White Collar Fic - Torch Song - Part Three of Seven (Reverse Big Bang R2)

[elrhiarhodan]

Title: Torch Song – Part Three of Seven
Author: elrhiarhodan
Artist: kaylashay
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, June Ellington, Clinton Jones, Diana Berrigan, Elizabeth Mitchell, Mozzie, Julian Larsen, Garrett Fowler, Reese Hughes, Kyle Bancroft, Evan Leary, Chloe Woods, Amanda Callaway, Phillip Kramer; Peter/Neal, Elizabeth/Mozzie
Word Count: ~56,000
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Expressions of homophobia, transphobia, past reference to a physically and emotionally abusive relationship. Please see more extensive notes in the Master Post on my Journal.
Summary: An alternate universe partially based on the characters and location in "Upper West Side Story", but with a twist - of the "Victor/Victoria" kind. Neal Caffrey teaches European History, but has an interesting and potentially career-damaging gig at his godmother's nightclub. Enter Peter Burke, talent agent and an old friend of June's, who plays the fairy godmother role to the hilt.

__________________



Peter sipped his third cup of coffee and gave a final look through the internship applications. He still had a half-hour to kill before meeting Neal at the park, and he might as well get some work done. He needed to focus on something other than the memory of kissing Neal. Last night, after he had gotten home from June's, the taste and scent of the man overwhelmed him and he'd done something he hadn't indulged in in quite a while – he had jerked off while thinking about a man he knew, rather than some faceless, anonymous paragon. Twice before falling asleep and, again, in the shower this morning.

Arousal began to bubble up in his veins, so he turned his attention back to the files in front of him.

Clinton had done a decent job of winnowing out the less than stellar candidates, although Peter still looked at those applications. He, himself, had cut the field down to two potential interns – one boy, Evan Leary, and one girl, Chloe Woods, not that gender mattered.

He dithered – both were equally qualified and both had excellent academic records. As he flipped through the packets, he re-read the recommendations. The girl had one from her Calculus teacher, her English teacher and a school administrator. The boy also had a letter of recommendation from an English teacher and a school administrator, and like the girl's, both letters were fairly standard. The boy also had a letter from his history teacher and without even thinking, Peter glanced at the signature line and chuckled. The letter was from Neal Caffrey.

The alarm on his phone started to play – Benny Goodman's Take the A Train, and Peter got up. It was ten to twelve and time to go meet Neal.

Today was casual – a russet-colored cotton pull-over and tailored slacks, plus a light jacket. It was very early April and although it was supposed to be on the warmer side today, it would still be cool, if not cold in the shade. Peter debated about bringing a blanket so they could relax on Bryant Park's famous lawn, but decided against it. He could always come back for it if they needed it.

As he passed the hall mirror beside the front door, Peter checked himself out, from the front and the side. He wasn't vain and he worked hard to keep fit, but this was essentially a first date and he wanted to impress. Satisfied with his silhouette, he picked up his keys and left.

Five minutes later, he was outside and jogging across 40th Street and up the small staircase near the carousel. The weather gods were definitely smiling on the city today and the area was packed with families. Towards the center of the park, past the gaming area and the carousel, by the bandstand set up on the lawn, Peter could hear the sound of bagpipes and snare drums, something that always made him happy.

And then there was a sight to make him even happier. Neal Caffrey, in a dark green jacket, waving at him. Peter walked over to greet him, not caring that he probably had the goofiest of grins on his face.

"Hey."

"Hey there." Neal's eyes glowed, perhaps a reflection of his own happiness.

Peter put a hand on his shoulder, then cupped the back of his neck, pulling Neal close for a kiss. They kept it brief and on the G side of a PG rating, but Neal was still delicious and the kiss was like champagne in his veins.

He could taste Neal's smile.

He couldn't think of anything to say that could be said with dozens of small humans running around, so Peter asked, "How are you?"

"Good, better. You?"

Peter echoed Neal's reply, "Good, and now – better." He ran a hand down Neal's arm and found his hand. He liked it – it was smooth, but he could feel the strength in the bone and sinew. Neal gave his hand a quick squeeze but didn't let go. They headed over to the plaza and the seating area behind the library's back steps and Peter couldn't remember ever walking hand in hand with anyone – at least not as an adult.

They found a pair of seats – the notoriously rickety chairs provided by the park conservancy – near the edge of the lawn and Neal leaned back, staring at the blue sky and the high drifting clouds. "This is nice, isn't it?"

"It is." Peter watched people – families with children, teenagers, hipsters and oldsters – as they spread out across the lawn. "I can remember when this was a place to be avoided at all costs."

"Needle Park, right?"

"Yeah. It was terrible."

"My dad used to tell me never to cut through here – he'd tan my ass if he ever found out I did. And of course I did – that challenge was too irresistible to pass up."

"You lived in Manhattan growing up?"

"Yeah – on East End Avenue. The city was different back then, but I was still a free-range kid. Were you a Manhattanite, too?"

"Nah – grew up in Brooklyn, near Fort Greene. My dad worked in construction after losing his job at the Navy Yard, and my mother was a bookkeeper."

"I remember fearing Brooklyn the way I feared nuclear war and zombies."

"Fort Greene was pretty grim back then. But the area's gotten a lot better now. My parents still have their house on DeKalb."

Their conversation was cut short as the first pipe band took the stage. Peter draped an arm over the back of Neal's chair and was rewarded when Neal leaned against him.

Three bands played, and contrary to Neal's comments last night, there was only one rendition of Amazing Grace, but all three played highly enthusiastic versions of Scotland the Brave. As the last skirling pipe faded and the tartan-clad musicians marched off the stage, Peter looked over at Neal. His eyes were shining and happiness seemed to radiate from him. Without even thinking, Peter kissed him.

"Mmm, that's nice," Neal murmured against his lips.

Someone – it sounded like a kid – shouted, "Get a room" and Peter pulled back.

Neal grinned, mischief in his eyes. "We could, you know."

Peter threw caution to the wind. "Or we could go back to my place."

"Is it far?"

"Not at all."

Peter reached for Neal's hand again and led him out of the park and across 40th Street. He nodded to Carl, the doorman, and when they were waiting for the elevator, Neal commented, "You're right, not far at all."

"I bought this place in eighty-nine, while the neighborhood was still pretty awful."

"A good investment, though."

"I'd hoped so. Back then, the building was nice, but not great."

"And now, like your parents' home in Brooklyn, it's appreciated considerably."

"Yeah." Peter had rarely brought dates back to his apartment, if just to avoid the money conversation, but it didn't feel the least bit awkward with Neal. There was no envy in his tone, nothing avaricious or acquisitive, just a simple statement of fact. Amongst a certain class of New Yorkers, the escalating value of local real estate was a topic of conversation as banal as the weather.

As he opened the door, Peter asked, "Do you want lunch? I probably should have asked before we came up here."

"Nah, I'm good. But maybe we can go out for dinner later? If you're not busy?"

Peter replied, "This might be the first weekend in a month when I have nothing booked."

"I guess, as a talent agent, you're always in the scene – checking out new acts, seeing clients, working deals." Neal drifted through the apartment and Peter had to wonder what he thought of the place.

"Usually, but it's been a pretty hellacious month and I've delegated everything to my well-paid staff until Monday."

Neal drifted over to the window and watched the park from a tenth floor vantage point. "That bad?"

Peter joined him. "You've heard of Alex Hunter?"

"Yup – didn't she do a Justine Sacco a few weeks ago?"

"That she did. Practically had half the country screaming for her head on a pike over some stupid remark on Twitter."

"Your client?"

"Yeah."

"And don't tell me, so is Julian Larsen, right?"

Peter shouldn't have been surprised at Neal's perspicacity. "Yup."

"Makes me glad that I only have to deal with a hundred or so high school students and their dramas."

"And somehow, I wouldn't trade places with you for anything."

Neal threw his head back and laughed. "No, I don't suppose you would. So you know Julian Larsen?"

"Are you a fan?"

"No, but one of my fellow teachers is. She was heartbroken when he was arrested and inappropriately buoyant when the charges were dropped."

"Inappropriately?"

"Apparently she hated Larsen's wife and couldn't bring herself to feel guilty about her death. She's the only reason I know about Larsen. Eighties New Wave wasn't my thing. Have you known him long?"

Peter nodded. "He was my first client when I went out on my own."

Neal was impressed. "Seriously? How did that happen?"

Peter had to be careful. "We met by chance and when he started complaining about his agent – how the firm wasn't getting him any work - I convinced him to give me a shot."

"As easy as that?"

No, not really. "Yup, as easy as that." Wanting to change the subject, Peter asked, "Sure I can't offer you anything? How about a cold drink, coffee?"

Neal turned around and leaned against the floor-to-ceiling window, an all too tempting picture of masculine beauty. "How about I give you a blow job?"

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

Neal couldn't believe what he said, but he refused to take it back. He licked his lips, feeling way too nervous.

Peter licked his lips, too. Just a little peep of his tongue moistening those beautifully sculpted lips, which sent Neal's pulse racing even faster. "I like a man who knows what he wants."

"I want you. I couldn't stop thinking about you last night – and honestly, I didn't get much sleep."

"Why?" Was Peter's voice a little hoarse?

"I – " Neal knew his face was bright red. "I spent the night jerking off and thinking about your mouth."

"And I like a man who's honest."

"So?" Neal pretended a nonchalance he didn't feel. Peter smiled, there was such sweetness there that Neal felt something inside him melt into a puddle of goo. And other parts of him started to get hard. "I may be out of practice, though. Just warning you in advance."

"I think it's like riding a bicycle – you really don't ever forget how to suck cock. But we can take it slow, and I'll be happy to tell you what I like."

Neal blinked. "So, we're going to do this?"

"You offered a blow job."

"Yes, I did."

Peter held out his hand.

Neal took it, and let Peter lead him into the bedroom. Afternoon sunlight slipped between the blinds that closed out the outside world, illuminating a beautifully masculine room, decorated in cream and moss green, with touches of warm metallic tones. The wall over the bed was dominated by three large panels that could have come from the Asian wing at the Met.

"You have good taste, Peter."

"I have a good decorator." Peter stood behind him and pressed a kiss on his neck, right above his collar and just under his ear. Neal shivered as the touch sent signals to other erogenous zones in his body. His nipples tightened to near-painful points and his buttocks clenched as he could feel Peter's erection gently but insistently nudge at him.

Peter kissed him again and Neal shuddered with pleasure. Peter asked, his voice rough with desire, "You like that?"

"Of course I do."

"Is it as good as your fantasies?"

"Better."

Neal let Peter guide him deeper into the room and then stopped in front of a mirror. "I had some fantasies, too. Last night – and this morning." Peter's fingers toyed with the buttons on his shirt. "I thought about stripping you naked, touching you all over, toying with you, giving you so much pleasure you couldn't even say your own name."

Neal watched as Peter undressed him, running his fingers over his torso, just skimming his nipples, his abdomen, circling around his navel. His touch was gentle, but there was power there, too. And the restraint Peter displayed enraptured Neal as much as his caresses. He'd always been attracted to power, but he'd never experienced power like this.

"I need you." The words escaped his mouth without thought and as the sounds still hung in the air, Neal wondered if he'd just made a colossal mistake.

But Peter didn't pounce, he didn't take advantage of his admission, he didn't exploit the weakness he'd just admitted to. Peter just caught his gaze in the mirror and stared at him with utter delight.

"That's a good thing, because I need you, too."

Peter turned him away from the mirror and captured his mouth – the restraint was gone, but he wasn't pushing himself on Neal, he was sharing his desire, his passion, and Neal drank every drop like it was the finest wine.

Somehow, he managed to free Peter from his sweater and he reveled in the expanse of smoothly muscled skin, gently biting his shoulder, reveling in the musky dampness of his armpit, before exploring the rest of a torso that would be right at home amongst the grand marbles on the Greco-Roman wing at the Met. Neal worshiped the taut, shallow cup of Peter's navel before pressing kisses along the lightly furred line that disappeared into his slacks.

His hand's shook as he struggled with Peter's fly, and he bit his lip and looked up. Peter wasn't annoyed, he was smiling – his faced fogged with desire and something that might even be affection.

"You okay?"

Neal nodded and concentrated on getting Peter out of his pants. The button finally gave and the zipper followed and Neal pulled the clothing down to Peter's knees before allowing himself to look at the perfection before his eyes. Large, darkly ruddy, with pre-come already leaking from the tip, it took all of his willpower not to try to swallow that cock whole, to take everything. Instead, he licked a messy strip from Peter's balls to the tip and was rewarded when Peter groaned his name. That sounded so good, he repeated it twice more.

Peter combed his fingers through his hair, gripping his head before ordering him, "Suck me, suck me."

Neal obliged, since it was what he wanted. He didn't bother going slowly anymore; opening his mouth, relaxing his throat, and breathing through his nose, he let Peter set the rhythm.

It was a delicious sensation, being so carefully used. Peter wasn't gentle, but he wasn't brutal. There was such consideration in his strength that Neal's tears were as much an emotional reaction as a physical response to the cock in his throat.

He actually whined when Peter pulled away and tried to chase his cock, desperately wanting to make Peter come in his mouth.

"I want to fuck you."

Neal looked up again and swallowed, relishing the slight ache in his throat. "We can do that, too."

Peter laughed, but the sound wasn't derisive. "I'm fifty, Neal."

"So?" He tried to reach for Peter's cock but Peter pulled him to his feet.

"So it means that I'm not so sure I'd be … up for another round so quickly."

In the half light, Neal wasn't sure but it looked like Peter was blushing.

"I told you – I jerked off a couple of times last night. And this morning. If I knew you wanted sex instead of lunch, I would have followed the Boy Scouts' advice and saved myself."

Neal chuckled and was struck by something. Before this moment, sex and humor never coexisted at the same moment. "We have all weekend, right?"

Peter nodded. "That, we do." He stripped off his pants and underwear and Neal wondered how he could ever decide which feature of this man's body he loved the best – his broad chest and shoulders, his narrow waist, his perfectly proportioned cock, or those long, endless legs. And he hadn't even seen the man's ass yet.

And he still didn't get a chance as Peter pulled him towards the king-sized bed. Before he knew it, Peter had yanked the coverlet off the bed and pushed him onto the soft sheets. The mattress was firm and Neal had to smile.

"What?"

"Your bed – it's perfect for sex."

Peter laughed again, the sound ringing though the room. "Of all the things for you to say, that was the very last I expected to hear. But the truth is, I picked this mattress for that very reason."

Neal laughed, too, and his desire took another, deeper note. It wasn't just the levity, but the feeling of connection to this man. He should have been wary, but he couldn't bring himself to let anything take away from the happiness he felt.

He leaned back and let Peter finish undressing him. It seemed like all the light in the room was concentrated on Peter, gilding him like some Renaissance fresco. Then Peter was leaning over him and he could see nothing but those beautiful dark eyes.

But he could feel. Peter radiated heat; deep and steady, much like the man himself. And then there was another heat – his cock was like a heated iron bar against his belly, but Neal loved the burn. It wasn't that it had been so long – sex had never been like this and he never wanted it to be any other way ever again.

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

Peter rested his head against Neal's chest, listening to his heart pound, feeling his own heart's rapid beat slow to a more reasonable rate.

"Mmm".

"You okay?" Peter lifted his head and looked at Neal. His eyes were closed, but his expression was one of pure bliss.

"I never want to move. Even if I have to sleep on the wet spot."

Peter felt both utterly relaxed and oddly energized. "You don't have to go anywhere." He sat up and got out of the bed.

"Where are you going?"

"Just to clean up. I'll be right back."

"Okay, don't be long."

Peter watched as Neal rolled over and wrapped his arms around a pillow, putting that beautiful ass and long legs on display. The fading afternoon light caught the glistening streaks of lube in the more shadowed recesses of his crack, and Peter felt his cock twitch.

Maybe he could have gone another round.

But there was always tonight. And tomorrow.

He went into the bathroom to dispose of the condom and as he held a washcloth under the tap, Peter looked at his face in the mirror. He almost didn't recognize himself. He looked … happy.

And he was. Neal wasn't some random hookup and while it was too early to say whether there was something lasting between them, Peter knew that today was the start of something he'd never experienced before. Something he never realized he wanted. Someone to share his life with. He'd attended dozens of commitment ceremonies and, more recently, weddings; he watched friends build nests and have hopes and dreams. Some had crashed, most had succeeded, but he never felt any longing for that life for himself.

Peter wrung out the washcloth and wiped himself down. He found a clean cloth for Neal, wet that one and grabbed a towel from the stack in the linen cabinet.

The light was completely gone from the bedroom and Peter turned on one of the bedside reading lamps. Neal hadn't moved and his breathing was deep and even – he was sleeping.

Peter had always enjoyed this moment of intimacy. He might be dominant, but that didn't mean he had to be inconsiderate with his partners. It wasn't just aftercare after a scene, and to be honest, he hadn't done too many of those. His preferences were surprisingly vanilla.

As he cleaned Neal up with gentle strokes, Peter noticed something. Something that chilled him to the bone. Five round scars, two on one cheek, three on the other, each the size of a quarter. Burn scars.

He took a deep breath, and then another, as rage consumed him. Last night, Neal had been pretty blunt about his past - that someone had hurt him, had twisted his perceptions, his sense of self-worth. But it was also clear that Neal had worked hard to overcome that damage. To see such physical evidence of the cruelty inflicted on Neal was almost more than he could bear.

"Peter?" Neal turned and murmured his name. He opened his eyes and smiled, and Peter felt some of the rage slip away.

"Hey there." He tossed the washcloth and towel in the direction of the bathroom.

"Come back to bed?"

"Of course." Peter grabbed the sheet and comforter from the floor, and as he climbed into bed, behind Neal, he covered them both. Neal settled himself against his chest and Peter draped an arm over his waist.

As he listened to Neal breathe, as he relished the warmth and scent of the other man in his bed, Peter made a decision. If Neal wanted to tell him what happened, he would. When he was ready. Until then, Peter wouldn't ask.

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

To say that Neal was dragging his ass when he made his way up the front steps of Manhattan Prep five minutes before homeroom bell on Monday morning would be an understatement. He'd spent the entire weekend with Peter and it had been … amazing. It didn't end until five AM this morning, when Peter reluctantly put him into a taxi to take him back to June's. On his way uptown, he seriously thought about calling in sick, if just to spend the day lounging on the terrace and replaying every moment of the past two days.

But he didn't. It was too close to the AP exams and he owed his students better than that.

"Mr. Caffrey, you're cutting it awfully close."

Neal stopped at the sound of that hated voice. Until recently, he had loved the sound of a Georgia peach accent, but not anymore. Amanda Callaway had ruined that for him.

He turned, pasted on his smile and said, "Close, but not yet late. If you'll excuse me?" He raised an eyebrow and waited for the bitch to dismiss him.

She nodded and Neal walked quickly to his classroom.

The students in his tenth grade European studies class were well-prepared for a class discussion about the impact of World War I on colonial Asia and Neal could exercise a gentle hand, guiding them through some salient points, but letting the kids work their way through a spirited debate. He coasted through the rest of the morning classes. By the time the noon bell rang, Neal wished he smoked.

He took his usual table in the faculty lunchroom and when Elizabeth joined him, she got one look at his face and clapped her hands in delight.

"Looks like someone had a good time this weekend. Spill."

"It's that obvious?"

"Sweetie, you look like you've been ridden hard and put away wet. And enjoyed every moment of it."

Neal couldn't keep a tiny grin off his face. "I did."

"Like I said, spill."

He took a deep breath and licked his lips. Telling someone was going to make this very, very real. "I met someone."

"Clearly. Details, Caffrey. I need details. How? Where?"

"He's a friend of June's."

"Oh?"

Neal scrubbed his eyes. "She invited him over for dinner on Friday and we sort of clicked."

"Um, yeah. Like I said, clearly. Come on – tell me about him."

"His name is Peter…" Neal gave El the salient details.

"I guess he's in the music business, if he knows June."

This was where it was going to get sticky. "Yeah, he is. He's an agent."

El, if possible, got even more interested. "A talent agent?"

"No, an FBI agent." Which was a stupid thing to say, considering Elizabeth's prior career.

"Huh?"

Neal backtracked, "Yes, he's a talent agent. And before you say another word, this is not a discussion I want to have here. It's complicated."

El looked over her shoulder, and noticed Callaway's stooge, Watson, sitting at the table behind them. "Okay, coffee?"

"Coffee."

But El didn't let go, peppering him with questions about the rest of his weekend.

"We stayed in on Saturday night."

"Oh?"

"He cooked. We watched a movie – ever see 'Find Me Guilty' with Vin Diesel?"

"Don't deflect. First date, dinner and a movie at his place and I take it you didn't go home until Sunday morning."

Neal bit his lip and whispered. "No, not until this morning."

Elizabeth just grinned and leaned back against her chair. "I'm so proud of you."

Neal ducked his head, embarrassed. El had tried to fix him up a few times, a few dates with some of her former colleagues, but neither attempt worked out well. It wasn't that the guys were wrong – just wrong for him. After the last date – that was the one where he'd been called an underwear model – Neal had told El not to fix him up anymore. If he wanted to date, he'd sign up for OKCupid or Match.com. She joked and told him to put Grindr on his iPhone and use it.

And of course, he ignored her advice.

Daniel Pikah asked if he could join them and Neal scooted over to make room. Pikah wasn't a bad guy – a little intense, a little … well, strange – but he managed to do a good job teaching a fairly impenetrable subject like Calculus and his students seemed to like him.

The conversation shifted and another teacher joined the table. Neal noticed that Watson was now talking with Callaway and then kept looking over at his direction. Callaway was frowning, which wasn't new. He wondered if Watson overheard him telling Elizabeth about his weekend – not that he said anything to be embarrassed about. He was gay and out and he had never hid his sexuality from his colleagues. But Callaway was Kramer's tool and Philip Kramer was possibly the homophobe with the biggest megaphone in America, now that Fred Phelps was dead.

Neal excused himself and as he left, he could feel Callaway's eyes following him. But he refused to worry. He had classes to teach.

Three hours later, he was ensconced in a booth in his regular coffee shop across from Elizabeth, fiddling with the sugar packets.

"Okay, what's going on?"

Suddenly paranoid, Neal stood up and looked into the booth behind him, making certain that no one he knew was sitting there. The booth, thankfully, was empty.

"Peter's seen Nicole perform."

"What? He knows you're …"

Neal shook his head, cutting Elizabeth off. "No – he only saw Nicole, not Nicholas. He left just as the first act ended. He told June he wants to represent 'Nicole', but June wouldn't even take his card until he saw the second act."

"June told you this?"

"No, she said nothing. Peter told me. Last night, he told me that he'd seen this incredible new act at Ellington's and wanted to know if I'd seen it, too. He couldn't stop raving about 'her' and how aggravating it was that he'd have to wait until the end of June before 'she' was going to perform again."

"You're going to tell Peter that you're 'Nicole', right?"

Neal shook his head. "I don't think I can."

"Why not?"

"Because – it's like … " He couldn't verbalize his feelings.

"You're not Clark Kent, and 'Nicole' isn't really your alter ego."

"No, it's not that. He might think that everything that's happened was a set up."

"Was it?"

"No! Of course not. I'm not interested in having a stage career. I'm a teacher and it's what I love to do. Performing at Ellington's is fun; it gets me out of my head, but it's not how I want to live my life."

"Then tell Peter that. Make it clear to him that you didn't know who he was when you met and until he said something, you had no idea that he'd heard you perform."

It was good advice, but Neal wasn't so sure he could take it. Peter might still feel betrayed or used. It might be better to just let things play out for a while. Say nothing and just let whatever happened, happen.

He wasn't going to take June up on her offer to perform at Ellington's on the Saturday before Memorial Day. He'd stick with his original plan and wait until the school year ended. That would give him ten weeks. If it crashed and burned, then at least he'd have had ten weeks of real happiness. Neal kept telling himself.

♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫

Peter asked the nervous young man sitting in front of him, "What is it about the music industry that interests you, Evan?"

"I love how music ties people together, how universal it is. Music bridges class and culture and history. Did you know that Medieval songs, like the Carmina Burana and Llibre Vermell can sound just as relevant, as modern, as rap or hip-hop?"

It was hard not to smile at the boy's enthusiasm. "No – I know Carl Orff's treatment of the original Carmina Burana texts, but I'm not familiar with – what did you call it? The Libra Vermeil"?

"Not quite – Llibre Vermell De Montserrat – the Red Book of Montserrat. It's a fourteenth century collection of devotional songs, but the music is kind of modern sounding." Evan reached down into his backpack. "I've been working on …" He bit his lip. "Sorry, this is an interview for an internship, not a pitch for my mixtape."

"But you know what a pitch is, and more impressive, given your age, you know what a mixtape is, too."

Evan looked up, hopeful that he hadn't blown his interview. He hadn't. Peter stood up and held out his hand. "The internship starts right after the school term ends. Will you be ready?"

Evan's smile was broad and bright and his joy warmed Peter's heart. This was why he offered the internship. "Yes, sir. I'll be ready."

"Good – and be prepared to work hard."

"I will, sir! I most certainly will."

He escorted Evan to the door, introduced him to Clinton with the instructions to take him to HR and get everything ready for him to start in a few weeks. Settled back at his desk, Peter checked the time. It was nearly five, and Neal should be done with both classes and any after-class activities he supervised.

They'd talked every night this week, sometimes for hours. Last night, he had hung up, only to get a text from Neal. There were no words, just a photo. A selfie. Of his dick.

Which couldn't go unanswered.

He sent the last selfie – of his come-splashed belly. Neal texted "g-nite" and that was the last one of the night. And right now, Peter couldn't wait for the evening – he needed to hear Neal's voice now.

Neal's phone rang three times and Peter couldn't stifle the feeling of disappointment. But just as the four ring ended, Neal picked up and he sounded breathless. "Peter?"

"Hey there. You okay?"

"Fine – I was downstairs … with June. Was heading back upstairs when I heard my phone ringing and realized I'd left it in my apartment, ran up to get it."

"Ah. Okay."

"Everything all right?"

"Yeah – just wanted to say hello. Hello."

"Hello to you, too. And we really are a pair of high school kids."

Now Peter could hear the smile in Neal's voice. "Speaking of high school kids, I just hired one of yours."

"Huh?"

"Evan Leary – he applied for an internship at Burke Premier Talent."

"Ah, okay. I knew he was going for an internship, but I didn't ask which ones."

"You wrote a letter of recommendation for him."

"I did – that's right. It was a couple of months ago. I did a dozen of them. Was it my letter that got him the position?"

"No – he's smart, and I like smart. But something you did say tipped the scales."

"Really?"

"You said he was a scholarship student. When I offered the internship, I noted that scholarship students would be given a preference, but interestingly enough, Evan hadn't checked that box on his application."

"So you offered him the internship because he didn't tell you he was a scholarship student, or because he was a scholarship student?"

"A little of both, maybe. But enough about your students. How was your day?"

"Fine. Busy – the usual stuff. It's getting into crunch time. Last marking period, students freaking out over the upcoming AP exams, some political bullshit."

"Political?" That seemed unusual.

"Just some issues with the school administration. New headmaster, new rules."

Peter remembered when they were talking about Reese Hughes's "retirement" that Neal hadn't seemed too happy with his replacement. Not for the first time, he wished he had time to get involved with Manhattan Prep, get a look at what was really going on. "Okay. Do you have plans this weekend, Mr. Caffrey?"

"Are you asking me out on a date, Mr. Burke?"

"Yes, I am. Well?"

There was a tiny hesitation and Peter felt his palms start to sweat in fear of rejection.

But he had nothing to worry about when Neal said, "I'm free."

"I have a few obligations on Saturday night – some acts I need to look at. We could have an early supper, hit the clubs, then spend Sunday together. Would that work?"

"That would be perfect. I have papers I have to grade on Saturday, but I should be done around seven."

"The venues are downtown, so how about coming over around seven-thirty?"

"Sounds good. Can't wait."

Peter couldn't wait either and wouldn't have minded spending some time chatting with Neal, but Diana and Clinton were waiting for him in the conference room. He needed to get on a video call with some bigwigs at Sony and they weren't going to be happy if they were made to wait. "I've got to go – you'll be home tonight?"

"Where else would I be?"

"Good – Talk to you later."

Peter disconnected from the call, picked up the contract files he was negotiating, and tried to wipe the smile from his face. All week long, the Di and Clinton had been teasing him about his good mood after he made the mistake of admitting that he'd met someone. If he walked into this meeting grinning like a fool, he'd never hear the end of it.

At least, by the time he'd finished persuading the executives at Sony that his clients deserved a bigger percentage of on-line sales; he didn't feel the least bit like smiling. But he'd gotten what he wanted, which was less than he'd asked for – and naturally the men and women at the other end knew how the game was played. He'd set a precedent and it would make it a lot easier when the next round of negotiations came up.

Peter handed off the files to Clinton, who doubled as the firm's lawyer, to memorialize the contract changes, gave Diana her share of work to do, and decided to make a relatively early night of it. Staying up until two AM sexting with Neal had taken its toll.

And he had a feeling that tonight might just be spent in a similar fashion.

END PART THREE
GO TO PART FOUR

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