Page 115 of The Associate
“My first time in court as a baby associate,” Gael continued, his eyes glinting with dry amusement. “I was second chair on a simple contractual dispute. My job was to hand documents tothe lead attorney and look serious. I was so nervous I spent the entire morning convinced I’d forgotten how to tie my tie. I kept sneaking glances at my reflection in the polished wood of the defendant’s table.”
Samuel laughed, a soft, surprised sound. It was hard to picture Gael, ever composed, ever certain, as a nervous young man worried about his necktie. “What happened?”
“Nothing. The case settled during the lunch recess. My boss bought me a scotch and told me my tie was fine, but my posture was too stiff. He said I looked like a coat rack.” Gael shook his head, a genuine, quiet chuckle escaping him. “I practiced relaxing my shoulders for a week.”
Their food arrived; eggs for Samuel, a savory crepe for Gael. They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the clink of cutlery and the murmur of other diners a soft backdrop.
Samuel took a sip of his orange juice. His curiosity, emboldened by the easy atmosphere, nudged him. “The Crimson Knot,” he began, his voice tentative. “It’s… unlike anything I imagined. How did it even start?”
Gael finished a bite, wiping his mouth with a napkin. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze turning thoughtful. “It started with another place, actually. A club called The Whip.”
Samuel’s eyebrows lifted.
“It's owned by a friend from university. Michael Jones. He’d been a prosecutor, then burned out and decided he’d rather cater to people’s… other appetites.” Gael’s tone was matter-of-fact, devoid of judgment. “We all went there. For years. It's a good club. Well-run. But it's also a nightclub. Loud music, crowded floors, a certain… theatricality. As we got older, our tastes changed. We wanted something quieter. More focused onconversation, on the craft of it, rather than the spectacle. A place that felt like a library or a private lounge, not a stage.”
We. Samuel understood who he meant. Landen. Sebastian. The other faces he’d seen in glimpses at the Knot.
“So,” Gael continued, picking up his coffee again. “A few of us, Landen, Sebastian, Adrian, Jaden, myself; we started talking. We had the means. We had the specific… dissatisfaction. We wanted a sanctuary. Somewhere membership meant something. Where the primary rule was respect, and the primary activity wasn’t necessarily play, but community.” He looked at Samuel directly. “The Knot isn’t a business. Not really. It’s a shared project. A statement of principle. SSC isn’t a slogan on the wall there. It’s the foundation we built the place on. Though, don't get me wrong, Jones runs a tight ship over at the Whip. He just has a different style, shall we say.”
Samuel listened, utterly captivated. He was seeing a new layer of Gael. A man with a vision who had gathered others and built something tangible from it. The Crimson Five. He pictured them, these powerful, complicated men, deciding to create their own perfect, private world. It was impressive.
He watched Gael as he spoke about the club’s early days, about the hunt for the right space, the arguments over design. His face was animated in a quiet way. The usual severe focus was there, but it was softened. He looked more alive than Samuel had ever seen him. The weary softness from the kitchen was still present, but it was now fused with a vibrant energy.
Samuel found he liked it. He liked it immensely. This version of Gael was magnetic in a different way. It was human. It was approachable. He felt a warmth spread through his chest that had nothing to do with the sunlight or the coffee.
He just couldn’t figure out what had caused the change.
∞∞∞
“...and he had all these capacitors wired to this old skateboard deck,” Samuel said, a real laugh bubbling up in his chest. “He called it ‘Project Back to the Future.’ The resident advisor walked in once, took one look at the mess of wires and the fire extinguisher he kept next to his bed, and just backed out slowly without a word.”
He was laughing, shaking his head at the memory. Gael watched him, a soft, genuine smile on his face. It was a small smile, but it reached his eyes, crinkling the corners. His hand was resting on the table, covering Samuel’s. Samuel had barely registered it at first, but now he was acutely aware of the solid feel of Gael’s palm, the faint rasp of his skin. It felt good. It felt right.
He was about to describe the great capacitor explosion of sophomore year when a voice cut through the hum of the café.
“Sam?”
Samuel’s head whipped around. His eyes landed on the source of the voice, and his entire body went cold.
Standing three feet from their table, holding the door open for his wife, was Jacob. His younger brother. Jacob’s eyes were wide, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and confusion. He was looking directly at Samuel, then his gaze dropped; to the table, to Samuel’s hand, to Gael’s hand covering it.
Time seemed to slow, then snap.
Samuel yanked his hand back as if burned. The movement was too fast, too violent. A spoon clattered against his saucer. He knew it was too late. The image was already seared into Jacob’s brain: his brother, sitting in a sunlit café, holding hands with another man. A man who was decidedly not a date arranged by their mother.
A tremor started deep in Samuel’s core, a violent, uncontrollable shaking that seized his limbs. His breath hitched, coming in short, ragged gasps that couldn’t seem to find his lungs. His heart slammed against his ribs, a frantic, trapped animal. The warm, safe bubble of the morning shattered, replaced by the icy, familiar flood of pure, undiluted panic. The café noise faded into a roaring white noise in his ears.
He heard Gael’s voice, low and close. “Sam? Hey… It’s okay… Easy…”
But the words were meaningless sounds. They couldn’t penetrate the sheer wall of terror.
He looked back at Jacob. His brother’s face was pale, his mouth slightly open. He looked lost. He looked like the little brother Samuel had tried to protect from all of this. He looked like a doorway swinging open to a world of consequences Samuel had spent a lifetime avoiding.
Samuel couldn’t breathe. The walls of the café seemed to be closing in. The sunlight was suddenly too bright, too exposing.
He didn’t think. His body acted on the oldest, most primal instinct it knew.
He shoved his chair back, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. He ignored the way Gael reached for him. He ignored Jacob calling his name again, sharper now, “Sam, wait!”
