The Golden Goose 1

  The Golden Goose 
Chapter 1

 

Jared was late. He glanced at his watch and cursed silently. He didn’t have time for this meeting. He was the generation that the newspaper columnists and bloggers waxed so elegantly about, a man burdened with caring for two generations of his family. No, he refused to think of it as a burden. It was a joy that he could keep his parents out of a nursing home, and his sister did try to help, or at least when her medications were at the right levels. He had family; they might be difficult family, but he had family. Even in this country, it hadn’t been all that long ago that people like him were left without family. Hell, just across the southern border he could be arrested or forced into psychiatric care.

Jared rubbed his eyes with his fist. God, he was tired! He hoped his mother with her early stage dementia hadn’t unplugged the crock pot or confused the oven with the refrigerator. He was looking forward to the stew he’d started this morning. He could taste the soft and mellow flavor of the meat and the near buttery smoothness of the potatoes.

A sharp blare of a car horn shook him from his reverie. The light had changed, and a quick glance in the rearview mirror told him the drivers behind him were becoming increasingly irate. He eased his vintage hatchback into gear and sputtered through the intersection. Charlotte, his coworker, had nicknamed his car Vintage Valentina. It was a lot nicer name than what he called the spluttering wreck. It had been a good car twenty years ago, not fancy but good with its AM/FM radio and manual four speed transmission. Its lack of air conditioning hadn’t seemed like a big deal when he bought it used for a few bucks, but in the oppressive humidity of August, Jared wished his bank account hadn’t been so anemic. He could have taken the train to work; they were air conditioned, but he had this blasted meeting. 

Shit! He’d made another wrong turn. He never came to this part of town with its swank high rises and streets full of sleek European sedans heading to the suburbs. Charlotte did most of the begging work or more correctly grant writing. She’d grown up in one of those impossibly rich suburbs in Connecticut where everybody belonged to two golf clubs and a yacht club. Jared was the son of an auto worker and a grocery cashier. His parents had provided well for him, but this was not his element. He’d never seen a three hundred dollar tie, let alone worn one, and private jets were something seen in the movies, no more real than the action hero who dodged unscathed through a hail of bullets. He was meeting someone who had a private jet, more than one from the company portfolio Charlotte had desperately shoved in his face at lunch.

“Make a good impression on this Graves guy. He could make our budget for the next five years, and it would be no more strain than us buying a cup of coffee. Have you seen what these people own and what they give away? Their philanthropy budget is bigger than some African countries’ gross domestic product. How did you ever get this meeting?”

Jared had made up some feeble excuse. He didn’t really know. They were too small a fish for a company that funded programs from the eradication of polio to the national symphony. Somehow Jim knew this Mr. Graves, actually knew him and not merely as a distant guest at some benefit luncheon. Jim was the coordinator of the state’s funding for education and housing of special needs adults. Jared’s small workshop fell under Jim’s umbrella. Jim for some reason had taken a liking to Jared, actually invited him to dinner with that insane young man he called his partner. Aaron might be funny at a high school reunion, but when he’d pitched his piece of pie at the waiter, Jared thought he was going to die of embarrassment. The waiter had been an ass, but throwing food in a restaurant... Jared blushed just thinking about it. Jim had been unruffled. Well, not quite. The glare he’d shot his partner would have frozen molten lava, but he’d paid the bill and left a hefty tip without a word. Aaron had called Jared the next morning, sounding almost tearful, and apologized. They’d gone out several more times, but they’d wisely stuck to burger joints. Tossed food in restaurants catering to teenage hormones and screaming children wouldn’t be noteworthy, but Aaron had refrained from any unorthodox sports and was actually charming and engaging. Both Jim and Aaron were well read and well traveled and could carry an interesting dinner conversation when they were leaving the food on the table.

Jared jerked his steering wheel hard, earning a sharp blare from a driver behind him, as he spotted the building. He’d been told to park in the garage under the massive tower of steel and glass. Jared remembered that it was one of those new green buildings that had won some prize for environmental friendliness. He couldn’t say it look any different than any other office building. 

A uniformed parking attendant ran to his car as he pulled down the steep ramp. “Can I help you, sir?”

“I have an appointment with Landon Graves.”

“And your name, sir?”

“Jared Ruston.”

“Ah, Mr. Ruston. Mr. Graves just called down checking on your arrival. He was worried that you might have been inexplicably delayed.”

“No, I got lost,” Jared said, feeling flustered and totally out of place chatting with this impeccably polite young man as he sat sweating in Vintage Valentina.

“You should have called. I could have come and collected you. Mr. Graves drove one of his really cool sports cars today.” A big grin broke out over the parking attendant’s face, and he suddenly looked no different than Jared remembered his high school friends, all acne, freckles and fascination with loud music and fast cars. “I’ve been dying to drive it, and it had air conditioning. This thing looks like a sweat box.”

Jared nodded and felt a flush beyond the redness caused by the ambient temperature rise in his face. His shirt was sticking to his back, and sweat was trickling down his brow. Here he was coming with hat in hand to ask for money, and even the parking attendant noticed his state of dishevelment, and from the car window, the milk stain on his pants wasn’t even visible. Two of the residents had a minor altercation at lunch, and Jared had ended up wearing part of their meal, and he’d stupidly forgotten to bring any extra clothes.

“This way, sir,” the parking attendant said, opening the door. “I’ll park your car for you, sir. Take the elevator to the top floor. Mr. Graves’s secretary will meet you.”

Jared stuffed the papers on the passenger seat into a worn satchel and climbed out of the car.

“You definitely should have had me drive you, sir,” the parking attendant said with a cheeky grin as he gingerly slipped behind the wheel. “Are you sure this vehicle actually runs on gasoline and not elephant dung or something?” The boy laughed. “I’ll take good care of her. I’m sure she’s one of a kind.”

Jared laughed as he watched his car splutter off. All he could do was laugh. The kid wasn’t trying to be mean, but damn he was right. Jared was out of place here. He should just walk up the exit ramp and take the nearest train home. He could tell Charlotte that their little workshop hadn’t been right for the G&L Foundation. She wouldn’t question him. No, he told himself. He could at least show up; he’d come this far. He could survive five minutes before being shown politely but firmly to the exit. How painful could that be?

Jared stepped out of the elevator on the top floor. Even the elevator had been fancy with a mechanical voice announcing the floors. The hallway was spotless. A sign pointed him toward reception in English and several languages he didn’t recognize. Jared knew the art work lining the walls had to be real; there were several Impressionist paintings; the value of which probably exceeded every cent he would make in his lifetime. He turned the next corner and was surprised to see sheets of paper tacked on the wall, splotched with color and spilled glue. They looked like they belonged in an elementary school. Jared bent closer to read the title. “The New School, Boston” He’d seen the school in the paper somewhere. He couldn’t quite remember.

“Jared Ruston.”

Jared turned to see a man of average height standing in the corridor and smiling. The man must have been in his sixties, but he looked fit with a slight tan showing on his face and arms.

“Yes,” Jared stumbled. This must be Mr. Graves, but he’d expected a suit, not this easy friendliness.

“I’m Landon Graves. I was about ready to send out a search party. I didn’t think you could be kidnapped between the parking garage and my office, but you never know.”

“I’m sorry; I was looking at your pictures. I know I’m already late, I’m sorry; I shouldn’t be wasting your time,” Jared said hurriedly.

“I put them here for people to look at, not rush by. The children like color, and I detest neutral cream walls.”

“Does your foundation sponsor this?”

“Yes, we finance art projects in elementary schools throughout the nation. Our charitable activities are wide ranging. Our goal is to try to spread the greatest good with the money we have available. Even our foundation doesn’t have unlimited funds.  Do you want some dinner while we discuss our proposal?”

“No, I have to get home,” Jared said. He already knew his proposal was rejected when Graves mentioned limited funds. He was surprised to see Graves look taken aback. The man should want Jared out of here. This was just a waste of everybody’s time. Jared scrambled for a polite explanation as Graves continued to calmly watch him. “I’d love to take you up on your offer, but I have to prepare dinner for my parents and sister. They can’t do it alone.” And why spend a torturous evening being politely told no?

“How much time do you have?” Landon Graves asked.

Jared glanced at his watch. “Thirty minutes.”

“Well, come into my office at least and have a glass of lemonade. You look frazzled.” 

“It’s hot,” Jared said, feeling a flush rising in his face. “My car’s not air conditioned.” Jared wished he’d brought fresh clothes. He looked like he’d been working garbage collection and sleeping under a bridge.

“Next time I’ll send young Angus to pick you up. My car has proper heating and cooling.”

Next time? He was going to be rejected. This Graves guy was just more polite than most. “I’m more than capable of getting myself around.”

“I’m sure you are,” Landon said easily. “But why use an ox cart when you can use the latest in modern, motorized travel? There’s nothing heroic about doing without because of obstinacy or misplaced pride.”

Jared kept his eyes on the paintings. He wasn’t going to react to this man’s words. They needed the money. Since this guy hadn’t thrown him out, maybe they were going to get a few scraps along with a lecture on managing their pennies more wisely. He could put up with the misplaced moralizing or whatever.

“My apologies,” Landon said, his voice still easy. “This is professional meeting; I didn’t have the right to say that, not in this context. Come in my office. We’ll talk about the work I need done.”

Now Jared couldn’t hide the faint blush. He was frazzled and had been rude to a man who was trying to be pleasant and maybe hadn’t rejected the proposal out of hand. “No--” Jared fumbled for the words. “I’m hot and tired.”  He ran his hand through his already mussed hair before jamming it into his pocket. He didn’t need to show this man that he was any more of a wreck than he already was. “Sorry,” he started again. “My parents aren’t well.”

“Mr. Ruston, Jared if I may. I was making a joke, a misplaced joke. Perhaps it would be better if we rescheduled this meeting for another time?”

“No,” Jared said quickly. He didn’t want to risk losing this contact. Jim had worked hard to make the arrangements. 

The office was spacious with broad windows that opened to the city below. Landon grinned. “It’s one of the few perks of getting older, the big office with the best views. No more toiling in the corner with only a single lump of coal to heat the room. Sit down. I’ll get that lemonade I promised.”

Jared perched on the edge of the bright red leather sofa. It was spotless, and he was sure shockingly expensive, not like the second hand furniture in his house with ghastly chintz and sharp springs. Landon handed him a tall glass filled with ice and topped with a fresh rounds of lemon. 

“There’s plenty more. It’s one of the best parts of summer.” Landon took a long swig from his own glass. “Did Jim tell you at all what we had in mind?” 

“He said you needed a few leaflets printed,” Jared said, half choking on his lemonade in his haste to answer. It didn’t sound like a big job, but even an extra few thousand would help. Budgets were always tight, and with the roof needing repaired, a few thousand was desperately needed. “We have a full service print shop.”

“So I read in your information. Do you have any restriction on the materials your workshop will handle?”

“No.” Jared shook his head. Jared couldn’t imagine the reason for that question. 

“These pamphlets are considered subversive in some parts of the world.”

“Most of our clients who work in the print shop have minimal literacy skills.” He wasn’t talking about pornography or something, was he? No, Jim would never have recommended them for anything that would put their other funding in jeopardy.

“It’s not pornographic, but it is political,” Landon said with another one of his broad smiles that seemed to light up the room. “Our politics are more radical than some. We are actively working to destabilize the government of Texas and to provide a safe haven for refugees seeking protection from their discriminatory laws. This material is targeted to Texas’s repressed gay and lesbian population. Will that be a problem?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Jared didn’t really follow international politics, but even he knew of their southern neighbor’s draconian morality laws. Periodically on the news, some new asylum seeker would describe unimaginable horrors that caused him or her to flee. 

“Fine.” Landon smiled again, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening. “I had my people draw up a tentative proposal. Why don’t you review it as your leisure? Perhaps next weekend come up to Vermont, and we can hammer out the details. You could consider it a working holiday.” Landon smiled again

“I don’t see how I can,” Jared said, desperately trying to think of some solution. He wanted this contract. A contract with G&L for his little workshop would be an unbelievable prize, but he couldn’t get away. Everybody depended on him. 

“You have next weekend off. I’ve already checked. Jim told me. It’s nothing nefarious. He seems to know your schedule.”

Jim would. He was a good guy, but he could be prying, and he’d taken to insisting on lunch at their biweekly meetings and taking up way too much of Jared’s time. Jared liked Jim, but God, he was a busybody. Who was he to suggest that Jared could take a weekend off? He didn’t have senile parents leaving the gas on and storing their shoes in the oven.

“I have responsibilities at home,” Jared said, trying to sound both grateful and resolute at the same time. “I don’t think I can get away.”

Landon smiled again, this one kindly and much too knowing for Jared’s comfort. “Angus, our young friend from the parking garage, is in his second year of medical school and has a special interest in geriatrics. He’d be happy to assist with your parents and sister for a short weekend. I’ve already taken the liberty of putting it on his schedule. We of course will pay him as it is I who am forcing you to need his services.”

“I can’t be away,” Jared said reflexively, raking his fingers through his hair. He had responsibilities. He couldn’t just jet off for the weekend on some harebrained scheme.

“Despite Angus’s affinity for fast cars, he’s very responsible. When is the last time you’ve been away for a weekend?”

Jared couldn’t remember. It had been several years, before his parents got sick. He’d still been with Wes then. That had always been Wes’s complaint that Jared was wed to his job. At first they had shouted; later it was like they were shadows passing each other, and then one day Jared had come home to an empty house and a note. He had responsibilities he couldn’t just run around to beach houses, ski resorts, or whatever.

“We are talking a significant grant for your workshop, maybe a million or more,” Landon said, reaching for his folders. “Take these home and review them. Let me know by the middle of next week if you’re interested.”

A million! Jared had thought in the low thousands if he got lucky. A single grant in the millions would be life changing for so many. They could add more beds. They always needed more room. Jared took the folders. He’d have to make this work. He tried not to clutch them desperately as he rose and made his polite farewells. A million dollar grant, it was beyond his imagination.

******

Landon watched the expressions race over Jared’s face. Shock and disbelief followed by a desperate effort to look professional. Landon’s people had investigated Jared’s group home and attached workshop. It was well run, but in desperate need of cash. Landon didn’t waste foundation money, but this was a good project and would impact lives both locally and in the Republic of Texas. The Foundation’s board had authorized up to five million from the paperwork alone. The meeting at the lodge wasn’t necessary; further discussions could be handled by conference call or here in this office, but the Foundation’s board didn’t know that Jared was a submissive, a boy in the Green Mountain tradition. Jim had hinted about Jared’s status, but he was much too reserved and professional to bring up private matters. Landon was skilled at reading the unspoken message, and Jim’s hints that Jared was a personal friend hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Landon poured himself another glass of lemonade. Jared had practically screamed submissive in the brat tradition: late, disorganized, frazzled, and still charming with his untouched innocence. The poor kid had no idea he was a submissive, all the more appealing when they didn’t know. Landon was going to have to beat the unattached tops off with a stick. Jared would hit all the right buttons with them, and the poor kid would be scared to death. It was all Landon could do to stop himself from bundling the poor boy off tonight, and if Jared hadn’t had family at home, all bets would have been off about Jared spending one more stressed filled weekend, galloping here and there in stained trousers, a shirt worn beyond the threadbare stage, and circles under his eyes to rival Saturn’s rings. That boy needed someone to look after him.

Landon would have to warn Gordon to tone it down. A lecture about Jared’s state of dishevelment would send that boy high tailing it for the train station. Gordon tended to be intense about the need to take pride in one’s appearance. Some of the younger boys called it perhaps more appropriately ‘ape shit crazy’. Of course, they didn’t use those words when Gordon and Landon were in earshot. They’d faint if they knew the bosses knew, but young submissives were naive if only they knew how few secrets they really had.

Landon laughed at the memory of Justin when Milton had caught him in those tattered, ridiculously tight jeans and no shirt at six in the morning. The excuse that he’d been out gardening had hit the ground like a brick. Milton had stood silently in the hallway, looking entirely too formidable, until the whole story had come tumbling out of Justin’s mouth in ragged gulps. Justin was a classic bratty boy, all brash and impulsive, a submissive who responded to Milton, and he’d been flat out terrified at looming Milton. Looming Milton was terrifying. He could make Landon swallow hard, and few tops intimidated Landon. He found most of them laughable and enjoyed their bumbling uncertainty at how to approach him, the man who straddled both sides. 

Milton of course knew. He’d raise one eyebrow in a sardonic fashion as if to say brat at me at your own peril. Landon did occasionally, and Milton was damn good. He caught everything. Having Sheldon made Milton hyper aware. That boy could spin out faster than any boy Landon had ever seen. No, that wasn’t right. Blade was worse and more emotionally fragile. Landon himself had been pulled into several conferences on how to manage that boy when Milton was beyond threatening to strangle him. The poor kid. Until Ryan, every top they tried had fled in unmitigated terror. Milton had even talked of tentatively keeping Blade despite his reservations about a threesome with Sheldon and the added complications of the third party being Sheldon’s brother. Tops with that strength just didn’t grow on trees. Ryan had been a gift from heaven. Without him, it would have been Milton and his two Zaths.

Poor Jared. The two Zaths and their partners were scheduled to be up at the lodge next weekend. Now that Milton was officially the head of the Green Mountain Boys he tried to make regular appearances in Vermont. Gordon still ran the day to day part of the operation which was becoming increasingly time consuming as Milton’s campaign to increase membership, especially among young people, was in full swing. Milton attracted submissives like flies. The top recruitment was tougher, but right now there were a half dozen or so young tops in contact with the organization, and a few more mature guys who’d been one round with a vanilla partner and figured out they needed something else.

Atticus was one of these retreads as Sheldon liked to call them. He’d worked for the G&L Foundation since his graduation from college at various capacities and completely under the radar that he was a top until he started to manage the Texas program. Landon had met Atticus’s first partner at several of their social engagements. He was never so glad to see someone ride off into the sunset. The guy was a prick, and the corner of the desk had more of a sense of humor. Even Gordon had trouble hiding his disdain behind formal politeness. Landon hadn’t been quite so polite, but fortunately Gordon didn’t know half. He’d been furious enough about the adulterated drinks, with every word about Landon’s age and responsibility punctuated with the cane. That had been bad and worse when Gordon had brutally grounded him for two weeks. Landon, in the right mood, could enjoy a good caning, and even in the wrong mood, it was cathartic. Being within arm’s reach of Gordon or Milton for two weeks had been plain awful. Sheldon liked that kind of thing; it made Landon furious. Milton had said it was the top side of Landon, but had offered him no reprieve, only muttering that it was deserved and that he should have known better.

Jared would be perfect for Atticus. Jared was a quiet boy who needed nurturing and organizing. He wasn’t going to throw a wine glass at a waiter in public. Atticus gave those boys a wary eye and begged for assistance from Gordon or Milton. Wayne and Braxton had pitched a fit at each other which resulted in books flying across the room like intercontinental missiles. Atticus had managed to separate them, even had them cornered when help arrived, but he’d made it very clear that he didn’t find it fun before lunch entertainment. 

Now Jared, with his state of harried confusion and exhaustion, would be perfect. Atticus could organize; the man loved to organize. It made him a stunningly good employee, but it drove Landon up the wall. He has lists and notebooks and protocols for everything. He’d probably never heard of the word spontaneity, or maybe he had a protocol for responding to it. He was calming, reassuring and not bad looking. Blade even stopped moving for five seconds in his presence. Yes, he would be perfect. Landon would make sure he was at the lodge. The Texas campaign was his baby; he should be there anyway. There was no need for Gordon to find out Landon was matchmaking. Gordon took a dim view of blatantly interfering with a top’s life without his permission, especially if Landon did it and especially if it were Atticus. Atticus had strongly signaled that he was more than content to live alone, and while he was fully aware of the Green Mountain Boys’ activities and his designation as a top, he was not a member. He was an employee of the G&L Foundation, and according to Gordon’s law that made interfering in his private life off limits. Gordon would call it a set up or something worse, and it would have unpleasant consequences.