcel of working here finally quieted. I need everyone’s attention. We’re changing things up a little bit here, and it’s going to be a rapid start, so listen well, people.

I gave him half an ear, not pausing the status update I was sending to an advisor. "As we mentioned at the beginning of the summer, we’re doing some really heavy-duty collaborations with a couple of small firms in the area. Some of our clients, especially those with closely held or private corporations and a lot of intergenerational wealth, want the personal touch of a small firm to guide and lead their assets, but the maneuverability a large firm like ours can provide.

With one client, we solicited proposals from multiple smaller firms in the area for a partnership. We’ve narrowed it down to three and agreed to loan out one intern each to the finalists, so three of you in total. The remaining fifteen will stay here with us. We’ll still be your point of contact and will be furnishing your paychecks while you’re gone. The one provision of this arrangement is that you will be required to make a presentation to the prospective client while working with the firm, in three weeks’ time. Any questions so far?

I didn’t bother to look around. It all seemed fairly straightforward, and I wanted no part of it. I mean, it sounded cool and all, but I had no interest in a small firm. I never had, even if it meant I’d have more responsibility. I wanted the bigger clients, the name recognition of working for this company, the perks of being one of the big boys. Call me shallow, I didn’t care, but I wasn’t at Wharton to work for someone whose name didn’t show up on page one of the search results.

Supe waited a few moments, then cleared his throat and continued, So, the person going with...

I finished my email and sat back, arms crossed. I knew the quality of the work I’d done. I didn’t need to hear more about the virtues of small-firm life. It was wrong, but I couldn’t help my smirk when first Shelby, then Brian’s names were called. Which should’ve been a clue.

When he called my name, my head jutted back to the front. Excuse me?

He grinned, a sly thing I immediately hated. I’d never made a big secret about my occupational goals, and this was a slap in the face. "Yes, Marcus?" Could I pop him for that emphasis on the us? You’ll be interning with Ellison Financial Services.

I stared. This could not be happening.

A retort sat on the tip of my tongue, but I was acutely aware of the curious looks my colleagues were giving me. I clamped my mouth shut and smiled. I look forward to the opportunity.

He nodded once, like he knew I wasn’t leaving there without having him answer some key questions, namely what the hell he was thinking. Supe went over a few housekeeping items, mainly telling those of us he was siphoning off to other companies to check our emails for the address and point of contact, then strolled back to his office, whistling.

Brian walked up and slapped me on the shoulder, and I was still too in shock to say something. Don’t worry, Marc, I think the big man on little campus thing will work well for you. My glare must have spoken volumes, because he laughed and moved away. Best get that look off your face. You’re going to need to polish up those people skills you got buried under a rock somewhere.

Fuck. I waved him off with a short, sharper-than-I-meant-it-to-be goodbye, then collapsed into my chair. Walls would be a godsend right now, so my overwhelming disappointment could be handled in private. I smiled as nice as I knew how until the remaining interns had cleared out, then beelined to his office.

Come in, Marcus. His voice held a hint of humor that only ramped up my irritation.

I guess you were waiting for me?

I figured you’d swing by. He motioned to a chair, and I sat. I wasted no time.

Supe, what’s going on? You know I’m not interested in solo practices. I didn’t tell him it wasn’t in my plan, because that just begged for nosy follow-up questions.

He leaned back and steepled his fingers. In an instant, he’d gone from his tragically bad efforts to be one of the guys, to being the shrewd shark he was billed as. One, because you need the experience, and two, before you ask, because you don’t get to pick your assignments every time. We want people who can talk to clients, sell the product, be more than the grunt with the headphones on.

I ignored that last quip. He was still salty, even though he’d won the battle and the war on that one. No, I was stuck on the word grunt. As much as I worked, as hard as I worked, that was all they thought of me? Why? Because I didn’t want to drink myself into a stupor during the week like my colleagues? Wasn’t that about a bitch?

I’m good at what I do. And I’m good with a career of that. What’s the problem?

"And yet your best-reviewed assignment was one with a small family and modest