Survival Game (Men of London Book 9)

by Susan Mac Nicol

  Especially when that dark tarnish is your ex-boyfriend.

  Eric huffed. “Wow, profound. I get where you’re coming from. Sometimes people say things like, ‘It must feel wonderful saving people in your job.’” His tone was laced with bitterness, face shadowed, and for the first time, Kyle got a glimpse that there were demons lurking within Eric Kirby. “It’s the not saving people that churns your gut and gives you nightmares.” He looked at his plate for a moment then lifted his head with a strained smile. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to put a downer on the evening.”

  Kyle waved a hand. “No problemo. We all have our crosses to bear.” He reached around into his jacket pocket. “I did learn a few parlour tricks over there, though. Wanna see a card trick?”

  Want misdirection at its best, and a great subject-changer? Always have a deck of cards in your pocket.

  Eric nodded eagerly, the shadows disappearing from his eyes. “Fuck, yes. I love card games and tricks. There was this old geezer who used to sit outside the station house in Shoreditch where I work, and he could do this crazy thing with an egg and a pack of cards.”

  Kyle laughed. “Sounds fun. Mine doesn’t have an egg but I hope you’ll enjoy it anyway.” He winked at Eric.

  This would be fun.

  As a casino dealer working in Vegas, he’d learnt a few tricks. At any given moment, he’d been expected to deal, pitch cards, move chips, sweep cards, check the players weren’t cheating and pay out to the punters. Impressing Eric would be easy.

  He started with a couple of easy tricks, like producing a royal flush one after the other.

  Eric’s eyes boggled. “How the hell do you do that? I thought the odds of dealing one of those was astronomical.”

  Kyle chuckled as Eric stared at him with disbelief. As did the few fascinated onlookers who watched avidly.

  “The probability of receiving a royal flush is slim. I could deal twenty hands of poker every night of the year, and in eight to nine years you would hit one royal flush in the deal.” He grinned wickedly. “It’s all in the sleight of hands and making the audience focus elsewhere. We call it card manipulation. Here, look at this.”

  Deftly, he shuffled the deck of cards and dealt four onto the table. With a flip of his wrist, he turned each one over. Eric watched, mouth open, as Kyle revealed four aces. Then he gathered the cards together, shuffled and did it again.

  During the parlour tricks, they’d both had a couple more drinks—bought by the clapping onlookers who were enjoying the show—and were fairly buzzed.

  Kyle began a running commentary on the card facts he’d learnt over the years.

  “Ever notice how the ace of spades always stands out in a deck of cards? There’s a reason for that. Once European leaders saw that playing cards had become so popular, they decided there was an opportunity to levy taxes on a deck of cards. Typical, right? Levy tax on a game people enjoy.” Kyle waved a hand airily. “The leeches put a stamp on the wrappings of playing cards. Of course, the wrappings got discarded, so to make certain the tax stuck, they decided to stamp one card in a deck to indicate the duty had been paid. In the eighteenth century, the ace of spades commonly received the stamp, probably because it lay on the top of every deck.”

  “Wow, that’s fascinating.” Eric watched as Kyle laid out a perfect arc of cards on the table. “You never think about cards having history.”

  Kyle nodded. “Most playing cards have a story behind them. The king of hearts was fashioned after King Charlemagne, the first Holy Roman Emperor. He was born around seven-forty-two and is the only king in the deck without a moustache, and he has a sword through his head. They used to call him the ‘Suicide King.’”

  “But how, I mean, you guessed every card I chose, and that thing you do with the royal flush, how do you even...?” Eric’s voice trailed off in awe and Kyle basked in the pleasure of it.

  “Oh, it’s easy when you know how,” he sniffed as he shuffled the deck adeptly, loving how it made Eric catch his breath. Practice made perfect after all. “It’s all about speed, reading people, misdirection and having fingers the speed of light.” He shuffled the cards dexterously then fanned the pile on the table.

  Eric nudged his shoulder. “Show off,” he muttered. “Do your cocktails taste as good as your mad card skills play?”

  Imbued with a sense of confidence that he’d impressed Eric, Kyle threw caution to the wind and decided the flirting could escalate a little.

  “Oh, my cock tastes just fine,” he murmured, rejoicing at the sight of Eric’s face pinking up and his eyes darkening. “Oh, cocktails, sorry, I must have misheard you.”

  If that didn’t indicate he was interested in the gorgeous man sitting across from him with hunger in his eyes, with lips that were meant to be invaded by Kyle’s tongue, then Eric was not the man Kyle thought he was.

  Eric leaned over and brushed his fingers over Kyle’s eyebrow piercing. It was new, to match the one in his left ear. He’d got rid of the nose piercing a while ago, deciding it was too much.

  The feel of calloused fingers on his mouth made Kyle shiver with delight as his cock hardened in his jeans.

  “Have you ever had a lip piercing or a tongue stud?” Eric asked as he slid his finger along Kyle’s bare lip, gathering up the moisture there.

  Kyle swallowed, his cock deflating, cold chills making a slow path down his spine. The memory of Mario trying to rip out Kyle’s tongue piercing with his teeth played behind his eyes and he could hear. Mario’s disgusted voice as if he were here in the room with them.

  Wanton slut. You’re a perversion in the sight of God. You tempt me and that’s a sin.

  “No,” Kyle managed to say, as the images and sounds flickered in his head. “Not anymore.”

  Lip and tongue piercings are too easy to rip out, leaving shredded flesh behind.

  Kyle moved back, away from Eric’s fingers.

  Disappointment and concern registered on Eric’s face. “Hey, I hope I didn’t step over any line,” Eric sat back and drained his drink. “I don’t want to spoil what’s been a great night.”

  Kyle shuffled the deck, tidied them up and put them back in the box. He slipped his deck into his jacket pocket.

  “It’s not you. I just…have…some issues. I’m trying to leave them behind where they belong, but sometimes, it’s not so easy, you know?”

  Eric sighed heavily. “Looks like we both have our demons.” He glanced at his watch, which was a big, masculine timepiece that suited his thick wrist. “It’s late anyway. I should be going.” He stood up and collected his sheepswool jacket from the back of the chair.

  “Sorry,” Kyle said wearily. “Way to end an evening.” He stayed seated, looking down at the table, wondering whether he should have another drink before going home to his empty flat.

  He was surprised when warm hands cupped his chin and forced his eyes upward. Eric regarded him with warmth and compassion. “Don’t be sorry. I had fun.” White teeth flashed then vanished. “I’m off again tomorrow then back to the grindstone. Shift work is a bit of a bitch to make social arrangements around, but I hope we can make some time to do this again. I know the nightclub life isn’t conducive to the normal social thing either.”

  Kyle stood, having decided against a drink. “I get Sunday and Mondays off, and start work at three in the afternoon generally until close, which is around two am. Ryan’s pretty chilled about working hours though. He’s a great believer in the flexi-time approach.” He pulled a small, tattered card out of his jeans pocket. “Here’s a Club Delish card—it has my direct work number on it.”

  Kyle didn’t give out his mobile number to anyone he hadn’t known forever. He liked Eric but it was too early still to trust the man with something that personal.

  “Excellent.” Eric shrugged into his coat. “Here’s my mobile number. Feel free to text me if you get some spare time.” Obviously, Eric didn’t suffer from the same reservations.

  Kyle nodded. “Sure, will do. Thanks again for the
company.”

  “Anytime.” There was an awkward silence then Eric gestured toward the door. “I guess I should say cheerio and get off then.”

  “What, here? You have a kink for doing it in public?” Kyle was feeling better at the idea he hadn’t been written off as being a loser.

  “Well, that’s for me to know and you to find out.” Eric winked.

  Kyle watched with a smile as Eric walked out of the pub.

  Chapter Five

  Walking down to the tube station, Eric felt what he’d said had somehow upset the balance of the relationship between him and Kyle. Well, not quite a relationship—he supposed he couldn’t call it that after a couple of chance meetings and one night of drinks together. He certainly wanted to get to know Kyle better. The man was entertaining, sexy as hell with his lithe body, piercings and that eye-catching purple-black hair.

  After Eric had brought up the tongue-piercing thing, Kyle had switched off and disappeared into himself. Some old memory had really rattled him.

  Eric’s mobile rung, and when he saw who it was, his mood lifted.

  Deacon.

  “Dekes, my man. What’s happening? Chrissy kick you out and you need a place to stay for the night?”

  His best friend’s laugh echoed down the line. “Naw. You know my wife loves me too much to do that. She couldn’t live without my hot, sexy bod in her bed for one night, could you, sweetheart?” There was the sound of a scuffle then Chrissy’s laughter sounded in Eric’s ear.

  “Hey, Eric, don’t listen to a word my husband says. And when he tells you why he’s calling, please tell him no, like you usually do. The survival of our future child depends on it.”

  Deacon came back on the line sounding put out. “She has no faith in me, that woman. None at all.”

  Eric chuckled as he leaned against the wall of the tube station. “That’s because she knows you. What hare-brained scheme have you found for us to invest in now?”

  Deacon was an inveterate believer in weird and wonderful business ventures they could get involved in. The man was a dreamer and an idealist, the thing most people who knew him loved about him. One thing he was not, however, was able to realise when something novel or faddy was a bad idea. He was a successful garden designer in Torquay with green fingers and a top-notch clientele, so his business acumen was impressive.

  Deacon ploughed on, enthusiasm growing as he spoke. “I was talking to a lady who has this magnificent greenhouse growing cucumbers. We got around to talking about how much waste there was when you slice the end of a cucumber and then it goes all soggy and you have to throw the whole thing away.”

  Standing there watching the stream of commuters on the London streets, Eric began to laugh, quietly so as not to offend his friend. He had a feeling he knew where this was going.

  “So, I thought about making a cucumber topper, like a clip you could put on the end over the sliced part, to keep it fresh. You could even make them into all sorts of shapes, like cartoon characters, flowers, Christmas themed, that sort of thing. Chrissy thinks I’m crazy but I think it could be a really good idea.”

  Eric tried to muffle his amusement when he replied. “Well, sounds interesting. Except I’m sure someone tried pitching that on Dragon’s Den and got laughed out of town. Something about, ‘Why would someone buy that when all they need is a bit of tin foil or cling film to wrap around it? Or a plastic salad crisper.’ Sorry, mate. I’m not sure there’s a huge market for cucumber toppers.”

  That phrase had his imagination going and for a split second all he saw was Kyle, face down, arse in the air, with Eric behind him with a cucumber.

  Now that sounds like something I could invest in.

  Deacon huffed angrily. “Those wankers don’t know a good idea if they saw it. Look how many ideas they’ve turned down and the person goes on to make a mint.” His voice grew sulky. “I thought you were my best mate.”

  Eric chuckled. “It’s because I’m your best mate and Chrissy is your long-suffering wife that we are the voice of reason when you go off on one of your fad phases. Someone has to keep you from spending all my godchild’s money. How long does Chrissy have to go now before I get to meet him or her?” He knew any talk of their first child would take Deke’s mind off investing in silly ideas.

  “She’s due in four months, so still a while to go.” Yep. Deacon had turned all proud papa in an instant, cucumber toppers forgotten.

  Eric felt a tinge of envy and sadness. He and Linc had talked about one day having a child of their own. He swallowed the unbidden picture of his boyfriend’s smiling face and spoke quickly.

  “Chrissy still feeling all right though, not sick anymore? You know you need to call me if you have any concerns, right?”

  “Yes, Doctor. I’m aware you’ll come running down here like a mother hen should we need you.”

  Eric grinned. “You do know I’m not a doctor, don’t you? Just a paramedic.”

  “There’s no such thing as ‘just a paramedic’,” Deacon growled down the phone. “If I’m ever in some sort of accident, you can bet your balls you’d be the one I want looking out for me.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Eric leaned away from the wall. He needed to get on the tube. “Anyway, I’m freezing my nuts off here outside the tube station. Can I call you back later when I get home?”

  “Well, you can, but if you’re not interested in my cucumber idea, then I’ll have to find someone else to take your place.” Deacon teased. “When I make a fortune, you can bet I’ll be shoving my naked arse out of the limousine mooning you as I drive by—OW! Hell, Chrissy, those are my balls you’re crushing. You need those to make more babies. Don’t go man- handling them like that.”

  Eric winced in sympathy. “I’ll leave you two to your marital discord. I’ll give you a buzz later, Dekes. Losing signal now. Heading into the tube station.”

  The air roared with all the power the world could gather, and around him, earth crumbled and split into crevasses that loomed dark and never ending. Eric cried out in fear as Lincoln went sliding toward one of the dark abysses. He scrabbled desperately for something to hold onto, finding a rock, which barely met his fingertips.

  “Linc, grab my hand and hold on.” Eric lay sprawled across mounds of dust and rocks, cold snow seeping into his skin, which broke and bled as shards of the injured earth sliced into him. His arm was flung out toward his boyfriend; he was trying to grab Linc’s hand to stop his slow but interminable slide into dirt and deathly white. All he could see was Linc’s panicked, bruised and dirty face as he tried to reach out for Eric’s hand to anchor himself.

  “Come on, baby, you can do it. Grab my hand.” Eric slid further into the crevasse, and behind him someone tugged at his hiking boots, strong hands wrapping around his ankles, grounding him.

  “I got you, Eric,” shouted his colleague, Anton.

  “Not going to reach,” Linc panted, looking as if his arms were wrenching out of their sockets with the agonising stretch to clasp Eric’s fingers. “I’m too far down to reach up and I can’t stop sliding. I’m losing my grip.”

  “Eric,” Anton’s anguished voice permeated through Eric’s dread. “I’m losing you. I can’t hold onto you much longer.” The fingers around Eric’s ankles were slipping. He was gradually making his own inexorable descent into the seething mass of dust and white powder below.

  “I’m not letting him go,” Eric screamed against the earth’s roar. “You fucking hold on to me, you tosser. Don’t let me go until I’ve got him.”

  Lincoln shook his head and smiled sadly. “We’re not both going.” Deep blue eyes gazed into Eric’s with love and regret. “Time to save yourself. I love you, baby.”

  Eric awoke sprawled across his bed, body slick with sweat. His heart ached from loss as fresh as if it happened yesterday. And, for a while, he was right back in Nepal trying to save the love of his life.

  He punched his pillow, sobs racking his body. “Fuck. Fuck.”

  It had been a while sinc
e he’d had that nightmare. It had been two and a half years since he’d lost Lincoln but grief had no respect for time. It lurked deep within, ready to strike at whim.

  “Fucking triggers,” he muttered as he stood and walked naked over to the window of his small mid-terrace house not far from Shoreditch ambulance services. “Sometimes I hate this job.”

  The daily stress of attending to people in trouble, injured, or even dead, had been steadily wearing him down since he got back from Nepal.

  He’d been through therapy after his return—his boss had insisted on it—but he really didn’t want to go back to it now. It’d been gut wrenching enough before.

  His passion for his job had deflated—losing people on the job did that to you—but he still prided himself on being the best medic he could be. The trouble was he wasn’t sure that was enough when his heart wasn’t in it.

  Eric made himself a cup of tea in his tiny, compact kitchen and sat in the dark, sipping while scrolling through his phone. It would take some time to get back to sleep so he might as well see what was going on in the world.

  He couldn’t help checking out Kyle’s Facebook profile. Most of his public posts were articles about making cocktails, Club Delish, snippets about music he enjoyed —IAMX being one, a group Eric enjoyed too—but there was no personal profile picture of him, only a random image of a deck of cards. In fact, there appeared to be no photos of Kyle out at dinner, with friends and none of those abominable selfies Eric hated with a passion.

  Curiouser and curiouser.

  Kyle seemed to be a man who preferred to keep his identity a secret. Intrigued, Eric debated whether to send a friend request. His fingers hovered over the Send button. Kyle probably wouldn’t see it until tomorrow anyway, and no pain, no gain.

  Request sent.

  Minutes later, much to his surprise, he got a notification that Kyle had accepted. Messenger showed him as online. Eric thought it would be rude to simply leave it there, so he messaged a simple Hi. You’re up late.