That the investor conference took place in Niagara Falls was better than the middle of nowhere, but just barely because Niagara Falls was the cheap Vegas of Canada. Hart would never have gotten to go if his boss wasn’t Zimmerman, the Director of the Finance department. He was lucky to be his secretary if it meant getting a taste of the high life.

The high life indeed, because the entire day, Hart attended meetings, heard presentations, and watched money change hands between well-suited people. He didn’t get to participate, of course, but being there was enough to think that he could one day. Compared to Zimmerman, he was excellent.

His boss was slipping up. Even though Zimmerman was senior management and Hart was not, he could’ve done better than him. Anyone could’ve. The old man kept looking around cagily, barely paying attention to work that his presence began to look like a waste of company money. Why he was like that, Hart didn’t know, and he didn’t care either.

Well, that was fine. Hart took notes for him, if only for his vicious desire to take Zimmerman’s place someday.

Overall, he was happy with how the conference went and the hotel he was staying in too. Batco Corp. had splurged on a room overlooking the lake, giving him a prime view of the waterfall. Although Hart found Niagara Falls offensive to his very being, the city wasn’t bad from above. So what if Niagara Falls was a tourist trap with the unpleasant gimmick of a large waterfall—the place stank of money, which made everything tolerable.

The amenities were so nice, in fact, that there was a jacuzzi which Hart spent the night soaking in. He felt exceptionally luxurious given that his apartment only had a shower—downtown flats were awful for space. This was the life he wanted to live, far better than where he was now. His skin was so soft after a good soak.

Smugly, he tied his bathrobe and stepped out, only to find Evil Batlet typing on his laptop in the middle of the bed.

His presence was not a surprise but it was incredibly unwelcome. Company policy was to book rooms in doubles unless you were an executive, in which case you got a one bed suite. Everybody else had to share, proving that even Bay Street firms could be cheap bastards.

So Zimmerman got his own room and Hart got Evil like a cheap second place prize. Evil, whose full name was Eveline but he insisted everyone call him Evil, proved himself to be very much so. He was one of those smarmy investment bankers with an overinflated salary and even larger ego, which still wasn’t over being promoted to Associate last month. 

He also happened to be Hart’s fuckbuddy.

It was a mutually beneficial relationship. At work, Hart helped Evil get ahead so Evil could help him get ahead, and sometimes they rolled around in the sheets to burn off their frustration. Hart was smarter than a secretary should be—who could blame him for wanting to go places?

He wasn’t above passing confidential, investor-side information from Zimmerman’s contacts so Evil could swoop in and work the clients. Giving Evil an edge over the competition wasn’t exactly fair, but the results spoke for themselves. In a way, his success was all Hart’s, not that anyone would ever acknowledge a secretary’s work in investment banking.

Funnily enough, right now Evil’s face was as blank as the Excel sheet he was working on.

At the sight of Hart in nothing but a robe, hair still damp from the bath, Evil stopped and stared. A bead of water rolled down his neck, and Hart suddenly wished he’d done a better job drying off. 

“I—” Evil paused to swallow, eyes flicking down to where Hart’s robe ended at the leg. “I made two hundred at the casino.”

Hart blinked. “Is that so? I thought you’d go for more.”

Because they were in Niagara Falls, the hotel was attached to a casino, awful den of vice that it was. The reason Hart hadn’t seen Evil all night was because he’d fucked off to gamble. Personally, he felt utter contempt for the activity, which only idiots and senior citizens engaged in. People with nothing to do in their free time but sip fountain soda and stare vacantly at the slot machines. 

He silently hoped Evil lost his annual bonus, except that didn’t happen. On the contrary, Evil looked rather pleased with himself. Setting aside his laptop, he reclined on the bed and stretched luxuriously against the pillows. He was still in his button-up and slacks, that bastard.

“Oh, I did. Went in with a thousand, lost five hundred, but made a comeback in the end. Turns out I have no luck at poker but all the luck with slots. Feels like it should make more sense the other way around, but I’m not complaining. How was Zimmerman today?” 

There was a thin line of dissatisfaction to his mouth as he said the last sentence.

Hart stood where he was, water dripping onto the floor. “Zimmerman was fine,” he said slowly. 

“That’s good.” 

No longer smiling, Evil rolled onto his side to face him, propping himself up with one elbow. “Let’s celebrate my good luck, Hart. You’re going to order something from room service with my money. Get anything you want, it’s my treat.”

/And then what?/ Hart thought. /What happens after I order room service and you have me in your bed?/

But he didn’t say that. Instead, he sat on the corner of the bed, crossing one leg over the other—belatedly, he noticed Evil staring at his exposed thigh—and opened the menu.

The tiramisu was tempting but he needed to watch his waistline. Hart didn’t care much for the rest, and he was full from the company dinner earlier anyway. Except he could feel Evil’s silent pressure, so he stared at the drinks. Maybe wine since there were some nice vintages on the list…

“Was the bath nice?” Evil asked all of a sudden.

“What?”

“I said, was the bath nice?”

Hart’s closed his legs together tightly and smoothed the front of his robe to cover what he could. “Pretty nice. It’s a jacuzzi,” he admitted. 

“I bet.” When he looked back, Evil’s lips were curled up. “Have you ever stayed at a hotel this nice before? You clearly like it.”

Hart flushed, knowing fully well what Evil was getting at. He was here only because Zimmerman needed an assistant, unlike Evil who came for actual, real work.

“Shut up, Evil,” he snapped.

“Sorry. Come on, let me see the menu too.” The bed shifted as he moved, sliding behind Hart and snaking both arms around his waist. His casual familiarity made Hart’s stomach twist. 

Evil peered over his shoulder and made an impressed noise. “Hey, there are some nice vintages in here,” he said, surprised.

“That’s what I was thinking,” Hart grumbled. “I want the 1999 Shiraz and the Thames XII Pinot Noir.” Those were the two most expensive wines on the menu but he figured Evil’s wallet wouldn’t hurt at all. 

Evil chuckled into the crook of his neck. “You’re so classy, Hart. Sure, I could go for that right now. Nice way to end the night.”

Letting go of him quickly as he appeared, Evil went for the phone and dialled. “Hello, is this room service? Yeah, so I’d like to get one bottle of the 1999 Shiraz and the Pinot Noir. Oh, uh, Thames XII—is that local? Okay, yeah, Niagara-on-the-Lake. That’s nice.” He glanced over at Hart. “If you’re still hungry, we can order food too.”

Hart shook his head. “It’s fine.”

“Just that, then. Thanks.”

With a cheery goodbye, Evil ended the call and resumed his position lounging on the bed. When Hart looked at him, he couldn’t believe he was going to be sleeping next to him for the night. It was so upsetting.

Evil let out a deep sigh. “Man, what a day. Met some nice people, got some good intel, and I still have a report due when I get back. How was yours, Hart? You were with Zimmerman the whole day, right?”

For the second time that night, he was bringing up Zimmerman again. Every time he did, Hart felt like he was stepping into a minefield. 

“I had to remind him of the schedule multiple times,” he admitted. “Other than that, he was the same as usual. I don’t dislike working under him.”

He was the same as usual in the sense that he’d been falling for a while now. Zimmerman had, what, how many years until retirement? These days, he spent his free time smoking and moping around the office, barely reading the reports people gave him. Hart needed to jump ship from him soon.

“I don’t either. I like being under him, if only he’d let me,” Evil said. Then, after a beat, he added with no small amount of bitterness, “Can’t believe I’m not rooming with him.”

Acid churned in Hart’s stomach. Every time Evil got close to the subject, he never knew what to say. 

He remembered once he saw Evil coming out of Zimmerman’s office, his clothes artfully rumpled like he was trying to make a point. A point about what, he wasn’t sure, because Evil smirked when they met eyes but Zimmerman looked abjectly miserable.

“Last time we were out, he bent the rules and got us a double suite, even nicer than this one if you’d believe it. But this time he wants to room alone? Come on, what’s that supposed to mean?! We’re on a business trip, that’s the perfect time to meet up!”

“Right,” Hart muttered. An out-of-town trip was the best way to avoid Zimmerman’s wife and daughter, especially since the daughter worked two floors down in R&D. Zimmerman was paranoid about his illicit gay affair with a younger subordinate, but Evil proved that he was right to be paranoid.

Evil threw his head back and laughed. “You know what he keeps telling me now? That he’s got work. Work and a family! When has he ever cared about either? He’s always telling me how much he hates his wife and how I’m better.”

Lurching up, he pounded the bed with a fist. “Is it because I’m a man? Is it because I’m younger? Or is it because he can’t stand me when we’re not fucking? When he’s not using me?! Now he’s trying to be honest? Come on!”

Whether Evil expected him to answer or not, Hart looked off to the side. He supposed that between the two of them, the one Evil really liked was Zimmerman.

“Sometimes he makes me think he’ll leave his family for me, then takes it back the next day. You know how much I’d like that? It’s too much for my heart.”

Falling silent at last, Evil sighed and ran a hand through his hair, messing it up. Unfortunately, he still had a nice face. “Ugh, all this talking about Zimmerman’s making me want a smoke. You don’t mind if I do, right?”

“When have you ever cared whether I did? I’ll open the windows,” Hart muttered. 

The air from the windows was colder than the rest of the room, but better than setting off the smoke alarm. Behind him, Hart heard the click of a lighter as Evil lit up a cigarette.

When he turned around again, Evil was reclining on the bed, eyes shut in pleasure as a haze of smoke danced around him. As he took a slow drag, Hart was at once aware they were about to share a room for the night. Him in only a robe, Evil tense from his affair, and there was nothing to stop them from going at it all night, as many times as they wanted.

Something in Hart turned hot at that, a tight, simmering boil low in his stomach.

“Room service is here,” Evil said lazily. “Go get it.”

And indeed, two bottles of wine were waiting for them on the other side of the door.