Clean Up on Aisle Nine (Inches)
Some purchases come with unexpected benefits.
The elevator doors part with a muted sigh, exhaling Mark Elliott into the atrium of Brimley’s Fifth Avenue. The lobby swallows him with a cold, clean hush—polished marble floors stretching out under gentle, champagne-colored lights, the air fragrant with a perfumed haze that clings faintly to his skin. Past the enormous gilt mirrors and the softly murmuring clusters of Tuesday shoppers, the place feels less like a retail destination and more like a museum curated for the exceedingly bored and the dangerously rich.
Mark is neither, though he’s dressed with the precision of a man determined to pass for both. He cuts through the initial scatter of perfume reps and watch counters with a stride that’s been practiced in enough lobbies and airports to avoid the dead weight of hesitation. He’s in the tailored kind of suit that’s supposed to suggest he’s just come from a very important meeting, though the open collar and glint of sweat at his hairline betray the truth: his last appointment ended hours ago, and he’s here for reasons more complicated than acquisition.
The menswear department sprawls across the third floor like a gentleman’s club designed by someone who’d never actually been to one. Racks of Italian wool and Egyptian cotton stand in careful formation, punctuated by the occasional mannequin posed in attitudes of aristocratic boredom. The lighting is warm, indirect, designed to make everything—and everyone—look better than they actually are.
He doesn’t see Chris Anderson at first. Not by name, of course; Mark registers him instead as the sum of his attributes: six-foot-something, swimmer’s build, short sun-bleached hair styled into something that looks accidental but probably took twenty minutes and three products. Hazel eyes that dart up from a register with the calculation of someone who’s been told a thousand times not to stare but never actually learned the lesson. Mark notes the way the young man’s shirt fits—department store standard, sure, but tailored a touch too close, sleeves rolled to mid-forearm to reveal tanned, corded muscle. The badge on his lapel reads “C. Anderson.”
Mark weaves his way into the heart of Menswear, trying not to appear as aimless as he feels. He doesn’t need anything, strictly speaking, but the day has cracked open around him and he’s not in any hurry to return to the glare and grind of his apartment. He feigns interest in an array of cufflinks shaped like miniature skateboards and skulls—tactile distractions, more for the hands than the eyes.
He catches his own reflection in a wall of smoked glass behind the register, watching Chris in the foreground. Their eyes meet with a flash of static. Mark’s mouth twitches upward in what he hopes is an ironic half-smile; Chris responds with a slow upnod, as if acknowledging a familiar actor in a show he’s only half-watching.
“You have good taste,” says a voice behind him.
Mark turns. Chris stands at his left shoulder, close enough that the hem of his shirt grazes Mark’s arm. Up close, he’s even more striking—sharp jawline, full lips, a small scar cutting through his left eyebrow that gives him a vaguely dangerous look.
“In cufflinks or in general?” Mark asks.
“Let’s say both,” Chris replies, tone playful but edged with challenge. His eyes travel down Mark’s body with the kind of deliberate slowness that makes it clear he’s not just assessing the suit.
Mark holds his gaze. “That’s a dangerous thing to say. I might ask you to prove it.”
“Dangerous is kind of my brand.” Chris’s smile is wide, revealing teeth just slightly crooked at the front. “Need help finding something, or just killing time?”
“Mostly killing time,” Mark admits. “Though I’m open to suggestions.”
Chris steps closer, dropping his voice. “Well, if you’re looking to avoid someone, the ties are a solid hiding spot. No one ever shops for ties unless they have to.” He pauses, eyes glinting. “But something tells me you’re not the hiding type.”
“You got that from thirty seconds of observation?”
“I’m good at reading people.” Chris tilts his head. “You walked in here like you own the place, but you haven’t looked at a single price tag. That means either you’re rich enough not to care, or you’re not actually shopping.”
“Maybe I’m both.”
“Maybe,” Chris agrees. “Or maybe you’re just bored and looking for something interesting to happen.”
Mark feels the corner of his mouth lift. “And are you something interesting?”
“I’ve been told I have my moments.” Chris’s gaze drops to Mark’s lips, then back up. “Depends on what you’re into.”
The air between them crackles with unspoken invitation. Mark can feel his pulse kick up, heat pooling low in his belly. It’s been a long time since someone’s been this direct with him, this unapologetically flirtatious.
“What’s your name?” Mark asks.
“Chris.” He extends a hand. “Chris Anderson.”
Mark takes it. The handshake lasts a beat too long, Chris’s thumb brushing over Mark’s knuckles in a way that can’t be accidental. “Mark Elliott.”
“Well, Mark Elliott,” Chris says, releasing his hand slowly. “What can I help you with today?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Mark replies. “What do you recommend?”
Chris’s smile turns wicked. “That depends. Are we still talking about clothes?”
“Are we?”
“I don’t know,” Chris says, leaning against the display table. “You tell me.”
Mark steps closer, closing the distance between them to something that would make HR nervous. “I think we both know I didn’t come here for a new tie.”
“No?” Chris’s voice drops lower. “Then what did you come here for?”
“I’m still figuring that out.”
Chris holds his gaze for a long moment, then straightens. “The fitting rooms are in the back,” he says, his tone casual but his eyes burning. “If you wanted to try something on. I could help you with… sizing.”
Mark’s pulse kicks into overdrive. The suggestion hangs between them, obvious and impossible to misread. “That’s very thorough customer service.”
“I take my job seriously,” Chris replies. “Customer satisfaction is our number one priority.”
“Is that the company line?”
“It’s my personal philosophy.” Chris picks up a midnight-black blazer from a nearby rack, checks the tag, then hands it to Mark. “This would look good on you. Want to try it?”
Mark takes the blazer, their fingers brushing. “Lead the way.”
The fitting area is insulated from the rest of the store—a little world of soft gold lighting, carpet so thick it swallows footsteps, and walls covered in fabric panels that absorb sound. Chris gestures Mark toward the last room on the right, number six, then glances over his shoulder. The corridor is empty, the sales floor quiet.
“Let me know if you need anything,” Chris says, but he doesn’t leave. He steps inside the dressing room with Mark, pulling the door closed behind them. The lock clicks—a tiny brass bolt that wouldn’t stop anyone determined, but it’s something.
The space shrinks around them. Four walls, a bench upholstered in cream leather, a full-length mirror, and barely enough room for plausible deniability.
“So,” Chris says, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “What do you actually need?”
Mark hangs the blazer on the hook, then turns to face Chris. “I think you know.”
Chris’s smile is slow, predatory. “Yeah. I think I do.” He pushes off the wall, closing the distance between them. “But I want to hear you say it.”
Mark’s breath catches. “I want you.”
“Good,” Chris murmurs, and then his mouth is on Mark’s.
The kiss is electric—all teeth and tongue and desperate hunger. Chris gasps into it, hands fisting in Mark’s shirt, pulling him closer. Mark backs him against the mirror, pins him there with his body, and Chris is already hard, Mark can feel it pressing against his thigh.
“Fuck,” Chris breathes when they break apart. “You kiss like you mean it.”
“I do,” Mark says, biting at Chris’s jaw, his neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks.
Chris’s hands are everywhere—shoulders, waist, slipping under the hem of Mark’s shirt, yanking it free from his pants. “Someone could walk in,” he says, but his hips roll forward, grinding against Mark.
“Then we better be quick,” Mark replies, capturing Chris’s mouth again.
Chris makes a sound that’s half-laugh, half-moan. “Quick isn’t really my style.”
“No?” Mark pulls back, studying him. “What is your style?”
Chris grins, wicked and beautiful. “Thorough.”
He drops to his knees in one fluid motion, hands already working Mark’s belt buckle. Mark’s brain short-circuits, every thought evaporating except the sight of Chris on his knees, looking up at him with those hazel eyes dark with want.
“Jesus Christ,” Mark breathes.
“Not quite,” Chris says, popping the button on Mark’s pants. “But I’ve been told I perform miracles.”
Mark laughs, the sound strangled. “That’s a hell of a line.”
“It’s not a line if it’s true.” Chris tugs Mark’s pants and briefs down in one smooth motion, and Mark’s cock springs free, already hard and leaking.
