“You’ve been out of the country for three months,” Max said. “You’ve never met Thorne. Have you?”
“No.”
“Have you even mentioned Linton’s name?” Max asked his brother.
Owen shook his head. Linton believed that because his name was synonymous with a period they both wanted to forget.
“I don’t want you to come into work for the next five weeks. A few more weeks away from temptation won’t hurt.”
I don’t want Pascal anymore. Linton meant it.
Max’s eyes glittered. “I have a project you can do from home. Illustrating Cindy’s children’s book.”
Linton swallowed hard. There was a charged look in Max’s expression that Linton recognised. The sort of look that told him Max was dead set on something and there was no point arguing and if did, he’d be out of a job—probably for life. Even so…
“If he Googles me he’ll find out who I work for. If he looks me up on Facebook, sees my Twitter account. There’s a whole load of places he could find me.”
“I’ll take you off the company website,” Max said. “I’ll make sure any Google search doesn’t indicate you’re an architect. You can police your Facebook and Twitter accounts. LinkedIn too. There’s no reason for him to be suspicious. I’ll get IT on it.”
Cindy handed him a folder. “I’ve detailed what sort of thing I want inside. I’m writing it under my maiden name so there’s no way Thorne will trace it back to me if he finds out what you’re doing.”
Linton turned to Owen. “Do you really want me to do this? You want me to hurt him?”
Owen sucked in his cheeks, sagged and then nodded.
“What happens if I fail? He might not like the look of me. He might dump me before I get the chance to dump him.”
“If he dumps you, that works too,” Max said. “You just need to come to the charity event and tell everyone what he’s like.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs.
He knows I’m going to do it. Well, part of it.
“I need the money up front,” Linton said.
Owen gasped. “You’ll do it?”
Max smiled. “It’ll be in your account tomorrow morning.”
Chapter Seven
Thorne picked up his phone from the bedside cabinet. Shit. Orlando. Before eight on Monday morning, it had to be something serious. He braced himself.
“Hi,” he croaked.
“You got the part in Deconstructing Kate,” Orlando said.
It took a moment to sink in. “I did?”
“They were taken with the way you licked the guy’s face. You filthy pervert.”
Thorne’s chuckle was borne of relief. “He was tasty.”
Orlando laughed. “Good call. It swung it your way. You read the script I sent over for Dirty Angel?”
He looked at the folder lying on his bed. “Yeah. I like it. They interested in me for the angel or the vet? Because I don’t fancy sticking my arm up a cow’s arse. I’d have to be paid more for that.”
“They fancy you for the angel.”
“Then I love it.”
“Great. So do I. I’ll start talking. The UK’s ready for a gay blockbuster.”
Thorne wasn’t sure about that. He hadn’t seen blockbuster in the script, just an edgy gay romance.
“Are you still planning to do that road race before the charity dinner?” Orlando asked.
“Yeah, why?”
“You going to finish it, and not fall off your bike after a mile or so?”
“I hadn’t aimed to fall off.”
“I’ll drop a few hints to the press.”
Thorne sat up. “I asked you not to.”
“You need more positive publicity and showing you can compete in something like that looks good for you and helps the charity. How much are you donating?”
“Ten thousand.”
“Double it and I’ll match it. I’m chatting to a bike manufacturer to see if he’ll sponsor you so you have to make an effort to win.”
Thorne groaned. “I’m not going to win. Bloody hell, you’ll have me in the Tour de France next.”
“There’s a thought.” Orlando ended the call.
Thorne rolled off the bed and padded out of the room to the bathroom. He’d heard Josh leave for work an hour or so ago. He was the only one of them with a full time regular job. River had tried various occupations and failed at all of them because they involved talking to people. Thorne hadn’t given up hope of his brother discovering something he could do, but it had to be River who found it. It was impossible and wrong to push him into anything that made him feel uncomfortable.
When Josh was a teenager, he’d saved River’s life. Thorne had been supposed to be looking after River, but he’d cycled to the local shop to buy them lunch and left him on his own. River had been in his bedroom when Josh and his younger brother Nate had gone past and seen smoke billowing from the front door. River was standing by the window in an upstairs room. Josh called the emergency series, went into the house through the back door, and led River out. Thorne had arrived home as the pair had staggered out. The fire destroyed the kitchen and the lounge, but River might have died.
Josh hadn’t known River was autistic when he’d gone in to rescue him. He’d thought he was just paralysed with shock, but Josh said later that something had told him River was different, and he’d managed to persuade him out of the house without touching him. Josh came back after a few days to see River, and River had smiled when Josh walked into the room. Even his parents had seen the miracle in that. Josh refused the reward they offered and he became part of the family, dysfunctional as it was. In all the time Thorne had known him, Josh had never yelled at River, or rolled his eyes behind his back or treated him as if he was retarded.
When Thorne bought a house in London for him and River to live in, he’d invited Josh to join them. Thorne accepted rent because Josh insisted, but he was putting that money in a separate account and one day, when Josh wanted a place of his own, and Thorne had actually built his home in the country and was ready to leave London, he’d give Josh his money back.
Josh had turned out to be more than a good friend. More like a brother. Thorne wasn’t sure Josh understood how important it was to Thorne that he could trust him not to tell the world his dirty little secrets, particularly as Thorne’s celebrity status had grown in leaps and bounds. Though there was one secret he’d never share with Josh. The reason he and Owen had split up. Now he’d added another one. What happened with Martin Mason was locked away in a box.
After he’d showered, Thorne wrapped a towel around his waist and wandered into the kitchen to find River working on his laptop. He was always glued to the thing.
“Want a coffee?” Thorne asked.
No response. Thorne made him one anyway and a round of toast. His brother sometimes didn’t think to eat if food wasn’t put in front of him. River looked up when Thorne slid mugs of coffee and a plate of buttered toast on the table, the toast cut in the exact squares River liked.
“Thanks.” River turned back to his laptop.
Thorne sat down. “Want to come for a bike ride?”
“No.”
“Fancy a game of chess later?”
River snorted. Yeah, well Thorne was no challenge at all.
“What’s this about?” Thorne asked, nodding at the laptop.
“Nephology.”
“And in English?”
“Researching clouds.”
“Right. What for?”
“They’re interesting.”
“We could cycle to Greenwich, lie on the hill below the observatory and actually look at clouds instead of checking out pictures. Get lunch in one of the cafés. Go to the museum. Look at the clocks. You like those.” Except it was hard to drag River away from them. Thorne had once spent five hours in the place unable to persuade River to leave. He only succeeded when the museum was closing.
“I don’t need to stare at altostratus clouds. They�
�re mostly featureless. There’s going to be no change today.”
“No sun then, Mr Weather Man?”
“Unlikely.”
When River was in these sorts of moods he hardly left his seat except to go to the bathroom. He was always researching stuff that was uninteresting. Maybe not uninteresting, but he explored topics in such minute detail that anything interesting was lost in the mountain of data he collected. Thorne thought if he could have directed River’s energies toward finding a cure for cancer, there’d at least be a point to such intense research. It was hardly productive just sitting there trapped in your own introspective world. The fascination with clouds could last months.
“I’m going on a bike ride.” Thorne tried again. “I’d like some company.”
“I’m busy.”
Thorne bit into his toast and hid his disappointment. He wasn’t sure why he kept trying. River couldn’t help the way he was, but Thorne was lonely. When he was working, he didn’t have time to think about anything but the job. When he wasn’t working, he felt adrift.
Fine, he’d cycle alone.
For the first Monday in as long as he could remember, Linton hadn’t bothered putting on his alarm. He didn’t wake until almost nine. He wished he could have enjoyed the lie-in but he had too much on his mind. First thing he did was call the hospital to be told Dirk was comfortable. Linton was relieved his brother was still there. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find Dirk had disappeared overnight despite his promises.
By the time he’d showered and dressed, his phone had started to ring. First Damien, then Amadeo from the office. Linton didn’t answer the calls. His work colleagues were no doubt wondering where he was, aware Max would throw a fit if he was late. He’d told them he was coming back early so they knew he was in the country. What was he supposed to say to them? He phoned Max.
“You better not have changed your mind,” Max barked. “I deposited the money in your account first thing this morning.”
Instead of relief, Linton felt as if he’d been pinned in place by a heavy boulder. It hadn’t all been some dream. “I’ve ignored calls from Damien and Amadeo. What am I supposed to tell them?”
“I’ll talk to them, explain you’re on a special assignment for a member of the royal family and they’re not to quiz you about it or refer to the fact that you work here in case they see you out with Thorne. Make sure your other friends keep quiet. Sort out your online accounts. Buy a new phone in case Thorne checks yours. Be careful which numbers you put on it.”
Had Max really thought of everything? Linton shouldn’t be surprised. The guy was a control freak, most definitely descended from Genghis Khan. Max didn’t care who he had to step on to get what he wanted, or how much destruction he wrought. Linton could imagine how much it must have hurt to hear himself rubbished in public. No one would like that to happen but some could cope with it better than others. Max was not one of the copers. Linton was surprised neither Damien nor Amadeo had told him what had happened.
“I’ll text you Thorne’s address and get Owen to give you an insight into what the guy likes.”
“No, don’t,” Linton said. “You’ve given me enough to go on. I don’t want to look too obvious.” Any period of time he could legitimately delay was a good thing.
“Keep me informed. A daily update.” Max ended the call.
Christ. “Want details of what he’s like in bed?” Linton asked the dial tone. “If he really does have a big dick?”
Assuming he managed to attract Thorne, Linton hoped the guy turned out to be the bastard he’d been painted to be. It would make Linton’s life a little easier. He still couldn’t believe he’d agreed to do this, until he remembered Dirk’s pale face. That’s what he had to think of every time he wondered what the hell he was doing—helping Dirk, and that he had no choice. Little choice.
Not that he intended to take this as far as Max wanted. Even though he’d appeared to acquiesce there would be no public showdown at that charity event. All Linton had to do was string it out as long as he could and look as though he’d done his best.
Before he left his flat, he packed up some clothes for Dirk to wear on his release. The hospital might still have the gear he’d been found in but Linton didn’t want anything to remind his brother of that night. Plus it was possible the police wanted everything for evidence.
The other thing Linton did was Google Thorne and River Morrisey.
There wasn’t much about River, only a couple of photos of him with Thorne. The brothers were tall, dark-haired and slim but there was something about River that made him not quite as attractive or compelling as his brother. Distance in his eyes. An expression that didn’t feel totally natural. No smile on his lips, whereas Thorne’s smile was a mix of sexy, cheeky and endearing. Though Linton wondered how genuine that was when the guy was an actor.
My type? Maybe.
Don’t lie to yourself.
Physically he was exactly Linton’s type—tall, dark and classically good-looking. Though Linton despised arrogance and Thorne had a touch of that, as if he knew how attractive he was compared to the majority of mortals. Plus there was the added difficulty that Linton didn’t like bisexuals. Not after what had happened with Pascal. He knew that was like saying he didn’t like prawns after eating one dodgy prawn sandwich, and that wasn’t the best analogy considering the size of Pascal’s dick, but still. Linton had been hurt by Pascal, made to feel a complete idiot, and he wasn’t risking that ever happening again.
When Linton went into the bank, he confirmed Max’s money was in his account. It was like winning the lottery and feeling miserable about it. The cashier asked why he wanted twelve thousand in cash, and he’d been tempted to say he needed it to pay off his brother’s drug dealer, but fortunately he saw sense and said it was to buy a car.
Linton understood the need for money laundering checks but asking the question seemed pointless. It bit like the form he’d filled in for the American visa. Was anyone going to say yes to—Do you seek to engage in or have you ever engaged in terrorist activities, espionage, sabotage or genocide?
He put the envelope of money at the bottom of his messenger bag, which also held his laptop, slipped the strap around his neck, and held the bag close to his body with his arm. He couldn’t afford to get robbed. Following Max’s instructions he bought a new phone. He thought about buying one for Dirk but wasn’t sure he’d be allowed to have one wherever he ended up. Not straight away in any case.
Dirk was asleep when he arrived, so Linton sat and sent texts to all his colleagues and friends, telling them he was working on a top secret assignment for a member of the royal family, and they weren’t to make any reference to his work or his boss or company if or when they saw him out anywhere. Linton sighed. He knew some of his mates would dig for details but he hoped they had enough sense not to do it in front of strangers. If—and it was a big if—he managed to attract Thorne, it would be easier if the guy never came into contact with anyone Linton knew. He deleted his LinkedIn, Twitter and Facebook accounts, plus DRA’s IT department would be ruthless at eliminating his online presence. What Linton missed, they’d catch.
After five weeks it would be business as usual. Linton would be doing his job, Dirk would be in a safe place getting better and all Linton would have to worry about was how to pay Max back. He still didn’t feel right about this, the idea of being paid to hurt and humiliate someone. How could Max think he’d do it, even with the threats he’d made? Though if Thorne turned out to be a complete bastard, maybe he would do it.
Whatever happened, if he ended up losing his job, so be it. At least Dirk would be better. Maybe they could emigrate to Australia or Canada. Max’s influence might not stretch that far. Though what country would want Dirk? Linton swallowed but failed to get rid of the lump in his throat.
He opened his laptop and had been online for around ten minutes checking out rehab centres when Dirk stirred.
“Morning,” Linton said.
“Why aren’t you at work?” Dirk had a little more colour but still looked wan.
“Special project for my boss. I’m working from home for a few weeks. How are you feeling?”
Dirk shrugged. “I could do with a smoke.”
“I could set you on fire.”
“Ha ha.”
“Did you get the message I sent yesterday saying I’d sorted things? I spoke to Budak.”
Dirk widened his eyes. “Oh God. What did he say?”
“That you’re such a sweetie and he hopes you’re feeling better soon. He sends you a hug.”
“In an alternate universe?”
“I’m taking him his money this afternoon.”
His brother released a tremulous sigh. “I’ll pay you back.”
“Yeah, you will, but not in the way you think.”
“How then?”
“We’re going to choose a place for you to go and get treatment. You have to promise to stay there for three months. No giving up. No thinking you’re better and that you don’t need any more help. You stick at it.”
“Where’s the money coming from to pay for it?”
“I’ve had a good bonus from work.”
“Bit convenient.”
Linton met Dirk’s gaze. “Okay, you got me. While I was in New York I sold my arse to a Saudi prince.”
Dirk managed a laugh.
“Hey, I’ll have you know I have a very attractive arse.”
“Short-sighted was he?”
This was the Dirk he wanted. Linton smiled. “I did have to bend my boss’s ear to get the bonus paid now and not in October, but he doesn’t want to lose me. I’m one of his stars.”
“I…” Dirk sighed. “Thanks.”
Linton moved so Dirk could see the screen on his laptop. “What about this place?”
“If you like.”
“No.” Linton shook his head. “Not if I like. We’re going to find somewhere you like the look of. And after we’ve found you a place and booked you in, you’re going to play chess with me, and remind me of those little tricks you always had up your sleeve that I never saw coming.”
Dirty Games Page 8